The Cartel Lawyer

by Dave Daren

  The report had identified the warehouse by number, but I wasn’t familiar enough with the buildings to know which one was referenced. In fact, as I thought about it, I realized I hadn’t seen any obvious numbering system on any of the buildings or docks.

  “It was next door,” Osvaldo answered while he led us toward the stairs.

  “The report said someone fell off the loading dock’s ledge?” I mumbled as I followed the two men down to the main floor.

  “Yes,” the scarred man replied.

  Alvaro wrenched open the door to the outside, and the soupy afternoon humidity rushed in to replace what little cool air the warehouse had been able to offer. The scent of the ocean hung in the air as we walked out, and the faint smell of fish drifted over on a gentle breeze.

  “Daniel got a little too close to the edge and tripped,” the large man continued while he plowed across the parking lot with his massive hands stuffed in the pockets of his pants.

  His suit jacket strained against the massive muscles they covered, but the man didn’t seem concerned as he walked along in the oppressive Miami heat. He didn’t even sweat as the sweltering rays beat down on us, though I had felt my own perspiration start to bead on my forehead as soon as we stepped outside.

  “I believe the file said he had a minor ankle sprain,” I said as we stopped in front of the loading docks of the next warehouse.

  “Yes,” Osvaldo huffed. “The doc said he’d be back to work in a few weeks. Maybe sooner if he stays off the ankle like he’s supposed to.”

  “And does OSHA usually come to inspect your property after such a small accident?” I asked while I looked at the loading ledge.

  It was about chest height, maybe four and a half feet, with bright yellow paint along the edges and on the two poles that marked the boundaries for the roll up metal door. There were signs on either side of the container bay that warned workers to be cautious around the high ledge.

  “They do stop by more than seems necessary,” the Cuban boss replied.

  He wore an irritated scowl that only deepened the scar that cut across his right cheek, but despite the angry look, it was the first time he seemed like nothing more than an average businessman dealing with the usual headaches of running a small business.

  “Right,” I said with a nod. “This shouldn’t be a problem. Is that him?”

  A small man with gold, wire-rimmed glasses hurried over to us with a briefcase clutched in his arms and a security guard right behind him. His sandy brown hair was a bit tussled, but his dark-brown suit was perfectly pressed. He looked us over as he drew closer, and I could see irritation in his bright blue eyes.

  “Mr. Fuentes,” the thin man huffed as he stopped in front of us.

  He shot a glare toward the security guard who just waved before he turned away from us. The guard started to whistle a happy tune which only seemed to irritate the inspector even more.

  “Good afternoon,” the scarred company president replied as he tried to smile again.

  Despite his efforts, he was still an intimidating sight, and I wondered if the rumors of cartel ties were based solely on the president’s appearance.

  “Good afternoon,” the inspector said as he straightened his suit jacket. “I’m here to inspect your loading docks. I understand you had an unfortunate accident.”

  “If it’s okay with Mr. Fuentes,” I said as I stepped forward. “I can help you with that.”

  “Who are you?” the blue-eyed man asked as he squinted at me.

  “I represent the Fuentes Shipping Company,” I replied with a smile as I took off my glasses to clean them.

  “A lawyer,” the smaller man sniffed. “I don’t think your presence is really necessary for a routine inspection.”

  “I was in the area,” I said while I put my glasses back on. “I reviewed the reports. The accident resulted in a sprained ankle after Mr. Daniel tripped off of the edge right here.”

  I pointed to the brightly painted ledge with the sign underneath it that warned employees to be careful.

  “Well,” the OSHA employee ran a hand through his hair with a huff. “I’ll need to see inside as well. And I’ll need to see what it was he was unloading before he tripped.”

  “That’s reaching,” I said. “You’re only required to make sure the safety regulations where the accident occured are up to code. And by the way, you need to present your OSHA identification.”

  “The inside of the warehouse is part of that as well,” the blue-eyed man countered as he started to pat at his pockets.

  “The incident occurred at the loading dock,” I replied with a gesture to the area behind me. “This is that area.”

  The inspector frowned and adjusted his tie as he glanced at the stairs to the warehouse, and I could see him struggle to find another reason to go inside. I had no doubt that DOJ or some other Federal Agency had hoped to take advantage of this inspection to look inside the warehouse without a warrant, and they probably told this man to find a way to look around the loading area and report back on anything suspicious he might see. They would use that as an excuse to get an actual warrant then, and they’d cite an anonymous but reliable source for the information since OSHA wasn’t technically supposed to be working with the FBI or any of their ilk. But I had no intention of letting him inside whether there was something there or not.

  “Your ID?” I pressed.

  The man scowled, but after patting his pockets again, he finally produced his official OSHA identification. I studied it longer than I really needed to, which only irritated Mr. George Watkins of the Miami Division even more.

  “You can call my office to confirm,” he sniffed.

  “I don’t think we’ll need to go that far,” I said with a pleasant smile as I handed the laminated square back to him.

  “About this fall--” Watkins tried again.

