The Cartel Lawyer: A Legal Thriller

by Dave Daren

  The new guy across the street watched me as I exited the building, and I trotted over to the car to let him know where I was headed. I was too tired to fight the threatening shadows at the moment, and besides, the guy could probably use some coffee, too.

  “I’m headed out to the cafe down the street,” I told the scruffy young man in the driver’s seat.

  “Staying up late?” he asked with a wry smile.

  “I still have work to do,” I said. “You’re welcome to join me. I’ll probably be there for a while.”

  “I might come in, but I can’t sit at the same table,” the guy said with a shrug. “You walking?”

  “Yeah,” I responded.

  “Hop in,” the younger man said. “I don’t feel like crawling along beside you.”

  “Appreciate that,” I muttered while I walked around to the passenger side of the car.

  He drove us to the cafe and then parked out front. He didn’t get out when I did, though, and I was too tired to ask him what his plan was. By that point, I really didn’t care, so I just gave him a wave and headed into the small coffee shop.

  The place was on the basic side, with a few tables and chairs mixed in with old picnic tables. The only menu was an old chalkboard behind the register, and the main decoration was a collection of old movie posters on one wall. But the scent of the fresh coffee was overwhelming, and I felt myself start to grin as I approached the register where an exhausted young college-aged man leaned over a textbook.

  “Hey,” I said to get his attention.

  “Huh?” the dark-skinned man muttered as his deep-brown eyes tore themselves away from what looked like a calculus book. “Oh! Hey, man. Sorry about that. Got an exam in the morning. What you drinking?”

  “Uuuh,” I blinked a few times. “Let me get a large, hot, caramel latte with two extra shots.”

  “That’s going to have four shots altogether,” the young man warned.

  “That’s fine,” I said as I pulled out my wallet. “Can I get it with a little extra caramel, though?”

  “Sure thing,” the guy said while he rang in my drink. “I’ll hook it up. Go ahead and swipe when you’re ready.”

  “Thanks,” I said as I paid and left a large tip for the college student. “Is that calculus?”

  “Ugh,” the younger man groaned as he pulled my shots and began to steam my milk. “Yes. I’m in calculus three right now.”

  “That’s horrible,” I said as I blinked like I had heard him wrong. “I hated calc one. I can’t imagine going all the way to three. You’re either studying to be an engineer or a mathematician.”

  “Engineer,” the barista said with a rueful grin. “I don’t like math enough to be a mathematician.”

  “Not many do,” I laughed while I shook my head.

  “What do you do?” he asked as he handed me my drink and glanced at my briefcase.

  “Lawyer,” I said with a shrug.

  “Damn,” the student’s eyes went a little wider. “I’ll take my calculus over your law books any day. My buddy is pre-law, and I tried to read one of the bills he had to review… my eyes crossed halfway through. Well… I hope you have a good night, man. You know where to find me if you need a refill.”

  “Will do,” I said before I turned to pick out a table.

  I chose the lone booth in the far corner of the room, where the wall met with the glass front, and I slid into the space where I could keep an eye out for any unwanted visitors and no one would be able to read the screen of my laptop.

  My goal for the night was to research Judge Travis William’s income, so I took a long swig of my hot drink and then booted up my laptop. It wasn’t hard to find the basics, since he was a public servant. His salary was a matter of public record, so I started there and discovered that he was about mid-wage as far as Miami judges went.

  I moved on to any real estate in his name. There was nothing in his name, which wasn’t suspicious, since many public figures routinely avoided using their own names for such sales. It just made it that much harder for the crazies to find you.

  I did find an impressive colonial house with five bedrooms and three baths under the name Inora Williams. A woman with that same name was, according to the society pages, the wife of one Judge Travis Williams and a staple in the charity circle for some of the more powerful Miami families.

  It was a good start, and a little more digging revealed that the judge and his wife were members of a prestigious country club that he shouldn’t have been able to afford on just his salary. The problem, though, was that I had no way of knowing where the money had come from. He could have invested well, or his wife might have inherited money that wasn’t documented in the society gossip rags.

  What I needed was some way to trace the origins of the money that had paid for the house, the seats on the charitable boards, and the country club. I took another long drink from my rapidly cooling coffee as I tried to think of some way for the judge to receive kickbacks that wouldn’t look suspicious. And then I almost shouted with joy as my exhausted brain remembered that the judge would have a campaign fund.

  The page was easy enough to find, and in true patriotic fashion, it was covered in images of the American flag. Even the pictures of the judge always managed to feature an American flag somewhere, and I wondered if people were really gullible enough to buy into the act.

  But the site appeared to be busy, so someone was obviously impressed with the judge. I clicked through the pages and saw pictures of the fat magistrate in front of community centers I doubted he’d ever stepped foot in, a video of a speech he gave at a conference sponsored by a conservative think tank, and yet more images of the American flag. What I couldn’t find, despite federal and state law, was the campaign funds page.

  It took some digging into the darkest corners of the site, but I finally found the donors list. I scoured the donations for the Everson Juvenile Detention Center, but if they had donated it had been under another name. There was, however, a super PAC that had given an almost obscene amount. It wasn’t one of the better known PACs, and as I stared at the name, I realized I hadn’t ever heard of it before.

