The Cartel Lawyer

by Dave Daren

“What did she make it with?” I asked as I started to take all of my belongings out of the tub.

  I watched as Osvaldo filled one of the gray tubs, while Camilo waited impatiently in line behind him. Alvaro had already emptied his pockets and stood like a statue behind the teenager with all of his gear in one massive hand.

  “I think she used one of those new all natural sweeteners,” the security guard answered me, though his eyes never left the three people that I was with.

  “Sugar is natural,” I laughed while I made room for the others to pass through the metal detector.

  “That’s what I told her,” the large man said with a shake of his head.

  He still had a smile on his face but he was focused on the electronic arch as the two intimidating men passed through it. His shoulders relaxed when the metal detector didn’t beep, though he was still wary when Camilo walked through.

  “At least they tasted better than the first one’s she made,” I said.

  The first time she had made them, the security guard had brought them to work to pawn off on his coworkers, and each one ended up in the trash with one bite taken out of them.

  “Anything has to be better than those,” John chuckled. “I’ll see you later, Mr. Torres. Good luck with your trial today.”

  “Thanks,” I said with a wave as I led my group away.

  “It’s good to have security guards as friends,” Osvaldo remarked when we were out of earshot.

  “He’s a pretty nice guy,” I replied, though a surge of panic rushed through my veins as I wondered if they had managed to sneak in a weapon.

  “How long have you known him?” my boss asked as we turned down the hallway with our courtroom.

  “Since I was in law school,” I said. “He’s been here forever.”

  The oak benches outside of each courtroom were filled with lawyers and their clients who waited to be called in for the first round of appearances of the day.

  “Ugh, we’re going to be waiting forever,” Camilo whined when we stopped in front of our courtroom.

  “We’re the first case,” I reminded him.

  Stephen was across the hall from us on a bench with a lanky teen that had shaggy brown hair that fell into his light-brown eyes. The young man glanced up from his phone when he heard his friend’s voice and gave Camilo a small wave.

  “Camilo Fuentes and Jimmy Suarez,” a middle-aged woman in the blue-gray bailiff’s uniform called as the door next to us opened.

  “Here,” I said while I stepped forward and motioned for my young client to follow me.

  As we walked into the small courtroom the other doors in the hall began to open and other cases were called as the day began.

  “We’ll be right behind you,” Osvaldo told his son as the teen and I sat next to Stephen and Jimmy at the defense’s table.

  Camilo had already donned his repentant face, and when I glanced over I saw that Jimmy attempted to mimic the downcast eyes and small frown that my client wore.

  The prosecutor, Sheila Jones, walked into the courtroom with a small coffee in her hand. Her black kitten heels dug into the thin carpet and her black dress hugged her well-formed curves. She had her long brown curls held out of her face with a clip, and the pale pink lipstick she wore stayed in place as she swigged the last of her morning brew. She looked over and smiled at our table as she set her briefcase down, and then began to pull out two thin files.

  “All rise for the Honorable Judge Williams,” the female bailiff said once we had all arrived.

  The door in the front wall opened and a portly man with a small mustache and gray hair waddled out of the judge’s chamber. His black robes were tight around his middle, it pulled up in the front to reveal his expensive black slacks. His shoes were the same expensive, shiny Italian leather that Camilo wore, and I wondered if the judges had been granted a pay raise I hadn’t heard about.

  “You may be seated,” the older man said with a wave of his hand as he eased into his brown leather chair.

  I hadn’t presented a case before the judge before, though I’d looked over his record during the weekend. He was relatively new to the bench and mostly handled juvenile cases. He seemed to be a stickler for procedure, though he’d been handing out harsher sentences recently. But I was confident that with Sheila behind us, the boys would be sentenced to diversion and a fine.

  “What’s this case?” the judge asked as he flipped through his file. “Ah, yes. Fuentes and Suarez.”

