by Dave Daren
Michael stood halfway down the massive stone steps of the building with a cigarette in his mouth. The bottom half of his hair had been freshly shaved, and the top half was pulled up into a tidy bun. His tawny beard has been trimmed, and his dark-brown suit was clean and pressed. He nodded his head when he caught sight of me and then tossed his cigarette to the ground to grind it out with the toe of his brown leather dress shoes.
“Hey,” he said as I neared. “That gray suit looks sharp.”
“Thanks,” I said with a nod. “Got it a few years ago. Are you ready for today?”
“Sure,” the burly man answered with a one shoulder shrug. “You really think you can get me thirty days?”
“Yes,” I responded. “I’ve already talked to the prosecutor and that’s what they’ll recommend. With a full year of anger management classes once you’re released.”
“I don’t have an anger problem,” Michael grumbled. “But it beats five years, I guess.”
“It does,” I nodded, though personally, I hoped the enforcer would learn something from his group therapy sessions.
We walked in together, and I steered the tawny-bearded man toward John’s line. The security guard has a huge smile on his face as he talked to a thin young woman in baggy slacks and a blouse that hung off of her small frame. He chuckled at a bad joke he’d made, and the woman’s shoulders relaxed some of their tension.
“Mr. Torres!” the large man boomed when my client and I had finally reached the metal detector. “How are you today?”
“Pretty good,” I replied while I filled the plastic tub on the conveyor belt.
“I see you’re wearing your lucky suit,” the man remarked with a gesture to my clothes.
“I am,” I nodded. “They have some redeeming to do.”
“A case didn’t work out for you?” the big man chuckled as I stepped to the side to let my client through.
“It happens,” I grumbled. “But I’m going to fix it.”
“I’m sure you will,” John said with a shake of his head while Michael stepped through the metal detector. “You have a good lawyer there.”
”I guess we’ll see,” the buff man said with a shrug.
“See you later, John,” I told the security guard when my client and I had gathered all of our belongings.
I didn’t have to wait long outside of the courtroom before we were called in for our hearing. I glanced around the room and saw that the DA, Scott Allen, was already in place. He’d probably had his last case in the same room so he and the judge had already seen each other, but it was Judge Thompson, and Scott had already agreed to request thirty days.
The Honorable Judge Thompson was on his bench, his steely-gray hair perfectly coiffed as always, and his eyes were locked on my client’s file as he read over the next case that he’d preside over. He glanced up as Michael and I walked in, nodded, and then closed the folder as he waited for us to get settled.
“You may sit,” the magistrate said with a wave of his hand once I’d pulled out my notes. “Mr. Torres, it’s always interesting to see you in my courtroom. May I venture to guess your plea is not guilty, again?”
The older man lifted an eyebrow at me as he smirked, his eyes twinkling with mirth as he teased me, and he clasped his hands in front of him as he waited for my answer.
“My client would actually like to plead guilty, your honor,” I said as I stood.
“Guilty?” the judge gasped in faux shock.
“It was an act of self-defense, your honor,” I explained. “But my client does admit that he struck the victim. I do have witness accounts, as well as video evidence, that shows that my client only struck the man once.”
“Once?” Judge Thomspon asked as he flipped open the folder again. “It says here that the man ended up in the hospital.”
“Yes, sir,” I responded. “My client wishes that the unfortunate incident had not happened, but the victim did strike first, and my client believed he needed to defend himself against further attacks.”
“One hit,” the steely-haired man muttered as he shook his head and turned toward Scott Allen. “Alright, what are you asking?”
“The prosecution requests thirty days detention and one year of anger management,” the wiry DA replied.
“That seems reasonable enough,” the judge said. “I will add one stipulation. Mr. Johnson, if at any time during your one year anger management therapy you find yourself in another fight, then I will remand you for no less than six months. Is that acceptable?”
“It is, your honor,” I responded for my client before the beefy man could object. “My client looks forward to a positive change in his life.”
“I’m sure,” the magistrate muttered. “Thirty days it is.”
Judge Thompson slammed his gavel down, and the bailiff started forward to lead my client away. The cuffs were already in the officer’s hands, but he looked terrified of the scarred man he would have to escort from the courtroom.
“That was impressive,” Michael said with a nod of approval as he stood.
“Just make sure you don’t get into any trouble,” I reminded him. “Judge Thompson will throw the book at you if you trip up.”
“Sure,” the large man said as he held out his hands for the bailiff. “I can handle that.”
“I’ll check in on you in a few days,” I told my client as I picked up my briefcase and watched the large, tawny-bearded man follow after the court officer.
I had my doubts that the cartel enforcer could stay out of fights for a year, but all he had to do was not get caught. I knew the man was smart enough to figure out a way to do his job without anyone being able to point the finger toward him or he wouldn’t have survived for so long in the cartel.
The hallways were crowded as I left, and I had to weave through lawyers and civilians alike as I tried to leave the courthouse. I’d promised my mother that I would stop by in the afternoon, but she’d texted me while I was in the hearing to inform me she would be taking a nap, and that I could stop by in a few hours.