  I opened a new tab to search for the unknown PAC. The first results were for the more well-known PACs, and by page three, I was convinced that the name must have been made up. But I finally found what appeared to be the homepage for the group, so I clicked on the link and waited for the primitive page to finally load.

  The home page featured a short description of the PAC’s purpose that was vague and filled with buzzwords. Basically, it said nothing about the PAC’s purpose or beliefs, but that was typical. More interesting to me was the list of the biggest donors at the bottom of the page. The biggest donor on the list was the Everson Juvenile Detention Center.

  I had found the start of the money trail, and now all I had to do was follow it.

  Chapter 13

  I sat back on the cushioned bench with my caramel latte in my hand as I stared at the computer screen. I’d just found a super PAC that linked the Everson Juvenile Detention Center with Judge Travis Williams, even if it was a tenuous connection.

  The caramel latte I’d bought had cooled in the hour I’d spent researching the judge, but it was still delicious when I took off the lid and swigged down the rest of the caffeinated beverage. The four shots and caramel pushed away the last bits of exhaustion from my day, and I felt ready to tackle the financial equivalent of tangled Christmas lights that hid the judge’s money.

  My notepad looked like I was a crazy conspiracy theorist with scratched out notes, scribbles, and arrows that arched around the circled words and pointed to the numbers that spotted the sheet. There was almost no place on the paper that didn’t have some kind of mark, and I knew it was going to take some hard work to make any sense out of what I had found. For that, I needed to eat some actual food.

  There was almost no one in the coffee shop by then, and the tables had long since emptied of everyone except for a few lone souls
trying to cram for their tests. The barista had pulled a stool behind the counter so he could work on his homework and still attend to anyone who came in.

  The clock behind him inched closer to midnight, and I glanced over to the front window where the cafe’s hours were displayed. From where I sat they were backwards, but after I cleaned my glasses and squinted, I could make out the three a.m. close time.

  I still had plenty of time before they closed to make sense of what I’d found, but my stomach had begun to cramp as a reminder that I hadn’t eaten dinner. I stood and stretched since I’d been at the computer for over an hour without much movement, and I needed to loosen my muscles before I strolled over to the counter.

  “Hey,” the barista said as he looked up at me.

  His dark-brown eyes were glazed over as he pulled himself out of his studies, but he swigged some ice water and shook away the cloud in his head so he could focus on me.

  “Hey,” I replied with a smile. “Do you guys have anything to eat?”

  “Uuuh,” the young college student hopped down from his high chair and looked around. “Let me see what we have left.”

  “Sure,” I said as I leaned against the counter to study the other late night customers.

  Osvaldo’s goon had abandoned his car in favor of the corner booth opposite of mine. He had a book in his hand, and the cover reminded me of something I’d seen on a mystery novel. I almost laughed when I read the title. It was a biography of Al Capone, and the irony that a cartel goon would read about a famous mobster made me chuckle to myself.

  He looked up under my scrutiny, then glanced down to his book and back up with a shrug like he knew what I found so amusing. He took a sip of his coffee and then turned the page as he went back to his book.

  “So I’ve got a grilled cheese, a chicken bacon wrap, and a chicken caesar wrap left,” the barista said as he came back over to me.

  “How’s the grilled cheese?” I asked as I turned to give him my full attention.

  “Meh,” the young man shrugged. “I’d go with one of the wraps.”

  “I’ll take the chicken bacon wrap,” I said while I tried to ignore the low grumble that emanated from my stomach.

  “It’s a salad wrap,” the barista warned. “So if you’re really hungry, I’d go with both wraps.”

  “I’ll start with the chicken bacon and see where I’m at after that,” I said as I pulled out my wallet. “And can I get the largest water you have?”

  “Sure,” the college student mumbled as he fought back a yawn. “You want me to put some lemons in that?”

  “That’d be awesome,” I responded.

  I paid and then brought my makeshift dinner over to my table. The wrap was delicious as the ranch dressing mingled with the crunchy lettuce, the smokey bacon, and the still juicy chicken, and when I stuffed the last bite into my mouth, I didn’t feel too heavy to keep going.

  The first page of my notepad was a complete mess, so I tore it off and set it over my laptop’s keyboard while I started the process of transferring the information to a new sheet of paper. I used bullet points and arranged them in a cascading pattern as I delved deeper into each piece of information. Anything that was linked to more than one point, I put an asterisk next to, and by the time I was done, my research was much more manageable.

  Once it was all organized, I had almost three pages of information, and a pattern had begun to emerge. The first red flag was that the judge had hidden some of his larger purchases in his wife’s name. The second was the fact that though the super PAC I’d found had given large amounts of money to the judge, I couldn’t prove definitively that the donations that the Everson Juvenile Detention Center made to the super PAC had found their way to the judge’s campaign fun, and it wouldn’t be hard to argue that the magistrate had no idea that the facility had helped to fund him. I also couldn’t find any proof that the judge had used his campaign funds to pay for his house or his membership to the high society Miami country club.

