The Cartel Lawyer

by Dave Daren

  “Mr. Jones?” I asked as I knocked on the open office door.

  The middle-aged man sat hunched over a case file with one hand on his forehead while the other held up a page with what looked like a mugshot. He had blonde hair that was light enough to hide some of the streaks for premature gray that the job had given him. Thin lines had already creased his forehead and the corners of his hazel eyes. His suit jacket was draped over the back of his chair, the first few buttons of his shirt were undone, and his tie was loose around his neck, all signs that he was done with court appearances and client meetings for the day.

  “Torres?” he asked as he looked up from his work. “What’s up?”

  He gestured to one of the plastic chairs in front of his desk and then frowned as he realized there were files haphazardly piled in each one.

  “I’m submitting my resignation letter,” I told him as I held up the paper.

  “I knew it,” the overworked man muttered as he set the paper down. “You’ve been here longer than any of us could’ve expected.”

  He rose out of his chair as his eyes pleaded with me, the heavy bags under his eyes seemed bigger, and his shoulders slumped inwards. He maneuvered around his desk, past the filing cabinets that overflowed with folders, and motioned for me to step all the way into his office so he could shut the door. He looked up and down the hallway to make sure no one had overheard, and then he closed us in before he grabbed the stack of papers in the right chair and relocated them to a corner behind his desk.

  “Okay,” he muttered to himself as he motioned for me to sit down. “So you’re sure about leaving?”

  “I am,” I replied as I took the now empty chair.

  “Why?” he asked while he plopped down into his own seat then scooted it closer to the marred desk that hid under piles of paperwork. “Do you have too many cases? What can I do to help?”

  “Nothing,” I responded with an apologetic smile. “I’ve found a position somewhere else.”

  “Ah, of course,” the exhausted lawyer sighed. “I’m shocked someone hasn’t poached you before. They’re probably paying you more, too… I can’t do much to give you a raise, but I’m sure we could work something out.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “But I need to take this next step.”

  I handed him the resignation letter and watched as he took it with a look that made my heart ache. He seemed like he was one bad day away from a mental breakdown, but I had to think of my mom and the treatments she would need that the salary at the Public Defender’s Office would never be able to cover.

  “You’re the best lawyer I have,” the stressed man said with a slightly pleading look. “No one else has such a high success rate.”

  “I know,” I replied with a sad smile. “I have enjoyed my time here. And I’ll finish the Rick Smith case before I leave.”

  “Alright,” he said with a sigh that came from deep inside his soul. “And you’re sure I can’t change your mind? Maybe you could stay and pick up fewer cases? Or just take a few on the side? Some of those firms will let you work at more than one firm.”

  “No,” I said with a firm shake of my head.

  “Okay,” he muttered. “I’ll let Rina know not to assign you any more cases. We’ll see about getting you a cake.”

  “That’s not necessary,” I said as I held my hands up.

  “We’ll see,” the public defender gave me a weak smile. “You know Rina is the one who actually runs this office.”

  I couldn’t help but return his grin as I thought about the paralegal extraordinaire that assigned the cases and ordered all of the office supplies. She would definitely be an example of what I would look for in my own paralegal some day.

  “If she insists on a cake, then I guess we’ll have a cake,” I said with a small shrug.

  “Do you want to tell the others during our weekly meeting?” the blonde man asked.

  “No,” I said. “It can go out in an email. You know it’ll be all over the office before next week anyway.”

  “True,” he said with a little laugh. “You’re sure I can’t convince you to stay?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I signed my new contract earlier today.”

  “Damn,” he muttered. “Alright. Well, it’s been an honor working with you.”

  He stood and reached across the desk to shake my hand.

  “It was a pleasure to work with you,” I responded while I returned his hand shake.

  I gave him one last nod before I exited his office for the last time.

  “Everything okay, sugar?” Rina asked from her desk.

  She’d put on her blue-light glasses while she read over some documents on her computer. The cat-eye spectacles were perched on the tip of her nose, and she stared up at me over their bright-pink rims.

  “It’s great,” I said with a bright smile.

  The paralegal narrowed her eyes at me, glanced toward Mr. Jones’ office, and then shrugged her shoulders before she went back to her computer. She’d get the information about my resignation out of our boss in ten minutes, tops, but that would at least give me time to pack up and get out of the building so I could avoid all of the questions.

  As soon as I returned to my cubicle I slipped the two court cases from Osvaldo Fuentes into my briefcase and shrugged on my suit jacket. I’d just finished stuffing my keys and wallet into my pants pocket when my cell phone started to ring. A picture of my mother smiling appeared on the screen, and I snatched up the device.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  “It’s fine, mi hijo,” my mother’s tired voice said.

  I grabbed my briefcase and hurried out of the office before Rina could spread the word that I’d put in my resignation.

  “You sound exhausted,” I said while I ducked into the covered shade of the parking garage.

  It was late in the afternoon but there were still plenty of sweaty Floridians gathered around the elevator, so I decided to take a stroll to the third level where I had parked my car. There wasn’t anyone that I recognized, and I let out a relieved sigh that I could talk to my mom without any of the stares or questions that would overwhelm me the second anyone found out that my mother had cancer.

