by Dave Daren
“Your client will be out in a minute,” the man muttered. “Right through that door.”
“Thanks,” I said as I squeezed by the man.
The door he had pointed to was to the left, and it was propped open with a brick. It seemed a bit low tech for a detention facility, but I didn’t think he would appreciate my commentary.
When I walked inside, I was met by rows of long gray tables with attached metal benches, and I suddenly felt like I was back in school. It was exactly like my old high school cafeteria, right down to the glum faces of the few teens that were scattered around the large square room with their lawyers or family members.
I didn’t have to wait long for the guards to bring in Camilo, though when I saw him I almost didn’t recognize him. He barely looked like the same kid. He was pale, and it looked like he hadn’t slept for the entire two days that he’d been there. His shoulders were slumped in on themselves, and his face lacked his usual haughty smirk.
He didn’t even glance up when the guard pressed on his shoulder to sit, and the normally feisty teen plopped down on the bench without a word. When the guard didn’t step back right away, I gave him an angry glare, and after giving my client a scowl, the guard backed away to watch from a distance.
“Are you here to get me out?” Camilo asked as he finally looked up at me, and I saw a glimmer of hope spark in his eyes.
Chapter 11
“I can’t get you out just yet,” I told Camilo.
My heart squeezed in my chest as I saw the little spark of hope in his eyes die away to be replaced with a dull lifelessness.
“Then why are you even here?” the young teen snapped.
The guard who had brought him in was leaning against the gray cement wall a few feet away. He looked relaxed, but his eyes scanned the room for any signs of trouble, and when he heard my client’s tone, his attention snapped back over to our table. The wiry guard suddenly kicked off the wall as his right hand went to the handle of the club he had at his waist.
I lifted a hand to wave him off, and though he narrowed his eyes, he relented when I shook my head. I didn’t like the way he’d reached for his weapon so fast, or the way he’d pressed his lips together when he’d given in. It was like he was upset he hadn’t been able to strike the fourteen year old boy across from me. I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he resumed his leisurely position on the wall, but I wondered what would happen once I left.
There were a few other teens who were meeting with visitors, and I noticed how unlike teenagers they all behaved. They kept their voices low, and they sat across from their visitors with their hands in their laps. I saw one gray-haired woman reach toward the boy she was talking to, but he kept his hands in his lap, his eyes downcast, and he simply nodded whenever she said anything, and tears silently slipped down his sunken cheeks.
My attention shifted back to the teen who sat at the table with me. His shoulders were slumped in on themselves like the other boy, and though he didn’t cry, he didn’t have that cocky grin that he had worn every other time I’d seen him. He hadn’t been there long enough to lose much weight, but exhaustion rolled off of him as if he hadn’t allowed himself to sleep since he’d arrived.
It was possible that Judge Williams had no idea what it was like at the Everson Juvenile Center, but no one was above corruption, and his records had shown he favored the terrible place. And then there were the longer sentences he’d started dishing out. None of it made any sense unless the judge was getting a kickback.
Scouring the judge’s financials suddenly moved to the top of my to-do list. If the jurist was indeed receiving payments for every child he sent to the facility, I would make sure he was disbarred, lose his seat on the bench, and maybe even find himself in prison.
“How are things going?” I asked as I pulled my thoughts away from the corrupt magistrate.
“How do you think?” Camilo scoffed.
There was a flash of his previous sass, but it was half-hearted and didn’t have the usual bite that came from the teen’s confidence. He tried to stifle a yawn, though he caught it too late, and his mouth opened wide. He swiped angrily at the few tears that slipped out of his red-rimmed eyes.
My heart squeezed in my chest as he pressed his lips together and gritted his teeth against the sob that tried to crawl up his throat.
“I need you to tell me everything that’s happened since you got here,” I told him with a glance toward the guard as I pulled the pen and pad of paper from my briefcase.
The guard was far enough away that he wouldn’t hear everything we said, as long as Camilo could keep his voice low and his tone nonthreatening.
“Why the fuck do you care?” the dark-haired teen growled low enough that no one else could hear.
“Because I’m going to get you out of here,” I told him. “And the more information I have, the better.”
“Fine,” the teen sighed, and his body hunched in on itself.
I needed to get him out before he broke, and I was surprised to realize that I missed the cocky young man that had squared off with his intimidating father and put his feet up on the table like he owned the place.
“Go ahead,” I said with a nod with my pen poised over my pad of paper.
“It’s just juvie,” Camilo hedged with another glance to the wiry guard. “Of course, it sucks.”
“What are the rooms like?” I asked.
“There’s four of us to a room,” he told me.
“Four?” I muttered. There had been two bunk beds in each room that I’d seen online, but I had hoped those were fake.
“Yeah,” the teen lifted one shoulder. “They’re squeezed in on the walls to the left and the right. It’s bunk beds, just like we’re at camp or something. And the mattresses are thin as hell. They practically fall through the bars of the beds.”
“Okay,” I said as I took notes.