  “The state is comfortable with two-hundred-and-fifty hours of community service,” Sheila said when the older man went silent. “We suggest that Jimmy Suarez pay a fine of five-thousand dollars and the driver, Camilo Fuentes, pay the maximum ten-thousand dollars.”

  “Camilo Fuentes is willing to pay the fine and looks forward to making amends for his lapse of good judgement,” I offered as the judge shut the file with a shake of his head.

  “Jimmy Suarez is--” Stephen was cut off by the older man as he held up a hand.

  “Both boys will be sentenced to three years at the Everson Juvenile Detention Center,” the judge declared.

  “Objection!” I shouted as the judge reached his pudgy hand toward his gavel.

  “Objection, your honor,” the prosecutor gasped, her eyes wide in disbelief, and her mouth agape.

  “Next case,” the older man said as he pounded his gavel.

  “What just happened?” Camilo asked as the bailiff and another court officer came forward to cuff the two teen boys.

  “I have no idea,” I muttered as I turned from the round judge to my young client.

  For the first time since I had met him he looked scared, and he almost pulled away from the bailiff when she held up the handcuffs for him.

  “I thought you said it would be community service,” he accused me as I stepped aside to let the court official do her job.

  “It should have been,” I replied as I glanced over to an equally bewildered Stephen. “Don’t worry, I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  A shiver of rage ran down my spine as I watched the dark-haired teen be led out of the courtroom with his friend right behind him.

  “I’m so sorry,” Sheila said as she teetered over on her kitten heels.

  “It’s not your fault,” I comforted the beautiful woman, though I wanted to scream at the fat man on the bench.

  “I can’t believe he didn’t even listen to the prosecutor,” my former colleague said with a shake of his head.

  “It’s insane,” I replied as I gathered my briefcase.

  “Jipato,” Osvaldo said from behind me.

  His face was dark with the barely controlled anger that burned in his eyes. He looked toward the door and then stormed out of the room with Alvaro right behind him. The other two attorneys glanced at me, but all I could do was shrug my shoulders before I followed after them.

  Both men were tense as they walked along the hallway, and everyone quickly jumped out of the way. The pair radiated malice, and I’d even seen one of the courthouse guards use his radio as they passed. But both men marched unimpeded to the exit, and I followed close behind them.

  The heat of the day was oppressive when I left the safety of the courthouse lobby behind. The steps were littered with lawyers, police, and clients that all studiously ignored the fuming cartel man and his tall, muscular shadow. I was tempted to stay in the crowd, but my client wasn’t the only one they ignored. A few sympathetic looks were cast my way, but no one was actually willing to meet my gaze.

  The SUV was already parked on the curb, and the driver scrambled out to open the two passenger doors. He smiled at the boss and then looked behind the two men for Camilo. When he didn’t see him, he gave me a look that was laced with pity, and my stomach clenched in response.

  Osvaldo climbed into the front passenger seat while Alvaro slid into the back passenger seat and then scooted so he was behind the driver’s seat. The tall man patted the open seat next to him in welcome, and I seriously considered whether I coul
d tell him no. But I would not cower when I had done absolutely nothing wrong.

  The driver shut the door behind me and then circled the car to climb into his own seat, though he didn’t pull away from the curb. He sat with his eyes forward and his hands in his lap as he waited for his next orders.

  “I’m disappointed,” the boss said after the silence had grown so uncomfortable that I had begun to think Alvaro would slice my neck open right in front of the courthouse.

  The cartel man twisted in the front passenger seat so that he could look at me. The light from the front windshield cast shadows over his face, and the twisting scar on his right cheek began to remind me of a writhing snake.

  “That is not how that should’ve gone,” I said.

  “You came so highly recommended,” Osvaldo said with a shake of his head. “I’d heard you were good. But this is all that you can do? Three years in a juvenile detention center?”

  The air inside the SUV was thick and foreboding as I looked between my muscular boss and his giant second in command, a man I was still sure had a garrote on his person in case he needed it. My stomach did another flop as I tried to remain calm, though I felt the vein in my neck twitch as I imagined what it would feel like as the piano wire wrapped around my neck.

