The Cartel Lawyer by Dave Daren (popular books to read .TXT) 📗

next to him on the uncomfortable wooden bench. “I have a pretty good feeling about it myself. I went over your case again this morning, and I think it’s pretty open and shut.”

“Good,” the Cuban delinquent nodded as he tossed his empty paper cup across the hall and into the trash with practiced skill.

“You remember what I told you, right?” I asked as I gave my client a long look.

He’d managed to get the dress code right, but I wanted to make sure he remembered not to say anything during the appearance and to keep a remorseful look on his face the entire time.

“Got it, Rob.” My client winked at me. “Still can’t believe your name is Rob. What kind of lawyer is named after a crime?”

He shook his head and chuckled to himself at his own witty remark. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard the joke, and I knew it wouldn’t be the last.

“A defense attorney,” I countered “Tell me what I told you, just for my own peace of mind.”

“I’m gonna keep my trap shut and look like I regret my heathen ways,” the dark-haired criminal answered as he leaned back against the bench.

“Exactly,” I told him. “And no outbursts. No matter what the judge or prosecutor says about you.”

“Right,” the tattooed man said with a roll of his shoulders. “Don’t get offended by the insults. This isn’t the streets.”

“And threats will get us nowhere,” I added and then looked up as an older, frail bailiff opened the door to the courtroom.

“Mr. Torres and Mr. Perez?” the white-haired man asked in a voice scratchy from years of smoking.

“Yes, sir,” I said as I stood up and motioned for my client to join me.

The inside of the courtroom was much more mundane than the ones that were shown on bad TV court dramas. If anything, it looked a bit like a waiting room at a bus station, aside from the Judge’s bench and the tables for the prosecutor and defendant. The walls were a beige-gray color, the benches were scuffed and scratched, and the thin carpet probably hadn’t been deep cleaned in years.

“Don’t forget what I told you,” I whispered to my client as we stepped up to the table.

“Sure thing, Rob,” the Cuban replied as he quickly buried his grin.

The prosecutor was already at his table, and we nodded to each other. I’d gone up against Scott Allen before, and I won every time. He was a middle-aged man with well-kept brown hair, hazel eyes, and a brown suit that was tailored to fit his tall, wiry frame. He’d never been quite good enough to make a name for himself in the SA’s office, nor had he caught the eye of any of the big name firms. I was certain my record against him would stand after today’s appearance.

“All rise for the Honorable Judge Thompson,” the bailiff announced as he took his place beside the bench.

The door behind the bench opened, and the Judge stepped into the court. I could just see his worn black dress shoes below the hem of his robe, and the cracked leather had definitely seen better days. But his hair was perfectly coiffed, and the steely-gray color gave him an air of a man in charge.

But the court regulars all knew he was near retirement, and every time I’d appeared in front of him, he’d been eager to rest in his cushioned chair. Today was no different, and he dropped ungracefully into his chair and then sighed in relief. His well-trimmed mustache glinted in the harsh light for a moment, and I saw the Judge run a finger over it before he turned to look at the people gathered in his courtroom.

“Everyone sit,” the old magistrate said with a wave of his hand.

Rustling noises filled the courtroom as we took our seats and shuffled our papers. Thompson checked his computer, then he accepted the folder his clerk handed to him. He flipped open the page, scanned the list quickly, and then looked at my client.

“Diego Perez, I see you didn’t take my advice and stay out of trouble,” he mused. “Didn’t I warn you what would happen if you came back here?”

My client started to open his mouth, but I elbowed him quickly. Diego clamped his lips together, but not before the Judge frowned at both of us.

“My client has done nothing wrong,” I said and received an eye roll from the gray-haired justice.

“Mr. Torres, still at the public defender’s office,” the judge sighed. “I’m assuming he’s pleading not guilty, then?”

“He is,” I said and glanced over to make sure my client still had the repentant look on his face.

Diego Perez sat to my left with his hands clasped together in front of him on the table. The tattoos on his knuckles stood out against his tanned skin, and he seemed genuinely remorseful that he’d found himself in another courtroom if not for the crime itself.

“Alright,” Judge Thompson said as he turned his attention to the prosecutor. “Mr. Allen, I see the state is charging him with possession with the intent to sell?”

“Yes, sir,” the middle-aged lawyer responded. “Mr. Perez had thirty grams of cocaine in his car. All of them were already packaged in one ounce bags.”

“Let’s get this going, then,” the magistrate sat back in his chair. “Mr. Torres, let’s make this quick, shall we?”

“Yes, sir,” I nodded as I stood up. “Defense is filing a motion to have all of the charges dismissed for insufficient evidence against my client.”

“Are you kidding me?” the prosecutor snapped as he looked over at me. “He was found with enough cocaine to kill an elephant!”

“My client had no drugs on his person at the time of the arrest,” I responded as I held up the police report.

“It was in