The pictures online were apparently accurate, though I hadn’t paid much attention to the mattresses. I knew that the cells in juvie were roughly the same size as a cell in a regular prison, and to fit four teen boys into one of the small rooms was unacceptable. The courts had cleared out prisons and shut down jails for trying to cram four adult men into the same limited area.
“I don’t think I’ve been able to sleep more than an hour,” Camilo huffed as he ran a hand through his short black hair. “One of the guys snores so loud it rattles the bars on the windows.”
“So you have a window?” I prodded.
“Sure,” the teen said with a snort. “If you can call it that. It’s tiny. And the glass is frosted so we can’t actually see out. But it lets in a little bit of light, I guess.”
“And the room has a toilet and sink?” I continued.
“They’re fucking disgusting,” the young man snapped and then tensed as he shot a look over to the guard.
The uniformed man had narrowed his eyes at my client’s momentary spark of defiance again, and his hand had gone back to the club at his side. When he was sure that the teen wasn’t about to yell or jump across the table, he shook his head, and his hand reluctantly left the weapon.
“They don’t clean them?” I asked as I brought Camilo’s attention back to me.
“One of the guys said they clean them once a week, if we’re lucky,” the dark-haired teen answered. “But apparently, they don’t trust us with cleaners.”
“Right,” I said as I jotted the information down. It might help Eloa’s story, and I was sure that I could use the unclean bathrooms in my appeal.
“And one of the guys takes the most noxious smelling dumps,” Camilo added.
His face twisted in disgust as he remembered the smell, and he held back a gag at the memory.
“What about the recreation areas?” I asked. “I think I saw a basketball court outside.”
“We get like twenty minutes,” the teen huffed. “And the balls are barely inflated so we can’t play a real game.”
“Okay,” I mumbled.
> My pen didn’t want to write so I shook it out and then banged it on the table. The noise echoed along the walls, and I glanced up to give everyone an apologetic smile.
“Keep the noise down,” the wiry guard warned before he checked his watch. “You have thirteen minutes.”
“Thank you,” I replied with a wave that only received an eye roll.
“You shouldn’t draw attention to yourself,” Camilo whispered, his eyes were wide with panic, and his hands were curled into fists on the table.
“Sorry about that,” I said. “How are the guards treating you?”
“They’re fucking brutes,” the dark-haired teen snarled. “That jackass over there likes to knock us in the back or shove us into walls. But it’s never hard enough for them to leave bruises. Some of the older guys say that if you get out of line they’ll throw you in solitary for months and won’t let anyone visit. Not even lawyers.”
“Have they hurt you?” I asked, and every muscle in my body tensed as I fought the urge to scream at the guard.
It wouldn ‘t do any good, and it would definitely bring unwanted attention to my client. He needed to keep a low profile, so I had to keep my mouth shut, at least until I could have him released.
“No,” Camilo shook his head, and I forced myself out of my dark thoughts. “But I haven’t been here long.”
“Right,” I nodded my head. “Have you been to school in the last two days? Or do they offer some form of classes so you can stay caught up?”
“Ha,” the teen snorted. “They just leave us in our rooms all day. We get to go out for our meals and for the twenty minutes of fresh air.”
He perked up a little bit as he complained, though it was still much more subdued than he had been before, and he didn’t use his hands at all while he spoke.
“What’s the food like?” I asked.
My pen had finally started to work again, and I began to write down a few questions I wanted answered. I didn’t know much about juvie center regulations, but I did know that they should have no more than two people in a cell, and it was customary for the teens to continue with their lessons in some way.
“Canned garbage,” Camilo grumbled. “It’s all this disgusting gray goo. And the rolls they give us are as hard as rocks. I think the one they gave me last night had mold.”
“You’re sure?” I questioned as I looked up from my notepad.
“I mean it was white fuzz on bread, so yeah,” the dark-haired teen said with a roll of his eyes.
“Was any of the other food out of date?” I continued.
“Who the fuck knows?” the young man lifted one shoulder.
The movement made him wince, and I lifted an eyebrow at him as I waited for an explanation. He gave me another shrug, though this time he managed to hide the pain in his shoulders.
“Are you hurt?” I asked when my client didn’t explain.
“Nah,” he shook his head. “Just slept wrong. Those stupid thin mattresses are terrible. It feels like I’m on a torture device.”
“No one hit you?” I confirmed.
If my client was attacked, then I would have everything I needed for my appeal, though I would have to face his father’s wrath. Osvaldo would have me killed slowly if his son was beaten or hurt during his stay at Everson Juvenile Detention Center.
“I told you they hadn’t,” Camilo grumbled.
“You said the guards hadn’t,” I countered. “That doesn’t mean that the other boys hadn’t tried anything.”
“The beds just fucking suck,” the teen insisted as he shifted in his seat.
“Alright,” I said, though I wasn’t sure I believed him. “Is there anything else I should know?”
“Not really,” the young man muttered.
I checked my phone and saw that I had about eight minutes left before the guard took Camilo back to his cell. We still had a lot to talk about, though, and I wanted to cover as much ground as I could. I wanted to make sure I had enough to give to Eloa so she had something to work with at our next meeting, as well as bolstering my appeal.
