by Dave Daren
“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. And we’ve decided to offer you a place on our team. Now, it’s entry level… but your work at the Public Defender’s Office has me convinced you’ll climb through the ranks in no time.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said as I tried to process what I’d just heard.
It was a great opportunity, and it was one that I’d worked toward since I graduated from law school. It meant bigger cases, more money, and most importantly, more security.
“We’ll be sending you an official offer letter by end of day,” the attorney continued. “You’ll start at fifty-five-thousand dollars annually, which is ten percent more than what you’re making now… but once you get your client base up, you’ll be able to make a bit more in bonuses and get on the partner track.”
“I’m honored for the opportunity,” I replied. “I’ll be glad to review your official offer, and I’ll have a formal response to you by the end of the week.”
“Good,” my potential employer said. “I look forward to your acceptance. Have a wonderful day. And congratulations again on that win.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said before I disconnected the phone.
I don’t know exactly how long I simply stared at the cement beam in front of my car as I processed what had just happened. A job at Hancock, Garcia, and Smith would be a major boost for my career, to put it mildly, but I would have very few traditional criminal cases if I made the move. HGS handled mostly white-collar cases, an area that I didn’t have a lot of experience with, though I was certainly willing to learn.
And then there were the clients. They were some of the world’s wealthiest people, and while the starting salary was only ten percent more than my current income, the potential for growth was huge. Especially if I made partner some day and could share in the profits. Hancock, Garcia, Smith, and Torres had a nice ring to it, I had to admit.
I stuffed my phone in the dash holder and then checked the clock. It was almost dinner time so I decided to stop by my mom’s to share the news over a good dinner. She would be thrilled to hear that I’d been offered a job at such a prestigious firm, and I could make up for not visiting her in nearly two weeks by telling her in person.
The drive out of downtown held it’s usual frustrations, but at least I was able to roll down my windows and let the smell of the ocean wash over me. The scent calmed the rage that threatened to bubble up when someone cut me off, and I gripped the old leather of my steering wheel as I took a deep breath and tasted the salt on my tongue.
My mom’s house was small and old, with a chain-link fence around the front yard, peeling white paint, and side yards so tiny that the neighbors’ houses were almost pressed against it. I reminded myself that I needed to recruit one of the neighborhood kids to paint the stucco again, and then I tried to calculate how much that would cost me.
But then I remembered the offer, and I knew if I took the job at Hancock, Garcia, and Smith, I would be able to put a little money into my mother’s home. I could hire professionals to do the job this time, and maybe find someone to help clean the weeds out of the backyard. There was a small patch on the roof that should probably be replaced soon as well.
I stood on the sidewalk for a moment and stared at the house as I imagined all the things I could do for my mom. Maybe it wouldn’t be all done in a month, but at least I could finally start to repay her for everything she had done for me. She’d worked to make sure I could go to college and then law school, and she’d done so with a smile on her face and an endless amount of patience whenever I complained that things were too difficult.
“Mama!” I called as I opened the front door with my spare key.
As always, I was greeted with the smell of lavender Fabuloso and her favorite brown sugar vanilla candle when I stepped into the house. It was the smell of home, and I stopped to drink it in before I went in search of my mom.
“Roberto?” my mother’s voice responded from the direction of the kitchen.
She sounded tired, and I hoped that I could convince her to at least let me finish cooking dinner for her. I’d clean up as well, of course, but I knew that she’d been feeling tired the last few months. I’d pressed her to go to her doctor, but she’d insisted she just needed to rest.
“Hey, mama,” I said when I came into the tiny kitchen with its faded lemon wallpaper and scratched linoleum countertops.
The Cuban mama had her back to me, and her shoulders were hunched
in, like she’d been crying. She seemed smaller than the last time I had seen her, and I wondered if it was possible to lose that much weight in just two weeks. Her favorite dress hung limply around her body, and her auburn hair was thinner than it once had been.
“Mi hijo,” the tired woman grinned at me as she turned around.