  I needed more connections, something that showed that the Everson Juvenile Detention Center had given money to the judge, or that they’d donated to the super PAC as a way to pay off the magistrate. I ran my hand over my face and then took a long sip of my lemon ice water. As the cool liquid raced over my tongue, it helped to clear away the fog that had started to descend on my mind.

  It was almost one a.m. already, but I didn’t want to lose the momentum I had going. I glanced over at my cell phone as I debated whether I should call Eloa. I knew she would probably be asleep, but I was sure she’d want to hear the information I’d gathered. Besides, if she’d been able to collect the financials for Everson’s, then together we’d have the proof we needed to take down the facility and the judge, and I’d be able to have Camilo released.

  I found the reporter’s number in my cell phone’s contact list and then dialed the number. The phone rang several times, and I assumed that it would go to voicemail in a moment. She probably had her phone on silent or on the do not disturb mode, but just before it clicked over, she picked up.

  “Hello?” she shouted into the receiver.

  Techno music pulsed through the speaker so loud that it was like I was there, and I could even feel my phone vibrate with the beat of the bass. I yanked the device back as I adjusted to the sudden change in volume between the cafe and wherever Eloa was.

  “Eloa?” I asked as I brought my cell phone back to my ear.

  “Hey!” she screamed. “Rob? What’s up?”

  She apologized to someone on her end and then began to say excuse me so much that I realized she was attempting to find a quieter place to talk. She passed by a woman that laughed so hard she was either drunk or had found the funniest person there.

  “Where are you?” I asked a little louder than I needed to.

  The goon and the barista were the only other people left in the cafe, and both looked up from the book at the commotion that was coming from my phone. They glanced at each other for a second, shrugged, and then went back to their own worlds.

  “Huh?” the reporter asked as the thump of techno music became muffled.

  “I asked where you are,” I answered with a shake of my head.

  “Oh,” she responded, and I could almost picture her flipping her beautiful brown hair. “There’s this awesome party in the old warehouse district.”

  “It sounds fun,” I said without much enthusiasm.

  Parties had never been my thing, and I’d preferred a night in with a good book or a terrible crime show for as long as I could remember. But I’d been to a warehouse party once when I was in college and my roommate had dragged me along. The place had been covered in flashing strobe lights, speakers, and bodies that danced along to the kind of music that inspired plenty of grinding action. There had been a bar set up on one side of the large open area, and three bartenders had rushed around as they tried to fill the orders. It had been fun, but not something I wanted to do again. Then again, if I had Eloa for company, I’d probably enjoy it more.

  “It’s okay,” the Brazilian bombshell said as she brought me out of my memories and back to the present. “The drinks are great, but the music is only okay… like it’s good, but you can’t really dance to techno. You just kind of jump around.”

  “At least the drinks are good,” I said with a small smile.

  I relaxed a little in the booth seat as the deafening music faded, and I could hear myself think again. Even though I’d called to discuss business, I decided to let the conversation play out before I brought up the judge or Everson’s.

  “I know the bartender,” the beautiful reporter told me. “She’s the best. And I can trust her to make sure no one spikes my drinks or anything.”

  “That’s important,” I responded and was happy to hear that she wasn’t at a wild party without someone to have her back.

  “So what do I owe this late night call to?” Eloa asked.

  “I need your help,” I replied. “I think I’ve found something t
o help with your story, and my client, but I need another set of eyes.”

  “And the information I gathered on the Everson Juvenile Center’s financials,” she said with a hint of amusement.

  “Exactly,” I said. “You’re the perfect person to call about this.”

  “Of course I am,” she teased. “It couldn’t wait until our meeting tomorrow morning, though?”

  “It could,” I responded as I glanced at the clock.

  “But you’re on a roll,” she said in a knowing tone.

  “Yeah,” I said as I ran a hand through my hair. “I thought I’d see if you were up.”

  “Which, luckily for you, I am,” the reporter said with a laugh.

  “Luckily for me,” I said with a grin.

  There was a knock from Eloa’s end of the line, and my shoulders tensed as I wondered where she had taken refuge.

  “This room is occupied,” the Brazillian bombshell said in a bright, soothing voice.

  “Need more company?” the man who’d knocked slurred.

  “No, thanks, though,” the reporter said. “Have a good night!”

  “Your loss,” the drunk mumbled.

  I didn’t breathe again until I heard the door shut, and the unmistakable thunk of a deadbolt as it slid into place.

  “Everything okay?” I asked when the woman on the other end of the line let out a heavy sigh.

  “Yeah,” she replied. “Just some guy looking for some fun.”

  “Do you need me to come get you?” I questioned as I sat forward and closed my laptop.

  I could be in the warehouse district in ten minutes flat at that time of night, and the cops could be there sooner if she needed them.

  “Oh, no,” the reporter giggled. “He wasn’t bad. Just kind of creepy. He’s gone now.”

  “Good,” I said, and I let out a sigh of relief that she wasn’t in danger.

  “There’s this awesome little bar near here,” Eloa said as a change of subject. “They’ve got a few tables and they’re open until sunrise.”

  “Okay,” I replied. “I can swing by the party and pick you up.”