DAMIEN

 

One year later

 

 

“That was quite the performance you put on today in my courtroom, Damien,” Judge McClain professed, signaling me to take a seat in one of the chairs in front of his desk. Not allowing me to rest for one second before getting right down to business.

I was used to his “debriefings” as he called them, that always took place in his personal home office. The man was all work and no play, had been for the last four years I’d been in the United States. Nobody would ever believe the beloved family man and father of three children was as corrupt as they came. He got paid millions by the families of high-profile criminals to overturn the jury’s convictions. Letting murderers, drug dealers, and every villain in between walk away free and clear.

It wasn’t about the money though, at least not for him. See, everyone thinks money is the root of all evil, but it isn’t. It was the power, and this motherfucker got off on knowing he was un-fucking-touchable. Continuously getting away with his corruption because no one, except the victims, truly knew what was going down in his courtroom. People feared for their lives. Prosecutors and their families would be murdered in the middle of the night if they ran their mouths. Trust me, he made sure of it.

Then you had attorneys, like myself, who wouldn’t dare breathe a word. My silence was a far greater reward in the long run. It only benefited me, receiving all the recognition I strived for with winning the cases for every defendant I had represented. I was everywhere—in the papers, on the news. Time magazine even ran an exclusive interview with me. Titling it, “Cuban attorney and refugee, Damien Montero, comes to America and conquers the courtrooms.” Labeling me El Santo, The Saint, for all the good I was doing around the world.

Like the sayings go, “You are what you gravitate toward. A good attorney knows the law, a better attorney knows the judge, and the best attorney knows the judge’s mistress.” I had her number on speed dial.

This was a cut-throat business, literally, and I loved every fucking thing it stood for. It was all part of a vicious cycle that made the judicial world turn.

Just another day at the office.

“I’m only doing my job. The state no longer has a case. I made sure of it.”

“Who’d have thought their prime witness would have kilos of cocaine stacked away in his home. Hiding up in the attic of all places, where his children could have found it. What kind of reputable source is that? I mean, can you imagine? What if the cops weren’t tipped off, and I didn’t serve a mandatory search warrant? We never would have thought this law-abiding citizen was trying to traffic drugs. I swear, these days you just don’t know who you can trust anymore. It’s really quite sad, in my opinion.”

I grinned, stifling a chuckle.

“Tampering with the evidence was a nice touch. Who did you use?”

“I don’t understand the question. Are you implying I was responsible for the murder weapon to suddenly have unidentifiable fingerprints?”

He smiled, big and wide. “That’s what I like about you, Damien. Always on your toes. It’s why you’re the best attorney around and the only man I trust. You never let your guard down, not even for a second.”

“What can I say? I want to be just like you when I grow up, McClain.”

He laughed, leaning back into his leather chair. “It’s only been a year since you opened your own firm and already there’s talk about putting your name on the ballot. District Attorney Damien Montero does have a nice ring to it. You think you could handle that?”

I spent the last four years in America working my ass off with one thing or another. Traveling around the world on my downtime, only having a few more destinations to stamp in my passport. Work became my salvation, courtrooms became my bitch, dominating every trial with my goddamn eyes closed. I lived and breathed the triumph that came along with the wins. It was much easier to drown out noise in the back of my mind with the legal and mostly the illegal shit I involved myself in.

“I don’t think, I know,” I sternly stated the truth, cocking my head to the side. “Insecurities and doubts are for pussies, and we both know I possess none of those qualities.”

“Then it’s safe to assume your pitiful pro bono cases are your only innocent clients,” he mocked in a condescending tone.

“You know what they say about people who assume shit.”

He laughed again. “I also appreciate your smartass mouth. Makes for lighter conversation.”

I leaned forward, placing my elbows on his desk. “You know what I appreciate? A good glass of fucking whiskey.”

It was a tradition to have a drink together after we talked business, especially meetings that swayed in our favor. He stood, turning his back to me, making his way over to the wet bar at the other end of the room. He quickly poured two glasses of amber liquid.

“I have to ask, why are you taking on those pro bono cases? Are you trying to look better for the public? You already own their hearts, Damien. They have named you El Santo for fuck’s sake. Not only is it a waste of your time, it’s a waste of money. We both know you like to live the good life. With your penthouse condo in downtown Miami and the Audi R8 you drive. I mean look at the Armani suit you’re wearing, and the Audemars Piguet Royal Oak watch around your wrist. That set you back like what? Three, four million?”

I took in his questions as he turned with our drinks in hand, walking back over to me. He handed me a glass before taking a seat behind his desk, once again. I lifted my drink, nodding my chin toward him, a silent toast prior to sipping the contents. He followed my lead.

“Why does it matter to you? You’re still getting paid regardless.”

“Call it genuine curiosity. You take on the same type of pro bono cases every time. Always a rape victim or someone who has lost a loved one through justice delivered on the streets. Not to mention, the orphans you take upon yourself to place in good homes. Why always those cases?”

“Not everyone is born with a silver spoon in their mouth, McClain.”

He narrowed his eyes at me, setting his elbows on his desk. “No, don’t give me that communist, political prisoner bullshit you tell the press. It’s something more than that, almost like it’s a personal vendetta for you. Why?”

I took another sip of my drink. “You answered your own question. There’s nothing anyone can do to me that Emilio Salazar hasn’t already done.”

“We’ve never talked about any of this.”

“There’s a reason for that.”

“Is your family still there? In Cuba?”

“What is this, a goddamn therapy session? Should I lay down and confess my deepest, darkest secrets now? What I do with my free time is none of your business. End of fucking story time.”

