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

Cuban grinned and then shook my hand again. “You did a real good job, especially for one of them public defenders. I’m gonna recommend you to the boss.”

“Thanks,” I answered as he pumped my arm. His grip was bone crunching, and if I hadn’t encountered the same macho attitude among so many of my clients, I might’ve been more intimidated by the tattooed man. “Try to stay out of trouble.”

“Sure thing,” the dark-haired man said with a lopsided grin that told me he would probably be back in my office within a week. “See ya later, Rob.”

Diego walked out of the courtroom with only a cursory glance toward the prosecutor. He threw his shoulders back and held his head high like he had just conquered the world.

“I gotta say, Torres,” Scott Allen said as we turned to leave. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

“You should’ve been more prepared,” I grinned at him. “Not my fault you didn’t know about his new career doing deliveries. Didn’t you wonder why he had all that other stuff in his car as well?”

“An oversight,” the middle-aged lawyer sighed. “Maybe next time you can take it easier on me. If I keep losing to you, the bosses are going to have my head.”

The prosecutor laughed as he followed me back out into the hallway, where our footsteps echoed along the tiles as we walked toward the entrance. We maneuvered around those who still had appearances, and I could see the other attorneys glance our way as we went by. I tried not to smile as we went by, but it definitely felt good to have another victory under my belt.

“Definitely not,” I responded. “I like having a high winning streak.”

“It doesn’t look good when I have a case thrown out,” the prosecutor said. “The bosses prefer to have the criminals go to prison.”

“Then make sure you’re better prepared when you see my name on the list,” I laughed, and then I patted him on the back as we stepped into the heat of a Miami afternoon.

The sun had already begun to set behind the tall buildings, and the air was thick and soupy with humidity. I hurried down the steps and toward the parking garage down the street. It was probably my favorite part of the courthouse experience, since the cement managed to stay cool even in the Florida heat, and the sudden change in temperature from the street to the shadowy first level was just enough to send a shiver down my spine, but not enough to freeze me to death like the AC in the courtroom.

By the time I’d walked to the end of the block and stepped into the garage, sweat dripped down my face and back. My shirt was stuck to my skin, and I could hardly wait to get to my ancient blue Honda Civic so I could pull off my suit jacket and the tie that had become a noose around my neck. I never wore them in my cubicle at work, but I couldn’t exactly show up to the courthouse in just a button-up and slacks.

I had been forced to park on the third level, and I briefly considered using the elevators. But I spotted the crowd of sweaty Floridians already gathered around the doors and decided it would be faster and cooler to walk up the cement ramps. The walk up was almost peaceful, though I let out a sigh of relief when I found the spot where I had squeezed in between a black SUV and a red pickup that had more rust than paint.

The key fob for my old Civic had given up months ago, and I hadn’t had the time or inclination to change the battery, but I didn’t have enough late night court dates that I worried about the time it took me to unlock the door with my key. The lock clicked open after only a couple of tries, and I sighed happily as I tossed my briefcase into the passenger seat, followed by the gray jacket and the blue tie. I then unbuttoned the collar of my shirt as my way of announcing that I was officially finished for the day.

I fished out my phone while I slid into the driver’s seat, and as I turned on my car and cranked the AC, I glanced at the screen to make sure I hadn’t missed any important calls while I was in the courthouse. There was one from a local Miami number I didn’t recognize, but as a public defender, it wasn’t unusual to get calls from unknown numbers. I thought about ignoring it until the morning, but since I officially still had another fifteen minutes on the clock, I dialed it back and waited.

“You’ve reached the Law Offices of Hancock, Garcia, and Smith, how may I help you?” a woman’s kind voice greeted me after the first ring.

“Good afternoon,” I replied as I tried to keep my breathing even as I recognized the name of one of Miami’s most prestigious law firms. “My name is Roberto Torres. I received a call from your law firm.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Torres,” the disembodied voice perked up a bit. “Mr. Hancock has been waiting for your call. I’ll transfer you now.”

There were a few clicks, and then someone picked up on the other end. Not even time for the Muzak to kick in, and I felt my heart rate go up another notch.

“Mr. Torres,” a sturdy voice greeted me, and I could almost picture the lawyer’s grin as he sat behind his desk with his back to the Miami skyline. “Congratulations. I hear you won your latest case.”

“Yes, sir,” I responded and wondered how the man had already learned the outcome of the trial when the paperwork had probably just been filed by the clerk.

“Good,” the well-known lawyer said. “We like winners here.