She had dark bags under her eyes that made her green eyes seem darker than mine, and there was no hiding the red lines caused by tears. “It’s good to see you.”
She opened up her arms, and as I hugged her, I realized how frail she had become.
“Mama,” I mumbled when I took a step back. “Have you been crying? Are you sick? Why didn’t you call me?”
The job offer took a back seat as I looked at the woman who had given me life. She seemed diminished, and my mind raced with terrible possibilities.
“It’s nothing, hijo,” she waved her hand and then pulled the pot of rice and beans off of the burner before she turned it off. “Are you hungry? I made too much.”
“Don’t change the subject,” I said while she reached up to pull down two bowls. “What’s going on?”
“Why don’t we eat?” she responded as she filled a bowl with the rice and beans. “We’ll talk after.”
She retrieved the shredded chicken from the oven and added a large heap to the bowl before she handed it to me.
“Food won’t distract me,” I grumbled, though I took the offered food.
She filled a second bowl with a much smaller serving, I noticed, and then she shooed me toward the wood table. It was old and scarred, and it had sat in the same spot for as long as I could remember.
“I hope you like it,” she said as we sat down. “They didn’t have the paprika I prefer.”
“Still not distracting me,” I insisted.
“Of course not,” she grinned, but the light of it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “But it’ll help.”
“Is it that bad?” I asked before I stuffed a bite of the rice into my mouth.
It was seasoned with Adobo, and the familiar flavors danced across my tongue as I chewed. My mom had made this dish for me since I was old enough to chew, and it was always my favorite.
“It’ll be fine, hijo,” my mother replied. But she didn’t eat any of her chicken, and instead, she reached over to pat my arm affectionately.
“You always say that,” I replied as I narrowed my eyes and then picked up her fork to urge her to eat something.
“And it always is,” she responded as she took the fork from my hand and poked at her food. “What brings you over today? You didn’t just come to see your old mama.”
“I got a job offer,” I told her, and a little bit of the joy from earlier resurfaced despite my worry. “It’s at a prestigious law firm. I’ll be making a little bit more money so I can help you out around here more.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary, hijo,” the older woman waved her hand dismissively, but her eyes brimmed with more unshed tears that she quickly hid by standing up and hustling to the sink for a glass of water.
“Mama,” I said as I put down my fork. “What’s going on?”
I had rarely seen this strong woman cry, even when my father had died when I was young. Even during all those long years she’d worked as a single mother to raise me, she’d barely shed a tear.
“I just got some tough news today, mi amor,” she replied as she set her water glass down.
She hadn’t turned to face me yet, so I stood up, walked over to her chair, and lifted her chin so I could look into her eyes.
“Did you lose your job?” I asked.
“No, Roberto,” my mother replied as she patted my cheek.
She gave me a sad smile before she eased back into her chair, and then she took a deep breath as if she were preparing to say something she didn’t want to say. Panic surged through me as I saw how much she struggled to get the words out, and a flood of horrible possibilities flitted through my mind.
“So what’s so bad?” I pressed as I sat down. “Are you sick?”
“I have cancer, hijo,” she whispered.
The world as I knew it fell away as her words sunk in. My wonderful mother had cancer, and I had no idea what to do.
Chapter 2
“I’ll call you tonight,” I told my mother as I leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead.
I’d spent the night at her house while we talked about her diagnosis and the treatment she faced. It was still early in the process, and there were more tests to be done to find out just how bad it was. The results wouldn’t be in for at least a few weeks. The best we could hope for was that it wouldn’t be something that the doctors couldn’t treat.
She would have to take some time off during her treatment, and hers wasn’t the type of job that offered paid time off. So I would have to support both of us, plus cover the medical expenses that her cheap insurance plan wouldn’t cover. I couldn’t shake the dread that had settled in my stomach as I thought about all of the cancer horror stories that I had heard over the years, especially those that ended in bankruptcy. And the numbers I’d found online when I did a quick search didn’t make me feel any better.
