by Dave Daren
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Chapter 1
“Mr. Torres,” the large black security guard at the Miami courthouse greeted me with a bright smile. “I see you still haven’t cut your hair.”
I ran a hand through my longish locks and grinned at the guard. The older man had short, gray hair and dark-brown eyes that glimmered with mischief as he teased me.
“It’s on the to-do list… eventually,” I replied.
“At least you shaved, though,” he chuckled.
The wide lobby of the courthouse was bathed in early afternoon light that poured in through the two-story windows along the front of the building. The black and white tiles were already baking in the sunlight, and the heat they gave off warmed the arena-sized main entryway. The air conditioners worked overtime to push away the Florida heat, but it was a losing battle on a bright, hot day like today.
There were three long lines of lawyers, convicts, and visitors that stretched all the way to the doors and down the stairs that led to the busy streets of Miami. Many people talked to their companions or on their phones, but some stood in mute silence while they stared at the metal detectors that separated them from the rest of the courthouse.
“What can I say, John… the women love to play with my wavy tresses,” I gave my hair a little flip as I pulled my keys, wallet, and phone out of my pocket, and laid them in the gray plastic bin next to my battered brown leather briefcase and thin, black framed glasses.
“Sure, sure,” the beefy man nodded his head as he rolled his eyes at me while he waved me through the metal detector. “At least it’s not long enough for one of those terrible man buns my daughter keeps going on about.”
“Is she single?” I joked with a wink while I started to gather all of my stuff and put my glasses back on.
We’d had an easy banter ever since I’d first come to visit the courthouse during my first year of law school. It was an annual rite for all first year students, and John had cracked wise with the line of students as we’d waited for our chance to pass into the hallowed halls of justice. It always amazed me that out of all the students the guard must see every year, I was the one that he’d remembered and greeted when I’d returned as a full-fledged attorney for the Public Defender’s Office.
“Not for you, she’s not,” the jovial man laughed.
“Hey! I’m a good guy,” I exclaimed with feigned hurt as I put my hand over my heart.
“Oh, I know,” the security guard shrugged. “But she’d break your heart. That woman takes after her mama when it comes to men. Still love her, though.”
The older man shook his head and sighed as he waved the next lawyer through the metal detector, though he still had a warm smile on his face as he thought about his daughter.
“Thanks for looking out for me,” I laughed as I waved goodbye and then headed toward the courtroom. “See you later, John.”
“See ya, Mr. Torres,” John replied as he spared a quick glance in my direction.
But his usual grin turned into a frown as he saw one of the snootier DA’s in his line, and I couldn’t blame him. The man was an ass, and even as I watched, he ignored John and the other guards as he bullied his way through the security checkpoint without even putting his phone down.
I shook my head, and then I made my way to the courtroom where my current case had been assigned. Every conversation and footstep echoed around the large atrium, and in the early afternoon, when the morning crowd was heading out while the afternoon crowd moved in, the place was especially noisy. It made it difficult to talk to other people, but there were plenty of attorneys and their clients who were trying. They huddled by the walls and stood in the corners, and I nodded to a few that I recognized as I walked by.
My own client that day was a rough guy with a long rap sheet that featured an impressive array of offenses that ranged from drunken disorderly to assault, but he’d managed to avoid any serious felony charges before now. His luck had changed with his latest indictment, though, and that’s how his file had landed on my desk. The charge currently stood at possession with intent to sell, though I had a plan to get the felony charges dismissed entirely.
“Torres!” my client, Diego, called when I turned the corner, and he waved his tattooed hand at me as he broke into a bright smile.
His short black hair was styled with wax, and he had on a pair of dark blue jeans with a clean light-blue button-up that covered the sleeve of tattoos he had on both arms.
“Mr. Perez,” I said with a nod of my head. “You seem pretty happy today. Did you forget you’re being charged with a felony?”
“I have a good feeling about this,” my client replied as he raised his coffee cup to me in a toast and then took a long swig of his drink.
“I’m glad,” I said and gave him a small grin as I sat next to him on the uncomfortable wooden bench. “I have a pretty good feeling about it myself. I went over your case again this morning, and I think it’s pretty open and shut.”
“Good,” the Cuban delinquent nodded as he tossed his empty paper cup across the hall and into the trash with practiced skill.
“You remember what I told you, right?” I asked as I gave my client a long look.
He’d managed to get the dress code right, but I wanted to make sure he remembered not to say anything during the appearance and to keep a remorseful look on his face the entire time.
“Got it, Rob.” My client winked at me. “Still can’t believe your name is Rob. What kind of lawyer is named after a crime?”
He shook his head and chuckled to himself at his own witty remark. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard the joke, and I knew it wouldn’t be the last.
“A defense attorney,” I countered “Tell me what I told you, just for my own peace of mind.”
“I’m gonna keep my trap shut and look like I regret my heathen ways,” the dark-haired criminal answered as he leaned back against the bench.
