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

“Hey, Luke,” I greeted. “What are you up to? Have you been going to class?”

“Yes, sir,” the teen replied, and I could almost hear him roll his eyes. “I’ve been following your orders. Go to school, go home, and don’t talk to anyone about my case.”

“Good,” I bobbed my head. “I should have some news for you in a few more days.”

“Do I need to be ready for court?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “I filed for dismissal, but you should be prepared just in case. It’s next Tuesday unless I tell you differently.”

“Got it,” Luke said. “I gotta go. We good?”

I could hear the sounds of someone shouting behind him, followed by the distinctive rattle of chains, and the bounce of a basketball.

“Yes,” I said. “But stay out of trouble.”

“Sure,” the teen replied before he disconnected the call.

I shook my head and hoped that basketball was all he was doing. I had no doubt he was back at the same park with his same friends, but as long as he didn’t get caught with more drugs or after curfew, then he wouldn’t damage my request for dismissal.

My other client was a little bit more difficult. He had been charged with assault, and there were plenty of witnesses. The grizzled, middle-aged man also had an impressively long rap sheet which was sure to inspire most judges to toss him in jail for the maximum and then throw away the key. He’d been released on bail, and we’d talked briefly about what had happened, but I needed to go over the details again to make sure they hadn’t changed.

I took a long drink of water to counter the sweetness of my coffee, and then scrolled through my contacts list until I found my client.

“Yeah?” the gruff man answered the phone.

He’d barely reached picked up before I was sent to voicemail, and he sounded out of breath, like he’d had to run across the room.

“Michael, this is your lawyer, Rob Torres,” I said. “Do you have time to meet with me to discuss your case?”

“When?” the middle-aged man huffed.

“Do you have time today?” I asked as I looked at the clock.

It was eleven a.m., so there would be plenty of time to run over to my client’s house for an interview, and then I’d have the afternoon off to wait for Alvaro’s call.

“Yeah,” Michael responded. “I’m at the house. Come on over.”

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” I told him.

“Great,” he said.

I hung up the phone and began to pack up all of my gear. I debated whether I should take the sweet coffee with me, but I decided the water was a better choice and tossed the cold brew on my way out.

Above me, the sky was a bright blue with white fluffy clouds that lazily drifted by, palm trees swayed in a gentle breeze, and a plane flew by as I glanced up. I stood in the middle of the parking lot for a few seconds as I soaked it all in, but once the wind died down the heat rushed in, and I hurried to my car.

The shade from the tree had kept the temperature down inside of my car so it wasn’t like an oven when I slid into the driver’s seat. I still cranked the AC all the way up as I backed out of the spot and left the coffee shop behind.

Rush hour traffic had begun already, and I found myself in stop and go traffic. I sipped my ice water as I waited for an opening in the wall of cars to my right, and then merged onto the exit to the highway. After that, I flew down the road toward my client’s house.

It was only a few miles from my mother’s house so I would be able to check in on her when I was done. The idea of my violent client so close to my mother was a problem, but I’d grown up in the neighborhood and knew well that it could be a little rough around the edges.

When I was younger I had had a few brushes with the law, nothing too terrible, just a few curfew violations and petty theft charges. I’d been restless like most of the other kids my age, and I wanted more than my life could offer. If it hadn’t been for my mother, then I would have ended up in a gang like Luke. I might even have fallen down the rabbit hole as far as Michael, though I’d never been violent, just angry.

The street where my middle-aged client lived was one of those where cars had to be parked in the road because the one spot in the driveway was usually taken up by a car on blocks or a junkpile of old appliances and broken toys. There were potholes so deep that I thought my soul left my body when I hit one, and I audibly apologized to my ancient Honda for not avoiding the abyss. Still, some of the neighborhood kids had taken chalk to the ugly blemishes and turned them into the middle of flowers or suns.

The sidewalks were cracked and uneven, and tufts of grass and dandelions peeked out from the jagged lines. Dogs barked incessantly, though I only spotted a handful that were all, thankfully, behind a fence.

I drove past dilapidated houses that had seen better days, chain link fences that were rusted in places, and yards with no grass until I found my client’s house. I’d almost missed it, since the number was missing, but at the last minute, I saw the bright white paint where the digit had guarded the house from the dirt and grime.

The whole house was covered in a thin layer of dinge, and