  “I’m back home now,” my Cuban mama said.

  I could hear her open a cabinet door, and then the sound of the sink’s ancient pipes gurgling as she turned the faucet on before she gulped down a glass of water.

  “Did Laura stay?” I asked while I searched the third floor for my ancient blue Honda Civic.

  “No, no,” the stubborn woman replied.

  “Mama,” I scolded.

  “Mi hijo,” she responded, and her tone held that familiar edge that warned me that I was about to step into trouble. “I’m fine. Are you coming over?”

  “Yeah,” I muttered. “I just found my car.”

  I held the phone to my head with my shoulder as I fumbled with my keys. It took a few tries, but eventually I unlocked the driver’s side door, and I made a mental note that I really needed to change the battery in my key fob. Though if I was about to buy a new car, then it was a moot point.

  “Good,” my mother mumbled before she yawned into the phone. “I may take a nap. Wake me up when you get here, mi hijo.”

  “Sure, mama,” I said as I ignored the sadness that threatened to bubble up.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed while I slid into the driver’s seat and threw my briefcase into the passenger seat.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  My heart thudded in my chest, and I held the key to the ignition as I waited for her answer.

  “The nurse showed me the bill,” she started. “You’re going to let me pay you back.”

  “I am not,” I responded with a sigh as I started my car and pulled out of my parking spot.

  “Mi hijo,” she whispered with a trembling voice. “I’m relieved that you can help with some. But it’s not your job to take care of me. It’s mine to take care of you.”

  “That’s not h
ow familia works,” I quoted her favorite line from when I was in college and felt a small twinge of satisfaction when I heard her irritated huff.

  “We’ll talk about this when you get home,” she told me. “I love you.”

  She hung up before I could respond, and I shook my head at my stubborn Cuban mama.

  I stuck my phone into its dashboard holder and then merged into the late afternoon Miami traffic. The drive to the highway was stop and go, and more than once I almost honked my horn as someone cut me off, but I managed to bite back the rage until I could get clear and was well on my way to my mother’s house.

  The smell of lavender Fabuloso greeted me the second I opened the front door, and I sighed as I realized that my mom had not had a nap. She was in the kitchen with a mop in hand when I found her. Salsa music played from her battered radio, and though she didn’t dance, she did bob her head periodically.

  “The floor is wet, mi hijo,” she said without looking up from a stubborn spot on the linoleum.

  “Yes, mama,” I said as I set my briefcase down on the counter that separated the living room from the kitchen. “I thought you were going to get some sleep.”

  “I couldn’t turn my brain off,” she responded with a wave of her hand. “Laura dropped off some ropa vieja and plantains.”

  She gestured to the foil casserole dishes on the counter as she shuffled over to the sink with the dirty mop water.

  “Mama, let me take care of that,” I said when she bent to lift the heavy bucket.

  “You stay off my floors,” she snapped before I could even set foot into the kitchen.

  I ground my teeth as my need to help her fought with the knowledge that she could throw her chancla with surprising accuracy, even when she was dead tired from three jobs.

  “The floors are dry enough,” I told her when she struggled to get the bucket higher than her knees. “I’m going to come help. Why don’t you sit. I’ll make you a plate. You should be resting.”

  “Fine,” she muttered after another failed attempt to empty the bucket.

  The bags under her eyes were darker, and her green eyes were dull from exhaustion. Her hand was skeletal as she reached up and patted me on the cheek before she shuffled over to the battered kitchen table.

  “You’re a good boy,” she said after she had eased into her favorite chair.

  “You taught me well,” I responded, and had to swallow around the lump that formed in my throat.

  I distracted myself with the mop water and then with the dinner that her best friend, Laura, had cooked for us. The ropa vieja smelled delicious as I uncovered the shredded flank dish with its tomato sauce, onions, and bell peppers.

  “I don’t want much,” my mother told me as I scooped out some of the rice, meat, and vegetables.

  “Okay,” I said while I halved the amount I had given her. “Did you want some of the plantains?”

  “Just one,” she said with a weak smile.

  “Here you go,” I said as I set the small plate of food in front of her with a fork and a glass of water.

  “Thank you, mi hijo,” she mumbled.

  She had rested her head on her hand and had begun to doze off, but she shook herself awake when I sat with my own dinner.

  “Eat,” I said as I scooped up a small bite with her fork and offered it to her.

  “I will,” the Cuban mama replied while she took the utensil from me and then sat it back down on her plate.

  “What did the doctor say?” I asked when it was clear she was not going to eat.

  “Eat,” she answered as she waved her hands at me. “We can talk later.”

  I took a giant bite to satisfy her, but I’d overdone it. I had a tough time trying to actually chew the food, and she lifted her eyebrows and grinned as she watched me struggle to eat. But it was worth it just to see her happy for a moment as she chuckled to herself and shook her head.

  “Satisfied?” I questioned when I had finally managed to swallow it all down.

  “Thrilled,” she teased.

  “So?” I pressed when she lapsed into thoughtful silence. “What did the tests say?”