“Exactly,” I told him. “And no outbursts. No matter what the judge or prosecutor says about you.”
“Right,” the tattooed man said with a roll of his shoulders. “Don’t get offended by the insults. This isn’t the streets.”
“And threats will get us nowhere,” I added and then looked up as an older, frail bailiff opened the door to the courtroom.
“Mr. Torres and Mr. Perez?” the white-haired man asked in a voice scratchy from years of smoking.
“Yes, sir,” I said as I stood up and motioned for my client to join me.
The inside of the courtroom was much more mundane than the ones that were shown on bad TV court dramas. If anything, it looked a bit like a waiting room at a bus station, aside from the Judge’s bench and the tables for the prosecutor and defendant. The walls were a beige-gray color, the benches were scuffed and scratched, and the thin carpet probably hadn’t been deep cleaned in years.
“Don’t forget what I told you,” I whispered to my client as we stepped up to the table.
“Sure thing, Rob,” the Cuban replied as he quickly buried his grin.
The prosecutor was already at his table, and we nodded to each other. I’d gone up against Scott Allen before, and I won every time. He was a middle-aged man with well-kept brown hair, hazel eyes, and a brown suit that was tailored to fit his tall, wiry frame. He’d never been qui
te good enough to make a name for himself in the SA’s office, nor had he caught the eye of any of the big name firms. I was certain my record against him would stand after today’s appearance.
“All rise for the Honorable Judge Thompson,” the bailiff announced as he took his place beside the bench.
The door behind the bench opened, and the Judge stepped into the court. I could just see his worn black dress shoes below the hem of his robe, and the cracked leather had definitely seen better days. But his hair was perfectly coiffed, and the steely-gray color gave him an air of a man in charge.
But the court regulars all knew he was near retirement, and every time I’d appeared in front of him, he’d been eager to rest in his cushioned chair. Today was no different, and he dropped ungracefully into his chair and then sighed in relief. His well-trimmed mustache glinted in the harsh light for a moment, and I saw the Judge run a finger over it before he turned to look at the people gathered in his courtroom.
“Everyone sit,” the old magistrate said with a wave of his hand.
Rustling noises filled the courtroom as we took our seats and shuffled our papers. Thompson checked his computer, then he accepted the folder his clerk handed to him. He flipped open the page, scanned the list quickly, and then looked at my client.
“Diego Perez, I see you didn’t take my advice and stay out of trouble,” he mused. “Didn’t I warn you what would happen if you came back here?”
My client started to open his mouth, but I elbowed him quickly. Diego clamped his lips together, but not before the Judge frowned at both of us.
“My client has done nothing wrong,” I said and received an eye roll from the gray-haired justice.
“Mr. Torres, still at the public defender’s office,” the judge sighed. “I’m assuming he’s pleading not guilty, then?”
“He is,” I said and glanced over to make sure my client still had the repentant look on his face.
Diego Perez sat to my left with his hands clasped together in front of him on the table. The tattoos on his knuckles stood out against his tanned skin, and he seemed genuinely remorseful that he’d found himself in another courtroom if not for the crime itself.
“Alright,” Judge Thompson said as he turned his attention to the prosecutor. “Mr. Allen, I see the state is charging him with possession with the intent to sell?”
“Yes, sir,” the middle-aged lawyer responded. “Mr. Perez had thirty grams of cocaine in his car. All of them were already packaged in one ounce bags.”
“Let’s get this going, then,” the magistrate sat back in his chair. “Mr. Torres, let’s make this quick, shall we?”
“Yes, sir,” I nodded as I stood up. “Defense is filing a motion to have all of the charges dismissed for insufficient evidence against my client.”
“Are you kidding me?” the prosecutor snapped as he looked over at me. “He was found with enough cocaine to kill an elephant!”
“My client had no drugs on his person at the time of the arrest,” I responded as I held up the police report.
“It was in his car,” Scott said, and he threw his hands up in the air as he stared at me in disbelief.
“Which he currently uses to make deliveries for a local delivery company, Your Honor,” I replied. “At the time of the arrest, Mr. Perez was delivering the package. Other than the fact that my client was driving the car, there is no evidence that the drugs found in it were his. In addition, the prosecution has failed to provide any evidence that a jury could use to reasonably infer ownership. The drugs were not in plain view, but were in a bag in the trunk along with several other packages. My client was paid by someone using an app to deliver the package. My client had no idea what was in the package and didn’t see the need to ask. The only reason my client was stopped was because he was unfairly targeted by the police after a previous drug charge that was overturned.”
“Your client belongs to a gang,” Judge Thompson pointed out.
“He did, Your Honor,” I replied. “But he feels that he was given a second chance, and he wouldn’t jeopardize that by working with the gang again. I’d also point out that my client submitted to a drug test, which came back clean.”
I kept my gaze on the judge and tried to ignore my client’s tapping foot. For a moment, it was the only sound in the room as Thompson squinted at his file.
