by Dave Daren
He gave me a nod, and then the cartel goon motioned for the driver of the car to move on. He left me alone in the abandoned street with a cold sweat that dripped down my spine. It had been a clear warning.
Either I fixed this and had Camilo released, or they would fix me.
Chapter 9
I took an extra long, super hot shower in the morning to relax my tense muscles. I’d run longer than I usually did while I tried to wrap my mind around the idea of Judge Williams’ corruption and the clear threat that my employer’s goon had sent. It had taken three loops of my usual two and a half mile trail for me to feel more in control, and I was soaked through with sweat when I finally came back to my apartment. I’d washed up, but when I woke up I was sore from the run so I used that as an excuse to stay underneath the stream of water longer.
There was nothing for me to eat for breakfast, and I’d used the last of my creamer in my coffee the night before. I stood in a towel while I stared at my coffee pot for a solid minute and debated whether I could make it through an entire cup of plain black coffee.
I sighed because I knew I’d never make it, and I needed a strong dose of caffeine to push me through the long day of research and meeting with clients. I threw on a pair of dark blue jeans and a white button-up before I wandered into the bathroom to brush my teeth and style my hair. I used the mango curl smoothie my mother had given me since it made my wavy hair shine as it bounced around my eyes, and I loved the way it smelled.
When I was finished in the bathroom, I stuffed my laptop into my briefcase along with all of my notes and then snagged a black suit jacket off the back of my couch. Once I had my keys, cell phone, and wallet, I was ready to face the day.
I didn’t have an office to go to so I planned to use the coffee shop down the street, which came with the added bonus of delicious apple caramel turnovers and dark, strong coffee that they imported from Cuba. It was the perfect place to work, even with the music and wayward conversations.
The Florida air was already thick with humidity and the salty smell of the ocean when I emerged from my apartment building, and my glasses fogged immediately. I waved to the guy across the street as I pulled off my spectacles and cleaned them so I could see.
He was younger than the man from the night before with a dark brown ponytail and baggy clothes, but I had no doubt that my new employer had sent him. He lifted an eyebrow at me and then gave me a small nod while he pushed off the wall and walked toward me.
I turned toward the direction of the coffee shop as I debated whether I should take my car or not since the heat was already a heavy blanket, but my destination was only a few blocks away.
“Where you heading?” the young man asked as he strolled up with his hands in his pockets.
“Coffee shop,” I responded. “Are you coming with me?”
“Nah,” the guy shook his head. “I’ve got other work to do. Just here to tell you that the boss wants to see you this afternoon.”
“He could have called,” I said with a sigh as the knot in my stomach loosened.
“Not his style,” the dark-haired youth said with a smirk. “The boss wants you to meet him at the docks. The usual place.”
“Sure,” I replied. “Any specific time?”
“Alvaro’ll let you know,” the young man shrugged. “I’m just ‘sposed to tell you to be ready when the call comes in.”
“Thanks,” I said.
The dark-haired guy gave me a long look before he sauntered away now that he’d delivered both messages. The first was the verbal message about the meeting, but the second was the ongoing and more menacing message designed to remind me of who my employer was and what he could do. But at least I had until the afternoon to gather more information about Camilo’s case and to draw up a plan to have him released. I couldn’t neglect my other cases, though, and I was sure the cartel leader would expect a progress report on those as well.
I decided to take my car so that I wouldn’t be too sweaty for my meeting. I debated a clothes change, but the jeans were in good condition, and the suit jacket would give me a more professional look than just the button-up and pants. Satisfied that I would make it through the day, I unlocked my Honda and set off in search of caffeine.
My usual coffee shop had a parking lot out back, and I was grateful to find a spot under a shady tree that would cover my car well into the early afternoon. I parked, grabbed my briefcase, and then climbed out into the stifling heat.
I was pulled forward by the smell of coffee that washed over me even before I pulled the door open. It was rich and delicious, and my mouth watered as I stepped inside. The rich coffee scent was joined by the aroma of cinnamon and apple, and my stomach growled when I saw the plate of apple caramel turnovers on the glass display case.
On the wall behind the counter was a stretch of black chalkboards with the daily offerings written in white swirling letters. The specials for the week were a bright blue with illustrations of the drinks drawn next to them.
“Good morning,” the woman behind the counter said with a bright smile.
She had short, curly blue hair that brought out the pale hue of her eyes. She was curvy with a black off the shoulder shirt, jean shorts, and black fishnet stockings that accentuated her thick thighs. She had perfectly winged eyeliner, dark wine lips, and a silver septum piercing with filigree along the edges.
“Good morning,” I said with a smile.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” she said.
“Yeah,” I replied as I ran my hand through my hair. “It’s been a bit busy.”
“Life happens,” she said with a shrug. “Do you want you usual?”
“That sounds great,” I answered. “Unless any of the new ones are worth a try?”
“Well,” she muttered as she turned to look at the board. “The caramel cold brew would probably be something you’d like. It’s nice and sweet.”
“Sounds great,” I said. “I’ll take a medium.”
