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

“If she insists on a cake, then I guess we’ll have a cake,” I said with a small shrug.

“Do you want to tell the others during our weekly meeting?” the blonde man asked.

“No,” I said. “It can go out in an email. You know it’ll be all over the office before next week anyway.”

“True,” he said with a little laugh. “You’re sure I can’t convince you to stay?”

“Yes,” I said. “I signed my new contract earlier today.”

“Damn,” he muttered. “Alright. Well, it’s been an honor working with you.”

He stood and reached across the desk to shake my hand.

“It was a pleasure to work with you,” I responded while I returned his hand shake.

I gave him one last nod before I exited his office for the last time.

“Everything okay, sugar?” Rina asked from her desk.

She’d put on her blue-light glasses while she read over some documents on her computer. The cat-eye spectacles were perched on the tip of her nose, and she stared up at me over their bright-pink rims.

“It’s great,” I said with a bright smile.

The paralegal narrowed her eyes at me, glanced toward Mr. Jones’ office, and then shrugged her shoulders before she went back to her computer. She’d get the information about my resignation out of our boss in ten minutes, tops, but that would at least give me time to pack up and get out of the building so I could avoid all of the questions.

As soon as I returned to my cubicle I slipped the two court cases from Osvaldo Fuentes into my briefcase and shrugged on my suit jacket. I’d just finished stuffing my keys and wallet into my pants pocket when my cell phone started to ring. A picture of my mother smiling appeared on the screen, and I snatched up the device.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“It’s fine, mi hijo,” my mother’s tired voice said.

I grabbed my briefcase and hurried out of the office before Rina could spread the word that I’d put in my resignation.

“You sound exhausted,” I said while I ducked into the covered shade of the parking garage.

It was late in the afternoon but there were still plenty of sweaty Floridians gathered around the elevator, so I decided to take a stroll to the third level where I had parked my car. There wasn’t anyone that I recognized, and I let out a relieved sigh that I could talk to my mom without any of the stares or questions that would overwhelm me the second anyone found out that my mother had cancer.

“I’m back home now,” my Cuban mama said.

I could hear her open a cabinet door, and then the sound of the sink’s ancient pipes gurgling as she turned the faucet on before she gulped down a glass of water.

“Did Laura stay?” I asked while I searched the third floor for my ancient blue Honda Civic.

“No, no,” the stubborn woman replied.

“Mama,” I scolded.

“Mi hijo,” she responded, and her tone held that familiar edge that warned me that I was about to step into trouble. “I’m fine. Are you coming over?”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “I just found my car.”

I held the phone to my head with my shoulder as I fumbled with my keys. It took a few tries, but eventually I unlocked the driver’s side door, and I made a mental note that I really needed to change the battery in my key fob. Though if I was about to buy a new car, then it was a moot point.

“Good,” my mother mumbled before she yawned into the phone. “I may take a nap. Wake me up when you get here, mi hijo.”

“Sure, mama,” I said as I ignored the sadness that threatened to bubble up.

“Oh!” she exclaimed while I slid into the driver’s seat and threw my briefcase into the passenger seat.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

My heart thudded in my chest, and I held the key to the ignition as I waited for her answer.

“The nurse showed me the bill,” she started. “You’re going to let me pay you back.”

“I am not,” I responded with a sigh as I started my car and pulled out of my parking spot.

“Mi hijo,” she whispered with a trembling voice. “I’m relieved that you can help with some. But it’s not your job to take care of me. It’s mine to take care of you.”

“That’s not how familia works,” I quoted her favorite line from when I was in college and felt a small twinge of satisfaction when I heard her irritated huff.

“We’ll talk about this when you get home,” she told me. “I love you.”

She hung up before I could respond, and I shook my head at my stubborn Cuban mama.

I stuck my phone into its dashboard holder and then merged into the late afternoon Miami traffic. The drive to the highway was stop and go, and more than once I almost honked my horn as someone cut me off, but I managed to bite back the rage until I could get clear and was well on my way to my mother’s house.

The smell of lavender Fabuloso greeted me the second I opened the front door, and I sighed as I realized that my mom had not had a nap. She was in the kitchen with a mop in hand when I found her. Salsa music played from her battered radio, and though she didn’t dance, she did bob her head periodically.

“The floor is wet, mi hijo,” she said without looking up from a stubborn spot on the linoleum.

“Yes, mama,” I said as I set my briefcase down on the counter that separated the living room from the kitchen. “I thought you were going to get some sleep.”

“I couldn’t turn my brain off,” she responded with a wave of her hand.