27 March, 2025
- Black Lawyer
- Mar 27
- 3 min read
Entry: El Someone on the Witness List
Filed under: Custody, Cartels & Cross-Examination
Dearest Diary,
If ever there were a trial that made me question the boundaries of logic, legality, and how far one must go to secure full custody—it was this one.
The courtroom, bathed in the soft hum of fluorescent betrayal, was packed. Jury seated. Bailiff alert. Judge thoroughly over it. And me? Poised. Petty. Mildly traumatized.
My client—let’s call her Nadine—sought to relocate with her two children out of Texas. Not for whimsy or wanderlust, but because her ex-husband had allegedly entangled himself with a rather spirited group of gentlemen… the cartel.
Now Diary, one does not accuse lightly. But one also does not overlook, especially when the pettiness in you is relentless. There were:
• Seventeen burner phones;
• Three “import/export” companies with no website;
• And a garage that, based on surveillance footage, had more foot traffic than a Texas church buffet after a three-hour sermon.
Still, the husband, slick-haired and smug, denied everything.
Then came his case and chief.
Diary, he called a witness.
A character witness.
A cartel member.
Yes, that cartel.
Yes, Diary. She feared for her life.
And the children’s.
Now, her husband—let’s call him Greg—denied all affiliations.
Swore he was a “family man” with “no ties to any illegal enterprises.”
And then—because the universe has no sense of restraint—he called his character witness.
Ricky arrived in court wearing sunglasses.
Indoors. At 9AM.
He addressed the judge as “ma’am” and attempted to fist-bump the bailiff.
Reader, I nearly wept.
By the time I cross-examined, Mr. El No-Sir was completely unbothered. I asked him if he believed the father was a fit parent.
He responded:
“Define ‘fit.’ Like, emotionally? Or CrossFit?”
Reader, I lost all professional decorum.
I laughed.
Aloud.
On record.
Even the bailiff looked away, pretending to rearrange his holster.
I regained composure after reaching out to the Lord himself and continued questioning:
He crossed his legs like he was on The View, and said:
“I wouldn’t say we’re close-close. He’s more like… someone I trust with a kilo, but not my Netflix login.”
Sir. You run a “wellness lounge” that sells vapes, crystals, and silence, and you once posted bond using crypto that’s not even on Coinbase.
Your Honor looked like she wanted to vanish into the bench.
The jury—bless them—visibly recoiled.
One clutched her pearls. Another began writing furiously. (I pray it was a memoir.)
But, I digress.
I also couldn’t resist - in a voice so clipped it could fillet fish, I asked,
“Mr… Ricky. Are you currently employed?”
“Self-employed.”
“And what is the nature of your business?”
“A little bit of everything, ma’am.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“…logistics.”
Diary, I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I nearly bled out.
My opposing counsel objected to his own witness.
The judge overruled out of curiosity.
I pressed on. “Would you consider the father a suitable parent?” His response?
“If you mean suitable like a fitted sheet… no one really knows what they’re doing, and it’s mostly chaos.”
Diary, my patience began softly drafting its resignation letter in the margins of my legal pad.
But wait.
There was more.
By closing arguments, the jury had heard it all:
• That the children’s father once hid “documents” in the ceiling tiles.
• That Ricky had previously offered to “mediate the situation, street-style.”
• That my client had, in contrast, simply asked to move to Colorado with the children for a new job in education.
Reader, the deliberation took 38 minutes.
The verdict?
Sole custody to Nadine. Mr. Don’t let him have your Netflix password was granted a standard possession order with a permanent injunction to not allow either child in the presence of these “associates”.
Geographic restriction lifted.
Cartel witness discredited via vibes and Google.
And me?
Diary, family law is not just about what’s legal.
It’s about who can tell their story without a cartel plot twist and Comic Sans.
And if you ever find yourself wanting to hide under counsel table during your trial,
Take a breath. Take a walk.
And maybe take a shot after work.
Maintain composure when someone named Ricky “Two Phones” Morales attempts to establish parental fitness.
I remain, as ever—
Poised. Petty. Permanently Booked.
Disclaimer: This diary entry is legally fictional but spiritually inevitable. Any resemblance to actual events is coincidental, delusional, or the result of poor witness vetting.
Tag someone who would accidentally call a cartel member to the stand.
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