“Sure,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes.
She rang me up and then wrote my name on my cup before I wandered off in search of a table. I found one in a corner that included an outlet and a chair that looked like something I could sit in without losing sensation in my legs. I had just slipped out of my suit jacket and hung it on the back of the chair when the blue-haired barista walked my drink over to me.
“I hope you like it,” she said as she set the beverage down.
“I’m sure I will,” I said while I took my seat.
I took a sip of my caramel cold brew before I pulled out my laptop and almost groaned as the sweet caffeinated coffee rolled over my tongue. It was strong enough to wash away the remains of sleepiness after another sip, and I finally felt prepared for the research that laid ahead of me.
My stomach growled as soon as my laptop reached the login screen, and I glanced around at the few other patrons in the cafe to make sure no one had heard. But the hipster crowd was distracted with their own work, so I left my stuff on the table and made my way back to the counter.
“Back so soon?” the young woman teased as she looked up from her phone.
“Forgot breakfast,” I said with an apologetic smile.
“Ah,” she nodded her head. “The apple caramel turnovers are fresh. Unless you want something with a little more substance?”
“The turnover will be a good start,” I said.
“Great,” she put one of the pastries on a plate and then handed it to me after I swiped my card. “Here you go. Did you try the cold brew?”
“It’s amazing,” I confirmed. “I’ll probably grab another one before I leave.”
“I’ll be here,” she shrugged.
I bobbed my head and then went back to my table to settle in for some research. The anti-Everson website had been interesting, but the few testimonials had been from poor families that I doubted could hire a lawyer, so it was unlikely that they had been able to take legal action unless they’d found someone to handle it
pro bono.
They did have a link to a petition, and judging by the number of signatures, the families had plenty of support. But there didn’t appear to be any big names on the list, and there weren’t enough regular joes to make a difference if the company paid off other court officials. They would need a few hundred more before they could make an impact with a political party, and that would mean more teens would have to live in that hell hole.
I scrolled through the list of names and took a few notes while I drank my cold brew and ate my apple caramel turnover. The sweet, buttery sauce danced across my tongue to form the perfect combination with the cinnamon and tart green apples. The apples were still just a bit crunchy and made a nice contrast with the flakey crust. Some of the flakes fell onto my lap, but luckily, there was no trace of the butter on my jeans after I brushed them off.
When I was done with my breakfast, I washed my hands in the bathroom and then went back to my table to review the petition. The stories that were provided in support of the petitions were harrowing, but aside from the smuggled photos, there wasn’t much to support the tales. At best, the state might eventually send an inspector out to the facility, but that would take another six months at least. And I had the distinct feeling that neither Camilo nor I had another six months.
Still, I had found a thread, and I would tug until I could find something concrete on the facility. I went back to the Great Google, skipped past all of the ads that I’d seen the night before, and went straight to the second page where the website with the petition had been buried.
A little further down, there was an article from the Miami Herald that mentioned the Everson Juvenile Center. I clicked through to see if it was just another dose of propaganda from the company or if some intrepid reporter had actually written a piece about the place. The column quoted the mother whose testimonial I’d read as well as a few other family members of other detainees that claimed that the facility was responsible for making their sons worse than they had been before they went.
The reporter’s name was Eloa Kimura, and her email address was linked at the bottom of the page. I sent her a request to meet and talk about the information she’d gathered on the place. Even though she’d written the piece a few months before, I was sure she’d still have the resources she’d used even if she’d moved onto something else. She probably wouldn’t just hand it all over, but with a little charm, I was sure I could convince her to help out.
I had barely cleared a few of my other emails before she had responded. There was a tag at the bottom that told me she’d sent it from her iPhone. She was willing to meet with me to talk about the facility, and she’d listed a few times when she could see me. All of the options were for later in the afternoon or the next day.
My schedule was a little up in the air, thanks to Osvaldo’s message that morning. After some thought, I picked the nine a.m. time slot for the next morning, and then offered to meet her at the coffee shop. It was far enough from my apartment that she couldn’t easily follow me, and close enough that I wouldn’t have to wake up early to fight Miami traffic.
Once the email was sent, I returned the plate from my breakfast, and then ordered a water to go with my cold brew refill. The barista gave me extra cold foam with caramel around the edges of the cup. It was more delicious than the first, though I would have to go for another run to make up for the added sugar and calories.
Eloa had responded with a thumbs up emoji when I returned to my computer, so I added the meeting to my Google Calendar. I couldn’t do much for Camilo until after I had her information, though I did check the status of my appeal. It was still marked as ‘received’, and it would probably stay that way for at least a few more days.
I sipped on the sweet cold brew as I debated what to do next. I could research the judge, but I still needed to make progress with the other two cases that Osvaldo had given me. He already thought I’d failed his son, so I needed to make sure that I did the best I could with the others.
