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

all I could hope for was that he was on his way to tell Osvaldo that I was doing a good job.

I was so deep in thought that I almost jumped out of my skin when my phone rang. I lunged across the counter to where the device sat next to my briefcase, and I nearly knocked it to the floor. I was sure that it would be Alvaro or Osvaldo, or maybe even Stephen, but I wasn’t prepared to see the name that popped up.

It was my mother’s best friend, Laura, and she’d marked the call urgent.

Chapter 12

“What’s wrong?” I asked without even bothering with hello.

“Es tu mama,” Laura said. “Vine a ver como estaba--”

“Laura,” I interrupted. “I need you to take a deep breath and say it in English.”

She and my mother always spoke in Spanish when they were upset, and while I could understand what she said, it was a little hard to translate around her hysterical sobs. But if she had to speak in English, then she would have to think about each word, and it would force her to calm down.

“Lo siento, Roberto,” she took a deep breath and then let it out.

“It’s okay, Laura,” I told the upset woman. “Just start from the top. In English. You came to visit my mother.”

“Si,” the older Cuban woman said. “I came over… I came over, and she no respondio a la puerta when I… what’s that word?”

“Knocked?” I supplied as she floundered for the English word.

“Si!” my mother’s friend exclaimed. “Ella no respondio a la puerta.”

She had started to cry again, and I balled my hands into fists as I tried to wait for her to gather herself together.

“Okay,” I said after a few seconds. “So she didn’t answer the door when you knocked. What happened?”

My need to know what happened with my mother overtook my will to let her best friend regain her composure, and I had to use all of my self-control not to yell at her to tell me what was going on.

“I went to a la puerta lateral,” she managed. “And...and--”

Laura broke into another round of tears as terrible scenarios started to race through my mind. The side door from the garage had a clear view of the living room, the hallway, and even part of the kitchen, and I started to imagine my mother collapsed on the kitchen floor with a pot of hot rice spilled on top of her. Perhaps she had passed out from too little sleep, or maybe just tripped and fallen because her body was so fragile these days. I had to close my eyes to rein in my overactive imagination, though Laura’s continued sobs made that difficult.

“And what, Laura?” I asked when the woman’s sobs had become softer.

“She was en el suelo,” the woman said, and the vision of my mother on the floor covered in rice forced its way back to the forefront of my mind.

“The floor,” I repeated. “Was she okay? Was she in the kitchen? Did she hurt herself?”

I bit back the rest of my questions as my tone became more hysterical. I needed to keep calm for Laura’s sake, or I would never have the story from her.

“Mi hijo,” my mother’s soft voice said from somewhere near Laura. “Mi hjio, I’m fine. Don’t let Laura worry you.”

“No estas bien!” Laura snapped. “Te desmayaste.”

“It was only for a minute,” my ama defended.

There was a moment of silence followed by a rush of noise as Laura switched me over to speakerphone.

“You passed out,” I huffed. “That means you’re not fine. Laura is right to be worried, and she was right to call me.”

“I was just a little tired,” my mother grumbled, and I could almost picture her waving her hand dismissively at both of us.

“So you should have taken a nap,” I scolded. “What were you doing anyways?”

“I was just vacuuming the hallway,” my Cuban ama said.

Relief washed over me as the image of her covered in scalding rice was replaced with her on the soft carpet with the lightweight vacuum next to her.

“Didn’t I tell you to pick a hobby that was restful?” I asked as I rolled away some of the tension in my shoulders.

“Ella nunca escucha,” Laura grumbled.

“I do listen!” my mother snapped. “Cleaning is relaxing for me.”

“But it’s tiring for your body, mama,” I said as I pleaded for her to understand that cleaning would not be helpful to her recovery.

Exhaustion washed over me as it sank in that my mother was still alive.

“La ambulancia is here,” Laura said. “We’re going al hospital.”

“Which one?” I asked as I dragged my briefcase over to pull out my pen and paper.

“We’re going to Jackson Memorial, mi hijo,” my mother said.

“Mrs. Torres?” a young man’s voice came over the line. “My name is Sam. Why don’t we get you onto the gurney?”

“I can walk,” the Cuban woman huffed.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sam responded in a gentle voice. “But it’s my job. And you don’t want to get me in trouble, do you?”

There was a long pause as my ama decided what to do, and I could picture her pinched face as she battled between her pride and her need to help the younger man with his job.

“Alright,” she finally huffed. “But Laura is coming with us.”

“Si,” the other Cuban woman agreed.

I almost felt bad for the poor EMT who was faced with two of the most stubborn women I had ever met. My mother would not be an easy patient, and Laura would hang over his shoulder every second with advice on what he was doing wrong.

I could hear the two women talking rapidly in Spanish with each other while Sam and another man spoke to each other.