  “As you can see,” I cut him off. “Mr. Fuentes has provided several signs to warn of the steep fall, and the poles and edges have yellow reflective paint. All of this is in accordance with OSHA regulations. In fact, the Fuentes Shipping company has gone above and beyond with this concrete grip tape and reflective stripe for night time use. You’ll also note the slippery when wet sign, the bell that warns employees when a container is being moved, and the raised concrete bumps by the steps to warn workers when they’re nearing the stairs.”

  “Well,” the thin man sputtered. “That’s true, but--”

  “But nothing,” I interrupted with a smile. “You have the information you need. Your inspection should be complete. We thank you for your time and your concern.”

  Watkins glared at me, but the evidence was indisputable. Fuentes had met or exceeded every safety requirement in the area where the accident had happened. If Watkins was smart, he’d ask just how long all of the safety items had been there. After all, there wasn’t a scuff in the paint, and one of the signs didn’t have any dirt on it yet. But Watkins wasn’t quite that clever, which is probably why he’d agreed to do some snooping for the FBI while he was here instead of telling them to buzz off like most OSHA inspectors would do.

  “I need pictures for my report,” he muttered as he patted his pockets again.

  “Of course,” I said graciously. “Would you like to use my phone? Since you can’t seem to find yours?”

  He scowled again, but he eventually pulled out his phone and snapped a few photos. I stood behind him while he worked and made sure that the photos he took were of the unloading area in question and nothing else.

  “Well, that should do it,” I said as he tucked his phone back into his pocket.

  “I’ll file my conclusions by the end of the day,” he sniffed.

  “That would be satisfactory,” I replied.

  I smiled, Fuentes grimaced, and Alvaro studied the sky. Watkins watched us all for another moment, and then he started to walk back toward his car without saying another word.

  “Alvaro,” the company president said. “Why don’t you see Mr. Watkins
back to his car? We wouldn’t want him to have an accident.”

  “Yes, sir,” the giant man said with a smirk.

  The small blue-eyed man had only made it a few steps away from us when Fuentes’ suggestion boomed across the area. The inspector stopped and turned around, but after one look at Alvaro’s face, he waved away the suggested escort and hurried to his Ford.

  But Alvaro had an order from the boss, so he followed anyway. His long legs easily kept pace with the shorter man, and Watkins was practically running when he reached his car and jammed the key in the lock.

  “Let’s go take care of the paperwork, jipato,” Osvaldo said with a pat on my shoulder that almost sent me into the pavement.

  “Yes, sir,” I responded once I could breathe again.

  We walked slowly back to the main warehouse, past a group of men who were taking a break. Most were drinking bottled water, and I also saw a bag of Cheese Puffs being passed around. I thought Osvaldo would yell at the men, but he held his hand out for the bag and took a couple of the puffed treats before offering some to me. The men all greeted him with respect, and he gave each of them a solemn nod as he continued on his way.

  The office he led us to was in between Alvaro’s and the conference room. It had the same gray walls, thin black and gray carpet, and the massive windows that overlooked the docks and ships below. But that’s where the similarities ended. The desk was made of solid oak that had been carved with an intricate swirling pattern that suggested waves or maybe seashells. Instead of a leather office chair, there was a dark red leather wing chair with sweeping curves positioned behind the desk. There were also two guest chairs made of the same leather, but they were more ordinary-looking than Osvaldo’s throne.

  “Sit, sit, jipato,” the president said as he eased down into his own chair.

  “Yes, sir,” I said with a nod as I took the chair on the left.

  “I have your contract here,” the Cuban man said while he pulled a file out from his desk drawer. “But we do need to clarify what your full-time start day will be. And what your retainer is.”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied. “I will need at least two weeks before I can start full-time with you. I have my resignation letter to the Public Defender’s Office typed, but I haven’t submitted it yet.”

  “Of course,” Osvaldo nodded. “But I will expect you to be available, and to make us a priority, if we need you before that date.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “So two weeks from today,” the company president said as he took out a pen and jotted the date down on my paperwork. “Our last lawyer had a four-thousand dollar retainer.”

  “That’s... very fair,” I responded.

  The retainer was a bit higher than I had expected, and I had only planned to ask for three-thousand. But the extra thousand would help me as I branched out on my own. I would eventually need an office and a paralegal, though those could wait until I knew how much work the Fuentes Shipping Company would give me.

  “Good,” the beefy man said as he brought me back from my thoughts about office spaces and interviews. “Then all this needs is your signature.”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied while I took the papers and the pen he offered me.

  I hesitated for a moment as I considered what I was about to do. I hadn’t seen anything that could tie them definitively to the cartel. In fact, everything I’d read seemed to be little more than speculation based on his Cuban background, and I felt a twinge of sympathy for that. And, more importantly, once I signed the contract, I would have enough money to look after my mama. So I signed the page in front of me with a flourish and set the pen back on the desk.

  “Perfect,” my new boss nodded as he slid the papers into a file that he put in his drawer.

  He retrieved two other folders from his desk and then handed them across the desk to me.

  “Here are your first two matters for Fuentes Shipping,” the scarred man said with his usual scowl. “They have court dates pending already. I expect you to represent them like they were me.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said as I took the files.