“If anyone hits you, you let me know right away,” I told my client with a glance toward the wiry guard that I was very sure would love to use his club.
“Yeah, yeah,” the teen grumbled. “How long until you can get me out of here?”
“The appeals process takes a little bit of time,” I explained.
“Like days, weeks, or months?” Camilo questioned, his brown eyes narrowed, and his scowl resembled his father’s for a moment.
“Hopefully, weeks,” I said. “I’ve already filed for the appeal. It needs to be reviewed, and then if they don’t think that there’s enough evidence to have you released immediately, then I can request another hearing.”
“Yeah, because that worked so well the first time,” the teen said with a roll of his eyes.
“I admit your trial did not go as planned,” I told him. “But if the first appeal is denied, I will request a different judge.”
“And that’ll take a few weeks?” my young client asked, and I saw that spark of hope light up again. “Could it be done in one week?”
“An appeal is very rarely approved or denied in a week,” I responded. “And if we have to have another hearing, it’ll take a few months.”
“Months?” he muttered to himself.
The momentary hope died away to be replaced by the dull, lifeless appearance that he’d had before. He shifted on the hard metal metal bench but couldn’t get comfortable, so with a huff, he gave up and just leaned forward a little.
“That is the worst case scenario,” I said as I set my pen down. “With all of the information I have, we should be able to have the first appeal approved.”
“But that’s still at least a few weeks, right?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said with an apologetic smile.
“So, we have to wait like a month just to find out if it’s approved or not?” the young man said as he reviewed everything. “And then if it’s denied, you’ll have to have another hearing and just hope we can get a better judge?”
“Yes,” I answered. “Though I am working on a few alternative solutions to get you out as soon as possible.”
“Sure,” the teen said.
He glanced over at the guard and then to the other teens that were still scattered around the other tables. A few new people had come in while we talked while others had departed. One of the kids who’d come in to talk to his attorney looked like he could play football professionally with his wide muscular frame, and I hoped that he wasn’t one of Camilo’s cell mates.
“I promise that I will have you out of here,” I told my melancholy client as he turned his attention back to me.
“Why don’t you just pay someone off?” he whispered.
“What?” I asked as I leaned forward.
“It wouldn’t be the first time it happened here,” the teen said with a shrug.
“Really?” I glanced at the other teens and wondered how many of them would pay their way out.
“Sure,” Camilo answered.
He sat back while he splayed his hands out on the shiny metal tabletop.
“Do you have any specifics?” I questioned. “Like how much they paid. And to who?”
The teen refused to make eye contact with me as he shrugged. Instead he looked around the room at the light fixtures, the other tables, and the families that had come to visit their sons.
“If you can give me more information, then I can try to use it to get you out of here,” I pressed when my client continued to avoid my question.
“I already told you a lot,” the dark-haired youth grumbled. “And why should I trust you with more? You said that I’d just have community service, and yet, here I am.”
He gestured to the large square room and then to his dark-blue jumpsuit with bold white letters that said ‘Everson Juvenile Correctional Center’.
I sighed because he was right. I’d promised it would be a fine and community servi
ce, but he’d been sent to juvie instead. And to one of the worst facilities in the area, if my research was right..
“I’ll get you out of here,” I told my client again. “One way or another. You won’t serve the three years.”
I could tell the teen was done with our conversation as his eyes hardened when he finally looked back toward me. The nervous boy who’d told me about the terrible conditions had disappeared, and the old Fuentes fire burned for a moment. He sat up straight, his shoulders back, and though he didn’t have that same cockinesss, he seemed a little bit more like the boy I’d first met.
“Your time’s up,” the wiry guard interrupted as he strolled over with his right hand on the club and his left in his pocket. “Let’s go.”
“I’ll be back soon,” I promised Camilo as we both stood.
“Sure,” the dark-haired teen shrugged one shoulder.
His other was immobilized by the grip of the guard, and I shot the man a warning glance as he squeezed my client’s shoulder. The guard glared at me, but when I met his gaze with my own steady look, I saw his fingers loosen slightly.
“Call me if you need anything,” I told the Fuentes heir as he was tugged away.
“Give my regards to my father,” the teen called when he was almost through the door, and for a moment I saw a flash of worry as he glanced at the guard.
I nodded my head without breaking eye contact and only looked away when he had disappeared from view. I sighed as I put the pad of paper and pen back into my briefcase and then buttoned up my suit jacket.
“Did you have a good visit?” the guard at the door asked as I strolled out of the meeting room.
He had a smirk on his face and a malicious twinkle in his eyes as he walked over to open the door to the outside for me.
“As good as it could be,” I said with a shrug and a smile that I didn’t feel. “I’m sure I’ll be back soon.”
“He’ll be here,” the man chuckled before he shut me out of the facility.
I sighed as I walked toward my car, both at the conditions that my client found himself in and the heat that shimmered across the asphalt. There was no shade near the parking lot, and so the cracked blacktop was little better than a giant heat sink. I glanced up at the afternoon sun as I opened the door and wondered if it would really be terrible to have just a small hurricane that would blow some of the humidity away.
