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

the once white paint had turned a grayish color. The siding had begun to peel back as well, and a piece of the gutter had fallen down from the right side of the house. Someone had attempted to prop it up with a piece of plywood, but I could see the crack in the plastic gutter even from the street.

I parked in front of the house, between a rusted Ford pickup, and bright-yellow Dodge charger with a black stripe down the side. At least the Honda looked like it belonged in the neighborhood, and I doubted anyone would give it a second look. But I locked it anyway after I climbed from the car and studied my client’s house.

There was a chain link fence that wrapped around the front yard, though there was hardly enough grass to call it a yard. What greenery there consisted mostly of dollar weeds and crabgrass, though there was a small patch of actual grass that someone had recently mowed. Unlike some of the neighbors, there were no beer cans or yard waste piled out front, and despite the signs of dilapidation, it was clear that someone made an effort to keep the place clean.

The metal gate whined as I pushed it inwards, and then the bottom corner caught in the dirt. It opened just enough for me to squeeze through, and then I had to shove it hard so I could dislodge it from the dirt pile and close it.

I walked up the dirt pathway to the small concrete cinder blocks that served as stairs to the wooden front porch. The grayish-blue paint on the door had begun to peel, and when I knocked, a few pieces rattled and landed by my feet.

One of the windows that looked out over the street was open and loud rap music poured out. I wondered if Michael could even hear me over the pounding base, but as I was just about to knock again, my client yanked the door open and glared at me.

“Torres,” he said as his dark-brown eyes ran over me in disdain.

He was a beefy man with pale skin dotted with freckles and tattoos that ran along his forearms, neck, and hands with no pattern that I could find. His brown hair was short on the sides but long enough for a ponytail on the top, and he had a short tawny beard that was well-maintained. He had a jagged scar under his right eye that looked like it had been made with a bottle, and his nose was crooked enough that it had to have been broken more than a few times.

“Mr. Jones,” I said with a steady smile.

“Come in,” he grunted as he stepped aside.

His house opened up into the living room, where there was a large dark-red sectional sofa and a glass coffee table with a display of crushed beer cans discarded on top. Directly across from the couch was a sixty inch TV with a football game on pause. It looked like it was the latest Dolphins match, and I quickly checked to make sure that the Miami team was in the lead.

There was a darkened hallway that led deeper into the house, though the doors were closed so I couldn’t tell which ones led to bedrooms and which led to the bathroom. To our left was an archway into the kitchen, and I was happy to see that the counters and sink were completely clean, though the trash can was about to overflow.

Overall, the place was remarkably tidy, which I’ll admit was unexpected. I’d been certain I was about to walk into a place with dirty floors and moldy food everywhere, but it seemed that Michael took pride in having a clean home, even if the outside was falling apart.

“You can sit on the couch,” the red-bearded man told me as he pointed to the red cushions. “You want something to drink?”

“No,” I responded while I sat in a corner of the sectional with my briefcase on the coffee table.

I had no intention of being at the house long enough to be thirsty, though I would need a bathroom at some point.

“So what did you want to talk about?” my client asked as he turned down the music and then took the corner opposite of me on the couch.

“We need to go over the events of the night again,” I explained. “Can you tell me what happened?”

I’d reread my notes and the police report before I’d left the coffee shop. It was, according to my client, just a quick bar fight, though I was sure that my client hadn’t told me the whole story when we’d met at his bail hearing.

“Sure,” the beefy man shrugged. “The boss said to tell you everything.”

“Good,” I said. “We have attorney client privilege so nothing you say to me will come out in court. But I do need to know the truth. And I have the feeling it wasn’t just a bar fight.”

“It wasn’t,” Michael confirmed.

“Okay,” I reached over to my briefcase and pulled out the pad of paper and pen that I kept inside. “Go ahead.”

“You know what I do for the boss?” he asked.

“Let’s just assume I know nothing,” I responded.

My stomach clenched at the thought of learning anything about the cartel side of Osvaldo Fuentes’ business dealings, but it was necessary if I wanted to get my client the best deal possible.

“Sure thing,” the tattooed man said with a shrug. “So I’m in charge of the younger dealers.”

“Okay,” I muttered with a glance around.

The house was cleaner than the lairs of the other dealers I had dealt with at the Public Defenders, though those had all been young kids who were looking for fast cash and not a career., Michael’s place bore no traces of drugs anywhere, not even an empty bag