Read Online Rosarito Beach by M. A. Lawson - Free Book Online

chins were quivering with outrage.
    â€œIt’s not bullshit,” Kay Hamilton said. “Your goddamn guards—”
    â€œShut up, Hamilton,” Davis said. “Warden Taylor, we’ll have this discussion when the judge returns, and you’ll have a chance to present your case. I apologize for the delay.”
    Marshal Kevin Walker rose from his chair and said, “I’m gonna go get a cookie or something.” Walker was in his early forties, and Kay thought he looked a bit like her boss, Jim Davis, although he wasn’t as tall as Davis and his hair was dark instead of white. But like Davis he had a mustache, and Kay thought if he wore a cowboy hat, he’d look like the Marlboro Man. He was a hunk.
    â€œWhy don’t you come with me, John,” Walker said to Chief Hernández. “I’ll buy you a donut. I know cops like donuts.”
    John Hernández, like Tito Olivera, didn’t look Hispanic. Nor did he have a Spanish accent; he sounded like the Harvard Law School graduate that he was. Like Kay’s lover, Robert Meyer, Hernández had political ambitions that went far beyond being the top cop in San Diego. Kay could hardly wait to tell him that three of his narcotics detectives were on the take.
    â€œI don’t eat donuts,” the chief said, sounding both righteous and serious, the way some people sound when they say:
I don’t smoke.
“But I’ll come with you.”
    Kay figured the marshal and the chief were going off to see if they could agree on a position they could both support. They were probably going to gang up on her boss.
    â€”
    T he meeting resumed with Lincoln Prescott in attendance. Lincoln Prescott may not have been the best criminal defense lawyer in San Diego, but he was definitely one of the richest. His full-time job was defending members of the Olivera cartel, and Caesar and Tito Olivera sent a lot of work his way and paid him well.
    Prescott was dressed, as always, in a white three-piece suit. He wore the suits regardless of the time of year or the weather, to make sure no one would confuse him with any other lawyer. His hair was gray and long enough to touch his collar in the back and had wings sweeping out over his ears. He always looked like he needed a haircut—and he had his hair trimmed once a week to make it look that way. He was a devious, grandstanding, media-hogging asshole and was hated by every prosecutor who ever had the misfortune to go up against him.
    â€œOkay,” Judge Foreman said. “Mr. Davis, you can begin.”
    â€œYour Honor, as I stated earlier, the purpose of this meeting is to discuss security for you and your court and to make sure that Tito Olivera doesn’t escape before his trial. I think it’s a mistake having Mr. Prescott here, as he’ll pass on everything he hears to Mr. Olivera’s brother.”
    â€œI object, Your Honor,” Prescott said. “In fact, I object on several grounds. I strongly resent Mr. Davis implying that I’d be a party to an escape attempt. I object to my client being treated differently than any other citizen who has been accused of a crime in this district. I also intend to show that the warrant obtained by the DEA to monitor a private meeting between my client and Mr. Washington was improper and unconstitutional and—”
    â€œMr. Prescott, you can save the warrant speech for later,” the judge said. “Right now I want to hear why the DEA thinks extraordinary security precautions are necessary.”
    â€œThank you, Your Honor,” Davis said. “As I stated earlier, Tito Olivera is the brother of Caesar Olivera, head of the most powerful drug cartel in Mexico.”
    â€œI object again,” Prescott said. “I also represent some of Mr. Caesar Olivera’s interests in the United States and I know he’s never been arrested here or in Mexico, that there’s absolutely no proof that he’s