Since I had time to kill, I headed toward one of the small coffee shops that served the Miami-Dade courthouse and then found a small table in the back where I could work without being bothered. I picked up a vanilla iced coffee and a banana nut muffin that was left over from the morning rush, then sat down with my notes and laptop open in front of me.
I pulled out the chaotic notes I’d made the night before, tore them free from my notepad, and began the process of rewriting them so they would be coherent. It took nearly half an hour, but soon I had several pages filled with neatly bulleted points with references to newly numbered pages of financial information on the Everson Juvenile Detention Center.
It took a bit of effort to detangle Judge Travis Williams’ finances from the evidence against Everson, but I still wanted those to be separate cases, especially now I was certain there was more corruption to uncover on the magistrate after the not so subtle threat from the police officer. I would file that with the DA later, and I had plenty of evidence against Everson without the judge.
An hour later, I had finished with my handwritten version. It looked good on paper, and it was almost ready to be typed up. I glanced at my phone to see if I had the time to start transferring the data to a digital copy, but my mother would be up from her nap soon, and I wanted to be there to see how she was doing right after she woke.
I’d seen some comments that said the combination of medication she was on could make someone disoriented and forgetful. I knew that the in-home aid would be there for most of the day, but my mother had gotten used to waking before the dawn, and the helper wouldn’t arrive until eight a.m. every day.
It didn’t take long for me to pack up, but I still lingered in the coffee shop as I avoided going out into the early afternoon air. I finally pushed open the door and stepped outside, and immediately the soupy humidity clung to every inch of me and sweat began to bead on my forehead. I hurried toward the parking garage and let out
a sigh of relief as I walked into the shaded concrete structure.
The lunch rush hour had already ended so the drive out to my mother’s house was quick and without incident. I still wasn’t used to another car in my mother’s driveway, but it was comforting to know that the in-home aid was there as I parked next to her bright red Prius.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Torres,” the older nurse said as I came through the side door. “You mother is still sleeping, but she said you can wake her up when you get here.”
The in-home aid was around my mother’s age with short graying hair that she’d pulled into a small bun at the back of her head. She’d chosen a set of purple scrubs that went well with her dark complexion, and she wore tie-dye crocs over white compression stockings. She had a romance book in her hand and a glass of water on the table next to her. Her daily observation notepad was on the couch next to her, and the whole house smelled of the familiar lavender Fabuloso my mother liked to use.
“Good afternoon,” I said with a nod of my head to the woman. “How has she been today?”
“As stubborn as ever,” the woman said with a small smile as she shook her head. “I think she went to take a nap because I wouldn’t let her scrub the tile floors.”
“She does like to clean,” I muttered.
“Yes, well,” the nurse huffed. “She needs to rest. She’s been making progress on the coloring books. And her friend Laura brought over a scrapbook and notecards so she can make you a recipe book.”
“She’s never used a recipe in her life,” I chuckled.
“Which is why that’s the perfect distraction,” the woman countered. “She’ll have to really focus to remember what spices she used. I had my sister do that when she took ill a few years ago.”
“Well, if you think that’ll help,” I responded with a shrug. “I appreciate it.”
“Of course,” the purple-clad woman said with a bob of her head. “Your mom’s a good woman. She just needs something that’ll keep her occupied and not thinking about the worst case scenario.”
“So, how has she been doing physically?” I asked as I glanced at the notebook next to the woman.
“Better,” she replied. “She still gets dizzy if she stands for too long, but she’s not as disoriented anymore. Her chemo treatment starts next week, though, and we’ll have to keep an eye on her appetite.”
“She barely eats now,” I grumbled while I stuffed my hands in my pockets. “Do you have any suggestions for me?”
“I would stock up on those ginger candies you can get at the Asian market,” she said. “They’ll help with the upset stomach. But we’ll have to wait and see how the chemo affects her taste buds before we can figure out what she’ll eat.”
“Okay,” I said with a frown.
I didn’t like that I had to wait because I wanted to have a plan, but I could be patient when I had to be, and there wasn’t much I couldn’t endure if it meant that my mother would be okay. I had ordered some books from Amazon that would give me advice on what to feed a chemo patient so I would be prepared for every eventuality.
“Your mother’s a strong woman,” the nurse comforted me. “Now go wake her up. Lord knows she’ll have a fit if she finds out she’s been sleeping while you’re here.”
“That’s a fact,” I laughed.
I gave the woman a nod and then turned toward the hallway. It seemed smaller as if the whole house had shrunk to match my mother’s diminishing frame, and it felt like the walls were actively moving toward me as I stopped in front of my mother’s bedroom door. I took a deep breath, forced a smile, and then walked into my mother’s room.
The older Cuban woman slept with her hands over her stomach and her head on her pillow. Her eyebrows were knit together like she was having a bad dream, and her fingers were clenched into fists. She must have heard my approach, though, because her eyes snapped open to look at me.
“Mi hijo,” she whispered once she’d recognized me. “Did you just get here?”
“Just a little while ago,” I said as I eased down onto the edge of her mattress. “Did you have a good nap?”