  “I’ll be checking in,” the muscular man said and then waved his hand to dismiss me. “Don’t disappoint me.”

  Chapter 5

  “See you later,” Alvaro said as he strolled past me on his way into the warehouse.

  I had just pulled open my car door, and I had somehow missed the giant man’s approach. He moved like a shadow across the parking lot, and the pure black suit he wore only added to the effect. I noticed that he still wore half of his dark, wavy hair down and the other half up in a bun.

  “Have a good day!” I managed to call out as I regained my composure.

  He just held up a hand and gave a quick wave before he disappeared inside.

  I slid into the driver’s seat, placed the two new case files on my passenger seat, and then cranked the engine. It sputtered a few times before it caught, but soon enough it settled into a steady purr, and the AC pushed back against the swampy heat of a Florida afternoon.

  The drive to the Public Defender’s Office was quick since I managed to miss the bulk of traffic, and far too soon I was back in my tiny cubicle with its bare walls and uncomfortable office chair. As I fiddled with the seat position for the millionth time, a wave of nostalgia washed over me, and I looked around the small area where I’d spent the first few years of my career.

  I let myself enjoy the view for a moment, and then I shook my head to bring myself out of the past. There was too much to do to reminisce just yet. I needed to turn in my resignation, check on Rick, and review the two cases that my new boss had given me. I decided to start with the two files that Osvaldo Fuentes had given me since I knew nothing about the cases, and then I’d work from there.

  The first was relatively thin and belonged to a teenager. The young man had just begun his life of crime so his rap sheet was short and mostly consisted of curfew violations. His current charge was for possession of an illegal substance. He’d been found with a few grams of cocaine, and though it wasn’t enough to charge him with intent to sell, the prosecutor assigned to his case was known to go for the maximum sentence if there were drugs involved. He would fight me every step of the way, but I was sure I could get the kid community service and a fine since it was his first substance crime.

  The second file was thicker than the first, and the client was an older man charged with assault as a result of a bar fight. He had a rap sheet that would put Diego Perez’s to shame, though he did have a few years on my earlier client. Unlike Diego, though, this client’s history was mostly assaults, and I knew I would have a hard time convincing any judge that my client had somehow mended his ways.

  So I took my time with the second case as I read through each of the previous assault cases in his record and the time that he’d received for those. The man was nothing if not consistent, I soon realized. Most of his old charges were remarkably similar to his current case where he was accused of breaking the nose of a bar patron during a fight that had broken out over a football game.

  I made a note to look into the other people who were charged, and if he was the only one that had been arrested. I could use that as leverage to have his case thrown out even with his previous record. There wasn’t a complaint from the bartender or the man whose nose he had broken, and that would be a big point in my favor if we made it to the courtroom.

  Once I had a plan for my two newest cases I called my last client for the Public Defender’s Office.

  “Yo’, law man!” Rick greeted me as he picked up.

  “Mr. Smith,” I responded. “Just checking in. You’re staying out of trouble?”

  “Fo’ sure,” the young thief replied, and I could almost picture him bobbing his head as he talked.

  “Good,” I said. “Don’t forget that your court date is this Friday at 9:00 a.m.. You should be in clean, pressed slacks and a button-up.”

  I’d learned early in my career that if I didn’t specify th
at the clothes should be clean, my clients would often show up in borrowed slacks and a button-up that was wrinkled as if it had been pulled directly from someone’s laundry hamper.

  “Right, right, right,” my client said. “Fo’ sure. I’ll be there.”

  “In a clean, pressed, button-up and slacks,” I reiterated.

  “Yeah, yeah, I got you,” the junior criminal replied. “You need anything else?”

  “No,” I said with a sigh as I heard his friends shout in the background.

  “A’ight, tight, talk to you lata’,” Rick said before he hung up.

  I shook my head and put the phone down, since the less I knew about where he was and what he was up to, the better. He was no doubt with other young men with rap sheets that were bound to get him into more trouble. He was one of those kids I knew would end up in and out of prison for the rest of his life, at least unless something drastic changed him. But he didn’t seem like he put too much thought into anything he did, so I didn’t have much hope for reform.

  All of my cases were taken care of for the moment, though I would want to reach out to the prosecutors for my two newest cases later. That could wait until after I had submitted my resignation letter. The document already waited on my ancient computer’s desktop when the machine finally came to life.

  I’d written, and rewritten it, several times over the last few years. But I hadn’t had a reason to print it and submit it until that afternoon. I read over it to make sure that I had changed the dates and then sent it to the machine.

  The company printer whined louder than my computer had when it kicked into gear, and I hurried over to retrieve the paper before anyone else could take a sneak peek at it. There were no ink smears or missing letters, a hazard that I’d come to expect with the out of date machine.

  I signed the bottom of the page and then made myself a copy of the resignation letter for my own files. I put the copy into my briefcase and then took a deep breath to prepare myself to go talk to my boss. My boss at the Public Defender’s Office was a nice guy, a little overworked and stressed, and guilt gnawed at my stomach as I walked toward the only office with four walls and a door.