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

went back to my table to settle in for some research. The anti-Everson website had been interesting, but the few testimonials had been from poor families that I doubted could hire a lawyer, so it was unlikely that they had been able to take legal action unless they’d found someone to handle it pro bono.

They did have a link to a petition, and judging by the number of signatures, the families had plenty of support. But there didn’t appear to be any big names on the list, and there weren’t enough regular joes to make a difference if the company paid off other court officials. They would need a few hundred more before they could make an impact with a political party, and that would mean more teens would have to live in that hell hole.

I scrolled through the list of names and took a few notes while I drank my cold brew and ate my apple caramel turnover. The sweet, buttery sauce danced across my tongue to form the perfect combination with the cinnamon and tart green apples. The apples were still just a bit crunchy and made a nice contrast with the flakey crust. Some of the flakes fell onto my lap, but luckily, there was no trace of the butter on my jeans after I brushed them off.

When I was done with my breakfast, I washed my hands in the bathroom and then went back to my table to review the petition. The stories that were provided in support of the petitions were harrowing, but aside from the smuggled photos, there wasn’t much to support the tales. At best, the state might eventually send an inspector out to the facility, but that would take another six months at least. And I had the distinct feeling that neither Camilo nor I had another six months.

Still, I had found a thread, and I would tug until I could find something concrete on the facility. I went back to the Great Google, skipped past all of the ads that I’d seen the night before, and went straight to the second page where the website with the petition had been buried.

A little further down, there was an article from the Miami Herald that mentioned the Everson Juvenile Center. I clicked through to see if it was just another dose of propaganda from the company or if some intrepid reporter had actually written a piece about the place. The column quoted the mother whose testimonial I’d read as well as a few other family members of other detainees that claimed that the facility was responsible for making their sons worse than they had been before they went.

The reporter’s name was Eloa Kimura, and her email address was linked at the bottom of the page. I sent her a request to meet and talk about the information she’d gathered on the place. Even though she’d written the piece a few months before, I was sure she’d still have the resources she’d used even if she’d moved onto something else. She probably wouldn’t just hand it all over, but with a little charm, I was sure I could convince her to help out.

I had barely cleared a few of my other emails before she had responded. There was a tag at the bottom that told me she’d sent it from her iPhone. She was willing to meet with me to talk about the facility, and she’d listed a few times when she could see me. All of the options were for later in the afternoon or the next day.

My schedule was a little up in the air, thanks to Osvaldo’s message that morning. After some thought, I picked the nine a.m. time slot for the next morning, and then offered to meet her at the coffee shop. It was far enough from my apartment that she couldn’t easily follow me, and close enough that I wouldn’t have to wake up early to fight Miami traffic.

Once the email was sent, I returned the plate from my breakfast, and then ordered a water to go with my cold brew refill. The barista gave me extra cold foam with caramel around the edges of the cup. It was more delicious than the first, though I would have to go for another run to make up for the added sugar and calories.

Eloa had responded with a thumbs up emoji when I returned to my computer, so I added the meeting to my Google Calendar. I couldn’t do much for Camilo until after I had her information, though I did check the status of my appeal. It was still marked as ‘received’, and it would probably stay that way for at least a few more days.

I sipped on the sweet cold brew as I debated what to do next. I could research the judge, but I still needed to make progress with the other two cases that Osvaldo had given me. He already thought I’d failed his son, so I needed to make sure that I did the best I could with the others.

The drug charge would be easy enough to deal with, I’d decided. I’d already reviewed the police report and the teen’s rap sheet. His prosecutor was known for being tough and going for the maximum sentence, but I’d found an issue with the arrest. The officers had brought the teenage boy to the precinct at ten p.m., and his parents hadn’t been called until well after midnight. He’d been questioned in the interim, without a lawyer or his parents, so everything he said was inadmissible. It was flimsy, but it was enough that I could request the case be dismissed.

I filed the dismissal with the court with the police report as my evidence, and then checked in with the teenager.

“Mr. Torres?” the young man asked when he picked up.

It had been days since I’d called, and I wanted to make sure