I had reviewed my budget over coffee while she had slept in. It was the first time in years that I could remember her staying in bed past dawn, and I couldn’t decide whether I was happy that she’d been able to rest or worried that she’d been tired enough to sleep late.
I would have to broach the subject of a possible move once we knew what her doctor suggested. She wouldn’t be able to maintain the house while she was in treatment, and I couldn’t afford to cover the medical bills and both households even with the potential pay raise. The written offer from the law firm had come in during the night, but by the time I laid down in my old room to crash, I’d been too exhausted to process it properly and decided to go over it when I woke up.
Luckily, the Public Defender’s Office never expected me to be in my cubicle at a certain hour because they knew my clients tended to call for help at all hours. The paralegals would just add any new cases to my inbox for when I got back, and as long as I came back to file the last of the paperwork for Diego’s case, they wouldn’t wonder where I was. So I’d spent a few more precious minutes with my mother while we waited for her friend to come over to spend the day with her.
My mom had insisted on washing and pressing my suit for me despite my objections, and as I drove into work, I was grateful for the clean clothes since I wouldn’t be able to stop by my apartment until later in the afternoon.
I merged into highway traffic, and though the rush hour had ended for the morning, Miami was busy no matter what time of day it was. I found myself in stop and go traffic near the MacArthur Causeway, and I sighed as I wondered how long I would be trapped among the other cars.
I was trying to work out potential shortcuts to the office when my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, and though I generally preferred not to talk while I was driving, it wasn’t like I was going anywhere at the moment. I put my bluetooth headphones on as I accepted the call.
“Hello?” I said as I watched a blonde with large breasts in the car next to me start to shimmy to whatever song she was listening to.
“Mr. Torres?” a pleasant man’s voice asked.
“This is he,” I said and held back a sigh as I saw that there was roadwork ahead.
“My name is Joseph Garcia,” the man continued. “One of our drivers, Diego Perez, recommended you.”
“How can I help you?” I asked while I maneuvered in between a Prius and a semi.
“I was wondering if you’d like to do some side work for us,” the mystery man offered.
“Us?” I asked and wondered who Diego’s boss was.
“I work for Fuentes Shipping,” the easy-going voice responded. “If you’re interested, we could set up an interview.”
“Really?” I asked in surprise.
“Really,” he assured me. “It’s mostly corporate work, and I’m sure we could beat
whatever salary you’re making now.”
“I don’t know much about corporate law,” I admitted as I reminded myself I hadn’t known much about white-collar crime when I’d applied for the Hancock job, either.
But that had been with a major firm who would happily train me in their specialty. I’d never heard of Fuentes Shipping, and if Diego Perez worked for them, I was confident that they weren’t the next Microsoft.
“Look, you can take on whatever you can handle,” the man said. “We just need some help with some of our filings, and I haven’t had much luck with finding an attorney. The last guy we had ran off with his wife’s yoga instructor to Mexico, and the guy before that got arrested for tax fraud. You gotta be better than that.”
The costs of the average cancer treatment plan ran through my head, and I knew that even if I started at Hancock tomorrow, I’d never be able to pay for everything. We’d probably be forced to sell my mom’s house, or at least, take out another mortgage against it. That would be a slower death, but we’d probably still lose her home.
I glanced toward my right where I could just make out the tops of the cranes along the container port. The idea of working with one of Perez’s associates wasn’t appealing, but if I could do it part time and pick up a few extra bucks, I could hardly say no. Besides, it was corporate work. How dangerous could it be?
“Actually, I’m in your area,” I replied. “I could come by now, if that would be okay?”
“Absolutely,” the man responded. “Just tell them you have an interview. Your meeting will be with our vice-president of operations, Alvaro Cruz. I’ll text you the address.”
“Great,” I said, and I wondered what kind of job would require the vice-president of a company to interview me rather than the man who had called me. “I should be there in about twenty minutes.”
“Perfect,” the man replied, and I could almost see the smile in his voice. “Mr. Cruz will be expecting you. There will be no weapons of any kind allowed, so if you have any, you should leave them in your car.”