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

“It does,” I nodded, though personally, I hoped the enforcer would learn something from his group therapy sessions.

We walked in together, and I steered the tawny-bearded man toward John’s line. The security guard has a huge smile on his face as he talked to a thin young woman in baggy slacks and a blouse that hung off of her small frame. He chuckled at a bad joke he’d made, and the woman’s shoulders relaxed some of their tension.

“Mr. Torres!” the large man boomed when my client and I had finally reached the metal detector. “How are you today?”

“Pretty good,” I replied while I filled the plastic tub on the conveyor belt.

“I see you’re wearing your lucky suit,” the man remarked with a gesture to my clothes.

“I am,” I nodded. “They have some redeeming to do.”

“A case didn’t work out for you?” the big man chuckled as I stepped to the side to let my client through.

“It happens,” I grumbled. “But I’m going to fix it.”

“I’m sure you will,” John said with a shake of his head while Michael stepped through the metal detector. “You have a good lawyer there.”

”I guess we’ll see,” the buff man said with a shrug.

“See you later, John,” I told the security guard when my client and I had gathered all of our belongings.

I didn’t have to wait long outside of the courtroom before we were called in for our hearing. I glanced around the room and saw that the DA, Scott Allen, was already in place. He’d probably had his last case in the same room so he and the judge had already seen each other, but it was Judge Thompson, and Scott had already agreed to request thirty days.

The Honorable Judge Thompson was on his bench, his steely-gray hair perfectly coiffed as always, and his eyes were locked on my client’s file as he read over the next case that he’d preside over. He glanced up as Michael and I walked in, nodded, and then closed the folder as he waited for us to get settled.

“You may sit,” the magistrate said with a wave of his hand once I’d pulled out my notes. “Mr. Torres, it’s always interesting to see you in my courtroom. May I venture to guess your plea is not guilty, again?”

The older man lifted an eyebrow at me as he smirked, his eyes twinkling with mirth as he teased me, and he clasped his hands in front of him as he waited for my answer.

“My client would actually like to plead guilty, your honor,” I said as I stood.

“Guilty?” the judge gasped in faux shock.

“It was an act of self-defense, your honor,” I explained. “But my client does admit that he struck the victim. I do have witness accounts, as well as video evidence, that shows that my client only struck the man once.”

“Once?” Judge Thomspon asked as he flipped open the folder again. “It says here that the man ended up in the hospital.”

“Yes, sir,” I responded. “My client wishes that the unfortunate incident had not happened, but the victim did strike first, and my client believed he needed to defend himself against further attacks.”

“One hit,” the steely-haired man muttered as he shook his head and turned toward Scott Allen. “Alright, what are you asking?”

“The prosecution requests thirty days detention and one year of anger management,” the wiry DA replied.

“That seems reasonable enough,” the judge said. “I will add one stipulation. Mr. Johnson, if at any time during your one year anger management therapy you find yourself in another fight, then I will remand you for no less than six months. Is that acceptable?”

“It is, your honor,” I responded for my client before the beefy man could object. “My client looks forward to a positive change in his life.”

“I’m sure,” the magistrate muttered. “Thirty days it is.”

Judge Thompson slammed his gavel down, and the bailiff started forward to lead my client away. The cuffs were already in the officer’s hands, but he looked terrified of the scarred man he would have to escort from the courtroom.

“That was impressive,” Michael said with a nod of approval as he stood.

“Just make sure you don’t get into any trouble,” I reminded him. “Judge Thompson will throw the book at you if you trip up.”

“Sure,” the large man said as he held out his hands for the bailiff. “I can handle that.”

“I’ll check in on you in a few days,” I told my client as I picked up my briefcase and watched the large, tawny-bearded man follow after the court officer.

I had my doubts that the cartel enforcer could stay out of fights for a year, but all he had to do was not get caught. I knew the man was smart enough to figure out a way to do his job without anyone being able to point the finger toward him  or he wouldn’t have survived for so long in the cartel.

The hallways were crowded as I left, and I had to weave through lawyers and civilians alike as I tried to leave the courthouse. I’d promised my mother that I would stop by in the afternoon, but she’d texted me while I was in the hearing to inform me she would be taking a nap, and that I could stop by in a few hours.

Since I had time to kill, I headed toward one of the small coffee shops that served the Miami-Dade courthouse and then found a small table in the back where I could work without being bothered. I picked up a vanilla iced coffee and a banana nut muffin that was left over from the morning rush, then sat down with my notes and laptop open in front of me.

I pulled out the chaotic notes I’d made the night