  “I have stage 3 lung cancer,” she said. “He said if I don’t treat it aggressively that it has a good chance of turning to stage 4.”

  The air in the room disappeared as I processed what she’d said. She was so far along. It was a testimony to her strength that she’d managed to keep it hidden for so long, but I hated that she’d suffered in silence for, well, months? Years?

  “But he thinks he can treat it?” I asked when my voice would work again.

  “He said I might respond well,” she answered, though she wouldn’t look me in the eyes. “But, mi hijo, it’s so expensive.”

  “It’s worth it,” I assured her.

  “I’ve lived a good life, Roberto,” my mother said as she reached a bony hand over to pat my arm.

  “And you have more to live,” I huffed.

  “We can look into the holistic treatments,” she said with a shrug.

  “You will do whatever the doctor tells you to do,” I told her as I pushed my plate away from me. “I’m going to pay for all of your treatments.”

  I took off my glasses and cleaned them as my mother rolled her eyes and crossed her frail arms over her chest.

  “You will ruin your finances,” she grumbled. “You will not endanger your future to take care of a sick old woman.”

  She stood and snatched up our discarded plates. Her lips were pursed together, and her jaw gritted as she tried to hold back the tears that pooled in her eyes. She looked away, but not before I’d seen the flash of pain as she moved.

  “I won’t have to,” I told her as I followed her over to the sink.

  I wrapped my arms around her and put my chin on the top of the head while I tried not to think of how small she had become in the last few weeks.

  “You don’t make enough money,” she muttered.

  She distracted herself with rinsing off the plates, though she didn’t step out of my embrace as she worked.

  “I got a new job,” I said and then kissed the top of her head before I let her go.

  “Where?” she asked as she spun around.

  Her eyes narrowed, and she stared at me with her hands on her hips. She’d always been very good at sniffing out my lies and evasions, and I was about to tell the biggest one of my life

  “It’s a prestigious law firm,” I declared. “They’ve made me a great offer. I applied months ago, and I finally heard back from them.”

  I couldn’t tell her the truth, I told myself as my stomach turned, because she’d never approve of the Fuentes Shipping Company, or it’s potential ties to the Cuban cartel. The tenuous connections would be enough to make her worry, and she needed to be focused on her treatments, not my safety.

  “And you’ll make enough money to pay for all this?” she questioned, and my heart squeezed in my chest as I heard the first hint of hope in her voice.

  “Yes, mama,” I said as I turned around and smiled at her. “I told you my record was spotless at the Public Defender’s Office. They were very impressed with my record.”

  She studied me like she wasn’t sure she believed me, but she had no reason not to believe me. She knew I’d played around with the idea of a big firm job before, so she nodded her head and sighed, though she still seemed a little dubious.

  “I know you’re a good lawyer, mi hijo,” she said as she eased back into her chair, and pride surged through me at her confidence in me. “But I still don’t want you in debt. You made it through college and law school without it. I won’t have you ruining your life for me.”

  “I won’t, mama,” I reassured her with a pat on her shoulder.

  I couldn’t look her in the eyes, so I continued to stand. I had to leave soon, or I was sure I would confess everything, and then she would use what little energy she had to scold me for the lie and for agreeing to work with anyone who was even rumored to be connected to the cartel.

/>   “I’m going to go,” I said when I saw her head bob as she began to fall asleep at the table. “You get some sleep, okay. And I don’t want you worrying about the bills. You just do what the doctor tells you.”

  “Fine, fine,” she sighed as she fought back a yawn. “But you better not be lying to me about your finances. I’ve lived a good life, and I won’t be a burden to you.”

  She glared up at me, and my chest tightened, but I forced a smile, and then leaned down to give her a quick kiss on the forehead.

  “I’m not lying,” I managed to say as I straightened up.

  My stomach turned sour again, but I kept the smile on my face.

  “Alright,” she said with a nod. “As long as you’re sure. But I don’t want you working yourself to death, either.”

  “I won’t,” I promised, though if I crossed Osvaldo Fuentes, my work might turn deadly in ways my mother wasn’t expecting.

  My mama grunted as she stood, took my arm, and then leaned on me as she hobbled toward her bedroom. She didn’t bother to change out of her house dress as she slipped between her sheets, and she let out a contented sigh as she settled onto her well worn mattress.

  “Sleep well,” I whispered while I tucked her blankets around her like she’d done for me so many times.

  She’d already started to fall asleep by the time I made it to the door to her bedroom. I gave her one last look, and then I gathered my briefcase as I headed to my car.

  The little bit of dinner I’d had made me sick as I pulled out of the driveway. I’d never lied to my mother about something so big. There had been the little ones when I was younger and found myself in trouble, but it had never been about anything important, certainly not anything that could affect the trajectory of the rest of my life.

  I couldn’t let it get to me, I told myself, because she didn’t need the extra stress or worry, especially not while she was in treatment. Familia provided for each other, and if I had to sell a bit of my soul to keep her alive and healthy, then it was worth it. She had never hesitated to help me, and I wouldn’t now when she needed me the most.