  My pulse raced and sweat dripped down my back at the unspoken promise of violence that lingered in the air around me. For the first time in my life, I wondered if maybe I shouldn’t have put family first.

  “I’ve never had a judge sentence such a young offender to such a long time in a detention center,” I shook my head and tried not to let the pounding of my heart in my ears distract me. “He didn’t even listen to the prosecutor’s recommendations or give us an opportunity to speak. Hell, he barely even glanced at the files. It shouldn’t have happened this way.”

  “And yet, it did,” the scarred man said in a voice so low that I almost didn’t hear him.

  Alvaro shifted in his seat beside me, and I glanced over at him to make sure that he hadn’t pulled out a weapon. He hadn’t had one when he passed through the metal detector, but I had no doubt that he had one stashed somewhere in the car.

  “I’m going to file appeals,” I reassured Osvaldo as I looked back toward the boss. “Camilo will not spend long in that place. The judge’s decision was wrong, and I’m going to fix it.”

  Another silence fell inside the SUV as the Cuban cartel man pondered my future. His scowl was scarier than I’d ever seen it, though his son had just been sentenced to three years in a juvenile center despite my promises.

  “I’m going to give you a chance to fix this,” the angry father said after he took a deep breath in. “I shouldn’t have to tell you the consequences for disappointing me again.”

  “I won’t,” I said as plans for appeals began to form in my mind.

  “Get out, before I change my mind,” he whispered.

  Chapter 8

  I had barely shut the car door behind me when Osvaldo’s SUV peeled away from the curb. I took a deep breath to calm my nerves as I wiped the sweat on my free hand onto my charcoal suit pants. I gripped my briefcase a little tighter as I steadied myself, and then began the long walk back to where I had left my car.

  The beat up blue Honda was a few blocks away from the courthouse. It was closer to the restaurant where Stephen and I had eaten breakfast, so by the time I reached the car I was covered in sweat that wasn’t entirely from the oppressive Florida heat.

  I couldn’t believe the judge’s verdict had been so harsh. Neither of the boys had a long rap sheet, and none of their prior offenses had been violent. Camilo had mostly been picked up for curfew violations or loitering after hours at basketball courts with his friends, and the same was true of his friend.

  The old magistrate had been out of line to send my client to a juvenile detention center, especially for three years when there had been no property damage. The car had been returned without so much as a scratch and only a few extra miles. Camilo had clearly known how to handle the luxury vehicle, and even the car’s owner had initially been reluctant to press charges once the car had been returned.

  My car’s AC sputtered for a second before icy tendrils cut through the suffocating air that clung to my skin. The engine purred as I merged into traffic and began to weave through the cars on the way back to my apartment so I could start the paperwork for the appeal.

  I arrived in record time and parked in my usual parking spot before I trotted into my apartment building. The elevator was open, but I took the stairs so that I could work off a little of the leftover anxious energy from Osvaldo’s unspoken threat against my life.

  Light peeked through the closed blinds on my windows and lit the small studio apartment. I’d washed all of my dishes so the counters were clear for my briefcase as I plopped it down. The bed was made and the scent of Fabuloso lingered from the quick clean I’d given my ugly but sturdy coffee table.

  I flipped the light switch for the overhead light to brighten my tiny home and then stripped off my suit and tie. I slipped into some workout shorts and an old Avenged Sevenfold t-shirt from a concert I’d gone to at the Hard Rock Cafe years ago.

  Once I was more comfortable, I snagged my laptop, brewed an extra strong cup of coffee that I dosed with an unhealthy amount of cream and sugar, and then I sat down on the couch so I could begin the appeals process for my client.

  The room was too quiet, and my mind wandered back to the SUV as my laptop whirred to life. I glanced around the small room like I expected Alvaro to emerge from the shadows, but I was alone. The feel of the second in command’s black eyes still lingered on the back of my neck, though, and I wondered if they had hidden a camera somewhere inside my home while I was at my mother’s.

