The Cartel Lawyer by Dave Daren (ebook reader below 3000 TXT) 📕

“The report said someone fell off the loading dock’s ledge?” I mumbled as I followed the two men down to the main floor.

“Yes,” the scarred man replied.

Alvaro wrenched open the door to the outside, and the soupy afternoon humidity rushed in to replace what little cool air the warehouse had been able to offer. The scent of the ocean hung in the air as we walked out, and the faint smell of fish drifted over on a gentle breeze.

“Daniel got a little too close to the edge and tripped,” the large man continued while he plowed across the parking lot with his massive hands stuffed in the pockets of his pants.

His suit jacket strained against the massive muscles they covered, but the man didn’t seem concerned as he walked along in the oppressive Miami heat. He didn’t even sweat as the sweltering rays beat down on us, though I had felt my own perspiration start to bead on my forehead as soon as we stepped outside.

“I believe the file said he had a minor ankle sprain,” I said as we stopped in front of the loading docks of the next warehouse.

“Yes,” Osvaldo huffed. “The doc said he’d be back to work in a few weeks. Maybe sooner if he stays off the ankle like he’s supposed to.”

“And does OSHA usually come to inspect your property after such a small accident?” I asked while I looked at the loading ledge.

It was about chest height, maybe four and a half feet, with bright yellow paint along the edges and on the two poles that marked the boundaries for the roll up metal door. There were signs on either side of the container bay that warned workers to be cautious around the high ledge.

“They do stop by more than seems necessary,” the Cuban boss replied.

He wore an irritated scowl that only deepened the scar that cut across his right cheek, but despite the angry look, it was the first time he seemed like nothing more than an average businessman dealing with the usual headaches of running a small business.

“Right,” I said with a nod. “This shouldn’t be a problem. Is that him?”

A small man with gold, wire-rimmed glasses hurried over to us with a briefcase clutched in his arms and a security guard right behind him. His sandy brown hair was a bit tussled, but his dark-brown suit was perfectly pressed. He looked us over as he drew closer, and I could see irritation in his bright blue eyes.

“Mr. Fuentes,” the thin man huffed as he stopped in front of us.

He shot a glare toward the security guard who just waved before he turned away from us. The guard started to whistle a happy tune which only seemed to irritate the inspector even more.

“Good afternoon,” the scarred company president replied as he tried to smile again.

Despite his efforts, he was still an intimidating sight, and I wondered if the rumors of cartel ties were based solely on the president’s appearance.

“Good afternoon,” the inspector said as he straightened his suit jacket. “I’m here to inspect your loading docks. I understand you had an unfortunate accident.”

“If it’s okay with Mr. Fuentes,” I said as I stepped forward. “I can help you with that.”

“Who are you?” the blue-eyed man asked as he squinted at me.

“I represent the Fuentes Shipping Company,” I replied with a smile as I took off my glasses to clean them.

“A lawyer,” the smaller man sniffed. “I don’t think your presence is really necessary for a routine inspection.”

“I was in the area,” I said while I put my glasses back on. “I reviewed the reports. The accident resulted in a sprained ankle after Mr. Daniel tripped off of the edge right here.”

I pointed to the brightly painted ledge with the sign underneath it that warned employees to be careful.

“Well,” the OSHA employee ran a hand through his hair with a huff. “I’ll need to see inside as well. And I’ll need to see what it was he was unloading before he tripped.”

“That’s reaching,” I said. “You’re only required to make sure the safety regulations where the accident occured are up to code. And by the way, you need to present your OSHA identification.”

“The inside of the warehouse is part of that as well,” the blue-eyed man countered as he started to pat at his pockets.

“The incident occurred at the loading dock,” I replied with a gesture to the area behind me. “This is that area.”

The inspector frowned and adjusted his tie as he glanced at the stairs to the warehouse, and I could see him struggle to find another reason to go inside. I had no doubt that DOJ or some other Federal Agency had hoped to take advantage of this inspection to look inside the warehouse without a warrant, and they probably told this man to find a way to look around the loading area and report back on anything suspicious he might see. They would use that as an excuse to get an actual warrant then, and they’d cite an anonymous but reliable source for the information since OSHA wasn’t technically supposed to be working with the FBI or any of their ilk. But I had no intention of letting him inside whether there was something there or not.

“Your ID?” I pressed.

The man scowled, but after patting his pockets again, he finally produced his official OSHA identification. I studied it longer than I really needed to, which only irritated Mr. George Watkins of the Miami Division even more.

“You can call my office to confirm,” he sniffed.

“I don’t think we’ll need to go that far,” I said with a pleasant smile as I handed the laminated square back to him.

“About this fall--” Watkins tried again.

“As you can see,” I cut him