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

through the closed blinds on my windows and lit the small studio apartment. I’d washed all of my dishes so the counters were clear for my briefcase as I plopped it down. The bed was made and the scent of Fabuloso lingered from the quick clean I’d given my ugly but sturdy coffee table.

I flipped the light switch for the overhead light to brighten my tiny home and then stripped off my suit and tie. I slipped into some workout shorts and an old Avenged Sevenfold t-shirt from a concert I’d gone to at the Hard Rock Cafe years ago.

Once I was more comfortable, I snagged my laptop, brewed an extra strong cup of coffee that I dosed with an unhealthy amount of cream and sugar, and then I sat down on the couch so I could begin the appeals process for my client.

The room was too quiet, and my mind wandered back to the SUV as my laptop whirred to life. I glanced around the small room like I expected Alvaro to emerge from the shadows, but I was alone. The feel of the second in command’s black eyes still lingered on the back of my neck, though, and I wondered if they had hidden a camera somewhere inside my home while I was at my mother’s.

I shook my head at my own paranoia, and then turned my favorite courtroom drama on to fill the silence. The sounds of the faux lawyers faded into the background as I started to craft my appeal. The frame of my argument was easy enough to put together, but I still needed cases to back up my contention that Williams had overreached.

Since I was officially out of the Public Defender’s Office, I no longer had access to their Westlaw account, but the Bar has free access to a different database through their website. It wasn’t as massive as Westlaw, but it was good enough to help me find cases that were right on target.

As I waded through the search results and then refined them, I found myself wondering about Williams and his decision making. The prior charges should have been a factor in the verdict, but I hadn’t heard of any recent trials where a judge went straight to a juvenile center against the recommendation of the prosecutor.

My client’s father, and my boss, might have been a factor for the rotund magistrate, especially if he’d tried to convict Osvaldo before and failed. The Predisposition Report had indicated that Camilo would likely find himself in more trouble as he aged and followed in his father’s footsteps. But he was still only fourteen, and Sheila had agreed that a hefty fine and extra community service hours might at least deter the teen from taking any more joyrides.

The real problem was that the appeals court tended to side with a judge’s decision unless it was clear that the ruling was particularly egregious. And as harsh as I found the sentence, I wasn’t sure the appeals judges would agree. So, I decided to do a quick search of the Everson Juvenile Detention Center to see if I could find something that would convince the judges that the sentence was too harsh.

The Everson Juvenile Detention Center was a privately owned facility with a well-structured website that showed pictures of teens with big smiles on their faces despite their ankle bracelets. There were testimonials from parents who praised the work that Everson had done and claimed that their children were better after their stay with the wonderful corrections officers.

It was clearly propaganda, since there were no testimonials from the teens that had actually stayed at the center, and the dorm-like rooms were decorated with dated posters and a projector TV that looked like it was from the 90s. The pictures of the cafeteria showed more smiling teenagers that ate together peacefully, and no one glared at each other. There were no clear cliques or gangs in any of the images despite the fact that it was filled with teenagers. In fact, it revealed none of the things I’d witnessed for myself at other juvie centers when I’d visited previous clients.

I shook my head at the overly polished website and then swigged the last few gulps of my cooled coffee. I grimaced as I reached the bottom of the mug where all the sweetness had settled, but the sugar rush would fuel me for the long hours ahead.

My stomach growled as I stood to stretch and walk around the room, so I ended my stroll in the kitchen. My refrigerator was almost empty, and only a bottle of creamer with a few drops in the bottom, a half-empty ketchup bottle, and a few oranges that had green fuzz on the brightly colored rind were the only contents.

I tossed the fruit, washed my hands thoroughly with dish soap that smelled like green apples, and then turned my attention to the cabinets. They were slightly better stocked than the refrigerator, but most of it required cooking, and I was not in the mood to prepare anything. I discovered a bag of Fritos that I couldn’t remember buying hidden behind a bag of rice that was at least a year old.

They smelled stale, but they would satiate my hunger for the moment. There were plenty of delivery services nearby that could bring me a proper meal to get me through the long night of research that I had ahead of me, but the Fritos would keep me going crazy from hunger while I waited.

I plopped down on my old leather couch and put my feet on the coffee table next to my open laptop. I scooted the machine a little further away from me and then reached for the remote so I could turn the volume up on my courtroom drama.

The Fritos were definitely bad, if the smell was any indication, and when I tossed a handful