  I shook my head at my own paranoia, and then turned my favorite courtroom drama on to fill the silence. The sounds of the faux lawyers faded into the background as I started to craft my appeal. The frame of my argument was easy enough to put together, but I still needed cases to back up my contention that Williams had overreached.

  Since I was officially out of the Public Defender’s Office, I no longer had access to their Westlaw account, but the Bar has free access to a different database through their website. It wasn’t as massive as Westlaw, but it was good enough to help me find cases that were right on target.

  As I waded through the search results and then refined them, I found myself wondering about Williams and his decision making. The prior charges should have been a factor in the verdict, but I hadn’t heard of any recent trials where a judge went straight to a juvenile center against the recommendation of the prosecutor.

  My client’s father, and my boss, might have been a factor for the rotund magistrate, especially if he’d tried to convict Osvaldo before and failed. The Predisposition Report had indicated that Camilo would likely find himself in more trouble as he aged and followed in his father’s footsteps. But he was still only fourteen, and Sheila had agreed that a hefty fine and extra community service hours might at least deter the teen from taking any more joyrides.

  The real problem was that the appeals court tended to side with a judge’s decision unless it was clear that the ruling was particularly egregious. And as harsh as I found the sentence, I wasn’t sure the appeals judges would agree. So, I decided to do a quick search of the Everson Juvenile Detention Center to see if I could find something that would convince the judges that the sentence was too harsh.

  The Everson Juvenile Detention Center was a privately owned facility with a well-structured website that showed pictures of teens with big smiles on their faces despite their ankle bracelets. There were testimonials from parents who praised the work that Everson had done and claimed that their children were better after their stay with the wonderful corrections officers.

  It was clearly propaganda, since there were no testimonials from the teens that had actually stayed at the center, and the dorm-like rooms were decorated with dated posters and a projector TV that looked like it was
from the 90s. The pictures of the cafeteria showed more smiling teenagers that ate together peacefully, and no one glared at each other. There were no clear cliques or gangs in any of the images despite the fact that it was filled with teenagers. In fact, it revealed none of the things I’d witnessed for myself at other juvie centers when I’d visited previous clients.

  I shook my head at the overly polished website and then swigged the last few gulps of my cooled coffee. I grimaced as I reached the bottom of the mug where all the sweetness had settled, but the sugar rush would fuel me for the long hours ahead.

  My stomach growled as I stood to stretch and walk around the room, so I ended my stroll in the kitchen. My refrigerator was almost empty, and only a bottle of creamer with a few drops in the bottom, a half-empty ketchup bottle, and a few oranges that had green fuzz on the brightly colored rind were the only contents.

  I tossed the fruit, washed my hands thoroughly with dish soap that smelled like green apples, and then turned my attention to the cabinets. They were slightly better stocked than the refrigerator, but most of it required cooking, and I was not in the mood to prepare anything. I discovered a bag of Fritos that I couldn’t remember buying hidden behind a bag of rice that was at least a year old.

  They smelled stale, but they would satiate my hunger for the moment. There were plenty of delivery services nearby that could bring me a proper meal to get me through the long night of research that I had ahead of me, but the Fritos would keep me going crazy from hunger while I waited.

  I plopped down on my old leather couch and put my feet on the coffee table next to my open laptop. I scooted the machine a little further away from me and then reached for the remote so I could turn the volume up on my courtroom drama.

  The Fritos were definitely bad, if the smell was any indication, and when I tossed a handful into my mouth they were chewy rather than crunchy. But they still had that salt and corn taste to them so it wasn’t completely disappointing, even if the texture made me cringe all the way to my soul.

  After I managed to swallow the bite I had in my mouth, I tossed the bag next to my laptop and snatched up my cell phone instead. I logged into the delivery app and started to search through what they had to offer. After a short internal debate, I decided on a chimichanga, queso, and chips from my favorite Mexican restaurant.