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

add any new cases to my inbox for when I got back, and as long as I came back to file the last of the paperwork for Diego’s case, they wouldn’t wonder where I was. So I’d spent a few more precious minutes with my mother while we waited for her friend to come over to spend the day with her.

My mom had insisted on washing and pressing my suit for me despite my objections, and as I drove into work, I was grateful for the clean clothes since I wouldn’t be able to stop by my apartment until later in the afternoon.

I merged into highway traffic, and though the rush hour had ended for the morning, Miami was busy no matter what time of day it was. I found myself in stop and go traffic near the MacArthur Causeway, and I sighed as I wondered how long I would be trapped among the other cars.

I was trying to work out potential shortcuts to the office when my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, and though I generally preferred not to talk while I was driving, it wasn’t like I was going anywhere at the moment. I put my bluetooth headphones on as I accepted the call.

“Hello?” I said as I watched a blonde with large breasts in the car next to me start to shimmy to whatever song she was listening to.

“Mr. Torres?” a pleasant man’s voice asked.

“This is he,” I said and held back a sigh as I saw that there was roadwork ahead.

“My name is Joseph Garcia,” the man continued. “One of our drivers, Diego Perez, recommended you.”

“How can I help you?” I asked while I maneuvered in between a Prius and a semi.

“I was wondering if you’d like to do some side work for us,” the mystery man offered.

“Us?” I asked and wondered who Diego’s boss was.

“I work for Fuentes Shipping,” the easy-going voice responded. “If you’re interested, we could set up an interview.”

“Really?” I asked in surprise.

“Really,” he assured me. “It’s mostly corporate work, and I’m sure we could beat whatever salary you’re making now.”

“I don’t know much about corporate law,” I admitted as I reminded myself I hadn’t known much about white-collar crime when I’d applied for the Hancock job, either.

But that had been with a major firm who would happily train me in their specialty. I’d never heard of Fuentes Shipping, and if Diego Perez worked for them, I was confident that they weren’t the next Microsoft.

“Look, you can take on whatever you can handle,” the man said. “We just need some help with some of our filings, and I haven’t had much luck with finding an attorney. The last guy we had ran off with his wife’s yoga instructor to Mexico, and the guy before that got arrested for tax fraud. You gotta be better than that.”

The costs of the average cancer treatment plan ran through my head, and I knew that even if I started at Hancock tomorrow, I’d never be able to pay for everything. We’d probably be forced to sell my mom’s house, or at least, take out another mortgage against it. That would be a slower death, but we’d probably still lose her home.

I glanced toward my right where I could just make out the tops of the cranes along the container port. The idea of working with one of Perez’s associates wasn’t appealing, but if I could do it part time and pick up a few extra bucks, I could hardly say no. Besides, it was corporate work. How dangerous could it be?

“Actually, I’m in your area,” I replied. “I could come by now, if that would be okay?”

“Absolutely,” the man responded. “Just tell them you have an interview. Your meeting will be with our vice-president of operations, Alvaro Cruz. I’ll text you the address.”

“Great,” I said, and I wondered what kind of job would require the vice-president of a company to interview me rather than the man who had called me. “I should be there in about twenty minutes.”

“Perfect,” the man replied, and I could almost see the smile in his voice. “Mr. Cruz will be expecting you. There will be no weapons of any kind allowed, so if you have any, you should leave them in your car.”

“Of course,” I muttered while I tried to cut into the exit lane for the docks.

“I’ll let Mr. Cruz know you’re on the way,” the man on the other end said before he disconnected the line.

I slid the phone back into its holder on the dash and then focused on cutting through the traffic. The container port wasn’t an area I was familiar with, though I did know that a few hipster restaurants and bars in renovated warehouses had cropped up there. Despite that, it was still a rough and tumble area, and it wasn’t uncommon for the police to pull bodies from the surrounding waters.

At a red light, I checked the address Garcia had sent me and quickly pulled up my map app. As I’d suspected, Fuentes Shipping wasn’t in the hipster area or the section near the recently renovated and updated section of the port. Fuentes Shipping was near the old port, where much of the work was still done by men with perpetual scowls.

The scent of fish hung in the air as I turned down the street that led toward the old wooden docks. There were a few of the smaller fishing boats along the water lanes, but where the street ended, the shipping companies took over. These were the shippers that weren’t quite big enough to have a place at the primary container port, but they still did enough business to require deep waters for large ships. In fact, several massive cargo ships filled with multi-colored containers were anchored along the docks, and cranes loaded and