Judge Thompson was a no-nonsense man who could be harsh with his sentences, but he was also fair. If there was reasonable doubt, he would never convict, and if the state didn’t have the evidence, he’d toss the case before it ever made it to a jury.
Thompson’s brow furrowed now, and I knew I was close to winning the case. The man may have been a wonderful judge, but he was a terrible poker player. His face was far too expressive. He also tended to run his fingers across his mustache when he knew the defense was winning.
I finally moved my eyes away from him when I heard the irritated huff from the prosecutor’s bench. Allen could read the signs as well as I could, and he shot me an irritated look as Thompson scanned the indictment again.
“Objection, Your Honor,” Allen protested.
“Yes, Counselor?” the Judge asked.
His voice was bored and the microphone picked up the slight sigh. It was clear his decision was already made, and he didn’t appreciate this waste of his time.
“The defendant may have been contacted through this app, but it is still his vehicle, and he’s still responsible for anything he carries in it,” Allen pointed out.
Allen tried to keep his voice firm, but it warbled a bit at the end. He was losing, and he knew it. He rocked back on his heels and wiped his hands on his suit.
“Your Honor,” I interjected. “We don’t hold the postal service or FedEx accountable when someone uses their services to ship drugs. Why should my client be held to a higher standard? Is he supposed to check every package he’s handed before he puts it in his car?”
“Are you seriously comparing your client to the United States Postal Service?” the Judge asked with a hint of a smile.
“I am,” I said with a straight face.
Allen huffed again, but the Judge held up his hand.
“Your Honor,” I added. “My client is willing to cooperate with the police and turn over his client list.”
The client list from the app wouldn’t do much good. I’d taken a look at it myself, and the apartment where my client had picked up the drugs was a crack house that no sane delivery driver would go near, and the place where he was supposed to deliver it was a boat that was no longer at the docks. Allen already knew that as well, but he’d already been warned too many times by Thompson to risk speaking again.
Diego stiffened in the seat next to me, and his hands curled into fists as he fought against the urge to smile. He forced his lips back down into a repentant frown, though they were pressed together a little too hard for it to be natural.
“Your honor,” Allen tried again. “The car was in Mr. Perez’s custody when the drugs were found.”
“Even so,” the magistrate shook his head. ”Mr. Torres has a valid point. Do you have evidence that the drugs were part of a delivery he was making, Mr. Torres?”
“Yes, your honor,” I said as I pulled printed copies of the delivery request, the box label, and even my client’s delivery schedule for the day from my briefcase.
The bailiff tottered over to the table and accepted the sheets, which he then carried slowly back to the Judge. Thompson looked over the documentation and then turned to look at Allen.
“And do you have any evidence that Mr. Perez knew there were drugs in the package?” the Judge asked.
“I--” the middle-aged lawyer stammered as he shuffled through his files and then huffed as he looked back up. “No, your honor.”
“Alright, then,” Thompson replied. “I have no other option than to dismiss this case without prejudice. And Mr. Allen, I suggest next time you make sure you can prove that the drugs belong to the accused.”
“Y
es, your honor,” the middle-aged prosecutor said as he began to pack up his briefcase.
The judge rapped his gavel against the block, and once again we all stood up. Thompson turned to his computer while his clerk quickly darted to his side to present him with the next case file.
“That was amazing,” Diego said as he grabbed my hand. “I’ve never seen a case dismissed so fast.”
“They didn’t have enough evidence,” I shrugged. “Honestly, they should’ve done more research before they even charged you.”
“Lucky for me, they didn’t,” the Cuban grinned and then shook my hand again. “You did a real good job, especially for one of them public defenders. I’m gonna recommend you to the boss.”
“Thanks,” I answered as he pumped my arm. His grip was bone crunching, and if I hadn’t encountered the same macho attitude among so many of my clients, I might’ve been more intimidated by the tattooed man. “Try to stay out of trouble.”
“Sure thing,” the dark-haired man said with a lopsided grin that told me he would probably be back in my office within a week. “See ya later, Rob.”
Diego walked out of the courtroom with only a cursory glance toward the prosecutor. He threw his shoulders back and held his head high like he had just conquered the world.
“I gotta say, Torres,” Scott Allen said as we turned to leave. “You’re a pain in the ass.”
“You should’ve been more prepared,” I grinned at him. “Not my fault you didn’t know about his new career doing deliveries. Didn’t you wonder why he had all that other stuff in his car as well?”
“An oversight,” the middle-aged lawyer sighed. “Maybe next time you can take it easier on me. If I keep losing to you, the bosses are going to have my head.”
The prosecutor laughed as he followed me back out into the hallway, where our footsteps echoed along the tiles as we walked toward the entrance. We maneuvered around those who still had appearances, and I could see the other attorneys glance our way as we went by. I tried not to smile as we went by, but it definitely felt good to have another victory under my belt.
“Definitely not,” I responded. “I like having a high winning streak.”
