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

before, tore them free from my notepad, and began the process of rewriting them so they would be coherent. It took nearly half an hour, but soon I had several pages filled with neatly bulleted points with references to newly numbered pages of financial information on the Everson Juvenile Detention Center.

It took a bit of effort to detangle Judge Travis Williams’ finances from the evidence against Everson, but I still wanted those to be separate cases, especially now I was certain there was more corruption to uncover on the magistrate after the not so subtle threat from the police officer. I would file that with the DA later, and I had plenty of evidence against Everson without the judge.

An hour later, I had finished with my handwritten version. It looked good on paper, and it was almost ready to be typed up. I glanced at my phone to see if I had the time to start transferring the data to a digital copy, but my mother would be up from her nap soon, and I wanted to be there to see how she was doing right after she woke.

I’d seen some comments that said the combination of medication she was on could make someone disoriented and forgetful. I knew that the in-home aid would be there for most of the day, but my mother had gotten used to waking before the dawn, and the helper wouldn’t arrive until eight a.m. every day.

It didn’t take long for me to pack up, but I still lingered in the coffee shop as I avoided going out into the early afternoon air. I finally pushed open the door and stepped outside, and immediately the soupy humidity clung to every inch of me and sweat began to bead on my forehead. I hurried toward the parking garage and let out a sigh of relief as I walked into the shaded concrete structure.

The lunch rush hour had already ended so the drive out to my mother’s house was quick and without incident. I still wasn’t used to another car in my mother’s driveway, but it was comforting to know that the in-home aid was there as I parked next to her bright red Prius.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Torres,” the older nurse said as I came through the side door. “You mother is still sleeping, but she said you can wake her up when you get here.”

The in-home aid was around my mother’s age with short graying hair that she’d pulled into a small bun at the back of her head. She’d chosen a set of purple scrubs that went well with her dark complexion, and she wore tie-dye crocs over white compression stockings. She had a romance book in her hand and a glass of water on the table next to her. Her daily observation notepad was on the couch next to her, and the whole house smelled of the familiar lavender Fabuloso my mother liked to use.

“Good afternoon,” I said with a nod of my head to the woman. “How has she been today?”

“As stubborn as ever,” the woman said with a small smile as she shook her head. “I think she went to take a nap because I wouldn’t let her scrub the tile floors.”

“She does like to clean,” I muttered.

“Yes, well,” the nurse huffed. “She needs to rest. She’s been making progress on the coloring books. And her friend Laura brought over a scrapbook and notecards so she can make you a recipe book.”

“She’s never used a recipe in her life,” I chuckled.

“Which is why that’s the perfect distraction,” the woman countered. “She’ll have to really focus to remember what spices she used. I had my sister do that when she took ill a few years ago.”

“Well, if you think that’ll help,” I responded with a shrug. “I appreciate it.”

“Of course,” the purple-clad woman said with a bob of her head. “Your mom’s a good woman. She just needs something that’ll keep her occupied and not thinking about the worst case scenario.”

“So, how has she been doing physically?” I asked as I glanced at the notebook next to the woman.

“Better,” she replied. “She still gets dizzy if she stands for too long, but she’s not as disoriented anymore. Her chemo treatment starts next week, though, and we’ll have to keep an eye on her appetite.”

“She barely eats now,” I grumbled while I stuffed my hands in my pockets. “Do you have any suggestions for me?”

“I would stock up on those ginger candies you can get at the Asian market,” she said. “They’ll help with the upset stomach. But we’ll have to wait and see how the chemo affects her taste buds before we can figure out what she’ll eat.”

“Okay,” I said with a frown.

I didn’t like that I had to wait because I wanted to have a plan, but I could be patient when I had to be, and there wasn’t much I couldn’t endure if it meant that my mother would be okay. I had ordered some books from Amazon that would give me advice on what to feed a chemo patient so I would be prepared for every eventuality.

“Your mother’s a strong woman,” the nurse comforted me. “Now go wake her up. Lord knows she’ll have a fit if she finds out she’s been sleeping while you’re here.”

“That’s a fact,” I laughed.

I gave the woman a nod and then turned toward the hallway. It seemed smaller as if the whole house had shrunk to match my mother’s diminishing frame, and it felt like the walls were actively moving toward me as I stopped in front of my mother’s bedroom door. I took a deep breath, forced a smile, and then walked into my mother’s room.

The older Cuban woman slept with her hands over her stomach and her head on her pillow. Her eyebrows were knit together like