“Of course,” she said with a soft smile as she pushed herself up to a sitting position. “How did court go today?”
“It went well,” I answered. “I hear you’re going to write down all of your recipes.”
“Ah,” my ama sighed. “I don’t know how well that will go. Though Laura said she would come over to help me recreate them.”
“I will gladly take all of the leftovers,” I laughed as I reached up to brush a wisp of loose hair behind her ear.
My phone interrupted us, and I almost ignored it, but Alvaro’s name popped up on the screen, and I gave my mother an apologetic look.
“I have to take this,” I told her as I stood.
“Of course, mi hijo,” my mother said with a dismissive wave. “I’m fine. You go take care of your work.”
“I should be right back,” I said before I stepped into the hallway and hit the green phone button to answer. “Hello?”
“The boss wants to see you,” Alvaro’s deep, soft voice said as soon as I picked up.
“When?” I asked with a glance into the bedroom to watch as my mother stood and shuffled toward her bathroom. She seemed fine, or as fine as someone with cancer could be, but I still kept an ear open just in case she fell again.
“Now,” the second in command responded. “The usual place.”
The line disconnected, and I sighed. My time with my mother was over, but I had a plan to lay out for Osvaldo.
I was prepared to prove that I was the best lawyer for him, and that I deserved to live another day.
Chapter 17
I stuffed my cell phone in my pocket and stared into my mother’s room as she shuffled out of the bathroom. She yawned and teetered backwards as if she would fall, but she righted herself before I could rush in to help her.
“Mi hijo,” my ama huffed when I came into her room to help. “Wipe that worried look off of your face. I’m fine.”
“Of course, mama,” I said with a patient smile.
“What was your phone call about?” she asked as she slipped on her house shoes.
“I need to go into work,” I told her. “I’m sorry.”
“Bah,” she said as she waved her hand in the air. “I’ll be fine. Tracy is here with me, and she’ll call you if anything goes wrong.”
“Alright,” I sighed. “I’ll be back in a few days, but I’ll call you every day.”
“Go, live your life,” the older Cuban woman grumbled as she shooed me away. “I’m not a frail old woman just yet.”
“Yes, mama,” I said with a smile as I pulled her into a hug and kissed the top of her head. “I love you.”
“Te amo, mi hijo,” my mother said as she pushed at my chest. “Now go to work.”
I held her for another moment, and I could feel how thin she had become. It was like she would break if I squeezed too hard, though there were still muscles underneath that gave me hope that she’d be able to pull through. I took a deep breath, blinked away the tears that threatened to spill down my cheeks, and forced a big smile on as I let her go.
“I’ll see you soon,” I said as I waved goodbye.
The sun had begun its descent by the time I walked out into the late Miami afternoon. Rays of warm buttery light bounced off the tops of the cars on the street, and music blared from a shiny blue Cadillac that rolled slowly past as children dodged to one side or the other as their soccer game was put on hold.
The kids had placed cardboard pieces in the road to symbolize the goals, and a wave of nostalgia washed over me as I watched them realign the brown paper squares. They had to scatter again when they saw me begin to back out of the driveway, but they rushed back into the street the second I’d passed.
I glanced at them in the rearview mirror before I turned toward the highway. I would be at the docks in about half an hour if I didn’t get stuck behind an accident. I talked to myself as I weave
d between the cars and went over my plan like I was about to present my final arguments before a judge. But, I told myself, Osvaldo might be my judge, jury, and executioner if he didn’t like what I had to say.
Most of the fishing boats were in the harbor when I turned down the road to the docks. The fishermen worked in the early hours of the morning or late in the night, but there were a few charter boats that were on their way back from their deep sea fishing adventures, the decks packed with happy tourists.
The shipping companies were busy as well as they unloaded the cargo ships that had come into port earlier in the day. The workers were like ants that rushed about as they unloaded the containers, and forklifts barreled around with massive wooden crates as they barely avoided the men on foot.
“Mr. Torres,” the burly gatehouse guard said with a bright smile as I pulled up. “Heard you were on the way. The boss is waiting for you in his office. Go on in.”
“Thanks,” I said with a wave of my hand as I drove through the gate.
I had to move at a snail’s pace to get through the men that hurried past my ancient blue Honda, but I finally reached the spot that I had started to think of as my own and slid it into park while I took a deep breath to steady my nerves. I had a solid plan, and I was sure that I could convince Osvaldo that I could have Camilo released.
The metal stairs wobbled under my feet as I climbed to the second floor. I wiped my sweaty palms on my pants while I passed Alvaro’s office, and I glanced inside. The door was open, but the tall, intimidating second in command was nowhere to be seen. He would probably be in Osvaldo’s office, in the corner of the room like a shadow, and ready to strike if the boss so chose.
My employer sat behind his desk, a scowl on his face as he read the documents in front of him, and his suit jacket was slung over the back of his chair. His Rolex glinted in the sunlight that poured through the windows, and the shadows that fell over his face made the deep scar that cut across his cheek look even deeper.