The drug charge would be easy enough to deal with, I’d decided. I’d already reviewed the police report and the teen’s rap sheet. His prosecutor was known for being tough and going for the maximum sentence, but I’d found an issue with the arrest. The officers had brought the teenage boy to the precinct at ten p.m., and his parents hadn’t been called until well after midnight. He’d been questioned in the interim, without a lawyer or his parents, so everything he said was inadmissible. It was flimsy, but it was enough that I could request the case be dismissed.
I filed the dismissal with the court with the police report as my evidence, and then checked in with the teenager.
“Mr. Torres?” the young man asked when he picked up.
It had been days since I’d called, and I wanted to make sure that he had listened to my advice and stayed out of trouble.
“Hey, Luke,” I greeted. “What are you up to? Have you been going to class?”
“Yes, sir,” the teen replied, and I could almost hear him roll his eyes. “I’ve been following your orders. Go to school, go home, and don’t talk to anyone about my case.”
“Good,” I bobbed my head. “I should have some news for you in a few more days.”
“Do I need to be ready for court?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “I filed for dismissal, but you should be prepared just in case. It’s next Tuesday unless I tell you differently.”
“Got it,” Luke said. “I gotta go. We good?”
I could hear the sounds of someone shouting behind him, followed by the distinctive rattle of chains, and the bounce of a basketball.
“Yes,” I said. “But stay out of trouble.”
“Sure,” the teen replied before he disconnected the call.
I shook my head and hoped that basketball was all he was doing. I had no doubt he was back at the same park with his same friends, but as long as he didn’t get caught with more drugs or after curfew, then he wouldn’t damage my request for dismissal.
My other client was a little bit more difficult. He had been charged with assault, and there were plenty of witnesses. The grizzled, middle-aged man also had an impressively long rap sheet which was sure to inspire most judges to toss him in jail for the maximum and then throw away the key. He’d been released on bail, and we’d talked briefly about what had happened, but I needed to go over the details again to make sure they hadn’t changed.
I took a long drink of water to counter the sweetness of my coffee, and then scrolled through my contacts list until I found my client.
“Yeah?” the gruff man answered the phone.
He’d barely reached picked up before I was sent to voicemail, and he sounded out of breath, like he’d had to run across the room.
“Michael, this is your lawyer, Rob Torres,” I said. “Do you have time to meet with me to discuss your case?”
“When?” the middle-aged man huffed.
“Do you have time today?” I asked as I looked at the clock.
It was eleven a.m., so there would be plenty of time to run over to my client’s house for an interview, and then I’d have the afternoon off to wait for Alvaro’s call.
“Yeah,” Michael responded. “I’m at the house. Come on over.”
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” I told him.
“Great,” he said.
I hung up the phone and began to pack up all of my gear. I debated whether I should take the sweet coffee with me, but I decided the water was a better choice and tossed the cold brew on my way out.
Above me, the sky was a bright blue with white fluffy clouds that lazily drifted by, palm trees swayed in a gentle breeze, and a plane flew by as I glanced up. I stood in the middle of the parking lot for a few seconds as I soaked it all in, but once the wind died down the heat rushed in, and I hurried to my car.
The shade from the tree had kept the temperature down inside of my car so it wasn’t like an oven when I slid into the driver’s seat. I still cranked the AC all the way up as I backed out
of the spot and left the coffee shop behind.
Rush hour traffic had begun already, and I found myself in stop and go traffic. I sipped my ice water as I waited for an opening in the wall of cars to my right, and then merged onto the exit to the highway. After that, I flew down the road toward my client’s house.
It was only a few miles from my mother’s house so I would be able to check in on her when I was done. The idea of my violent client so close to my mother was a problem, but I’d grown up in the neighborhood and knew well that it could be a little rough around the edges.
When I was younger I had had a few brushes with the law, nothing too terrible, just a few curfew violations and petty theft charges. I’d been restless like most of the other kids my age, and I wanted more than my life could offer. If it hadn’t been for my mother, then I would have ended up in a gang like Luke. I might even have fallen down the rabbit hole as far as Michael, though I’d never been violent, just angry.
The street where my middle-aged client lived was one of those where cars had to be parked in the road because the one spot in the driveway was usually taken up by a car on blocks or a junkpile of old appliances and broken toys. There were potholes so deep that I thought my soul left my body when I hit one, and I audibly apologized to my ancient Honda for not avoiding the abyss. Still, some of the neighborhood kids had taken chalk to the ugly blemishes and turned them into the middle of flowers or suns.
The sidewalks were cracked and uneven, and tufts of grass and dandelions peeked out from the jagged lines. Dogs barked incessantly, though I only spotted a handful that were all, thankfully, behind a fence.
I drove past dilapidated houses that had seen better days, chain link fences that were rusted in places, and yards with no grass until I found my client’s house. I’d almost missed it, since the number was missing, but at the last minute, I saw the bright white paint where the digit had guarded the house from the dirt and grime.
The whole house was covered in a thin layer of dinge, and the once white paint had turned a grayish color. The siding had begun to peel back as well, and a piece of the gutter had fallen down from the right side of the house. Someone had attempted to prop it up with a piece of plywood, but I could see the crack in the plastic gutter even from the street.