“Here I thought we were friends.”

“Friends is a term I use loosely.”

“I’m just—”

“Daddy! Daddy! Look at my pretty dress!” a little girl excitedly shouted, barging into his office.

“Muñeca! You know you’re not allowed to come in here without knocking first. Where is your mother?”

I couldn’t help but grimace when I heard his term of endearment for his daughter. She immediately bowed her head, pouting the same way Amira used to when I reprimanded her.

“I forgot, Daddy,” she murmured barely above a whisper, hugging her doll closer to her chest.

“Please excuse my baby girl’s manners, she knows better. I’m going to go find her mother. I’ll be right back.” He left, leaving us alone.

She stared at the floor, fidgeting with the seam of her dress. Before I knew what I was doing, I crouched down in front of her to be at her eye level. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” I asked softly, taking in the pigtails sitting high on the sides of her head.

“Teresa,” she whispered into her doll, unsure of my presence.

I winced again, hearing her name. “How old are you?”

“Nine, sir.”

“Does your doll have a name?” If Yuly came out of her mouth, I would have lost my shit.

But she replied, “Emmy.”

“That’s a beautiful name for a such a pretty doll, Muñeca,” I blurted, unable to stop myself.

She shyly lifted her chin, locking eyes with me. It was like looking into Amira’s gaze. Big brown eyes that held so much emotion, causing me to swallow hard.

She smiled as if she saw something familiar in my gaze as well. “What’s your name?”

“Damien.”

She smiled wider, grabbing the ends of my hair the same way Amira would. “I like your hair. Do you ever wear it up?”

“When I’m in the courtroom with your daddy. I’m a attorney.”

“I like it this way better.”

So did Amira. I thought to myself.

She acted fast, holding the skirt of her dress out, swaying side to side. Shuffling her feet on the wood floor, twirling around. Peeking up at me through her lashes, trying to act all cute.

She muttered in the sweetest voice, “Do you like my dress?”

I nodded, touching the end of her nose.

She giggled at my gesture, her eyes lighting up. “Mommy says I need to be extra careful not to get it dirty because it’s white. I just wanted to show my daddy my new dress for our New Year’s Eve party. Are you coming?”

Her responses were enough to send my mind spiraling to the past as if it was Amira in front of me and not this little girl I had only just met.

I walked into Rosarío's house fifteen minutes before the clock struck midnight on New Year’s Eve. She was throwing her annual party to ring in the new year, surrounded by all her friends who were more like family. I’d known them probably as long as I’d known Rosarío, but I wasn’t there for them.

I made my way through the crowd of people who were dancing around the room, celebrating the impending arrival of another year. They were laughing and cheering, counting down the minutes exactly how I was, but for entirely different reasons. I tried to be discreet and go undetected as I eagerly made my way to the back of the house. Though it didn’t take long for me to find her, I knew exactly where she’d be.

The second I stepped foot out into the backyard I jerked back, caught off guard by how beautifully grown up she looked under the pale moonlight.

“Jesus, Muñeca! What the fuck are you wearing?” I blurted, causing her to abruptly turn around and look at me.

“Damien!” She smiled, immediately peering down at the ground. Wiping away a tear, hoping it would go unnoticed. Fully aware that I always noticed everything.

Especially when it came to her.

“What are you doing here? I thought you had to work.”

“I’m here for you,” I simply stated the truth, not realizing what that could have meant to an almost fifteen-year-old girl.

There was sadness in her eyes as she replied, “Mama Rosa bought me this dress today. You don’t like it?”

I inadvertently eyed her up and down, taking in the young woman standing in front of me. No longer the little girl I once saved. “No, Amira, I don’t. Where has the time gone?” I asked, thinking out loud. Nodding to her, I added, “Why are you crying?”

She locked eyes with me. “Couldn’t just let that go, huh?”

“Do I ever?”

She chuckled, turning back around to look at her Mariposa garden. “We walked past a doll store today while we were shopping. I saw my doll Yuly in the window, along with the price tag on her wrist.” She wrapped her arms around her torso as I watched the way her white dress flowed in the soft breeze of the night. “I was too young to realize it back then, but we were poor, Damien. There’s no way my father could afford that doll.”

I took a deep breath, knowing where she was going with this.

“He stole it for me because he knew how much I wanted a doll and now, here I am almost six years later and I have an arsenal of them… because of you.” When she turned to face me again I was standing right behind her, instinctively placing my jacket on her shoulders. Providing her with any comfort I could before I wiped away another one of her tears.

I grabbed her chin to look at me. “And here we are, Muñeca. Almost six years ago I had no one and now I have you. Let’s count the small blessings that we do have, eh?”

“Ten, nine, eight, seven,” we overheard the party inside chanting until they screamed out, “One!”

I touched the end of her nose. “Happy New Year, Amira.”

She didn’t hesitate, throwing her arms around me and repeating, “Happy New Year, Damien." Except she added, "I love you.”

I abruptly stood, needing to get the hell out of there. The little girl, the white dress, the doll, her name was all too fucking much. I walked out of the office, leaving the little girl behind, not looking back. Running into McClain and his wife on the way out.

“Damien, you remember my wife Mar…”

“Fuck off,” I uttered under my breath, brushing past them, not giving a flying fuck I was being rude. I’d apologize in the morning, right now my thoughts were spiraling back to the dark depths of my mind where the little girl I saved always lived. I knew right then and there that it didn't matter where I went, who I was with, or what the fuck I was doing.

I would see her beautiful goddamn face everywhere I was…