From Florida with Love

Guy meets gal, falls in love, and after an epic romance, they decide to get married. Fast forward to a lovely ceremony, and then roll of credits on screen or end of the book. Um, that's not how it works out in real life. Let me tell you about what happens after happily ever after. My name is Arthur LaRoche. I was born on the island of Haiti in 1962, and my parents, Jeannette and Vincent LaRoche moved to Miami, Florida, in 1967. We've lived in the Sunshine State ever since.

Florida has always been a hotbed of racial tension, even though cities like Miami and Orlando are quite diverse, home to a growing population of African-Americans, Hispanics and Latinos of all stripes, Haitians, Cubans, Chinese folks and a variety of other people. It seems that the rest of America fooled itself into believing that racism is a thing of the past, until an all-female and mostly white Jury decided to let that racist creep George Zimmerman get off scot-free after murdering Trayvon Martin. Now we're discussing racism on TV, on the Radio and on blogs. It's in people's faces and they can't sweep it under the rug anymore.

Me? Like the pessimist that I am, I'm always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I grew up in Florida, but I've always been closer to the Haitian-American community than mainstream American society. I'm well-versed in the history of my people, the first independent black nation in the New World and the first people of color to throw off the yoke of European imperialism. For this, the Western powers have made us pay by crippling us economically in the earliest days of our fledgling Haitian nation. I could tell you more, but I know you didn't come here for a lecture on history.

Every summer, my folks would send me to Haiti, where I would stay with my grandmother, Granny Josephine, in a town called Quartier Morin. I loved those summer months when I would play with the other youths in the neighborhood, and practice my Creole. It was a wonderful time. In hindsight, there was another reason why my parents sent me to Haiti every summer. You see, summertime in Florida is wonderful but it can be a dangerous time, especially if you're a young man of color. Trust me on that one.

Let me explain that one please. Record heat waves seem to cause the simmering tension between various groups in Miami and the surrounding towns to reach boiling point. Lots of young black guys and Hispanic guys of the same age group seemed to have nothing better to do than shooting each other. No wonder every redneck in the state is paranoid and gun-toting. Statistics have shown that black men and Hispanic men are more likely to be murdered by members of their own ethnicity, and the same goes for white guys. Cross racial murders are rare. And yet everyone in Florida seems utterly convinced that the enemy is anyone who looks different.

For the most part, the men and women of the Miami Police were content to let minority males shoot each other every damn day. They only stepped in when a white person got caught in the crossfire. That's Florida for you. Underneath the racial diversity of the major cities and the so-called southern hospitality, we're one of the most racist places on the planet. My parents probably saved my life by hiding me in the Caribbean during those torrid summer months. Otherwise I might have shot by a young fool from the black and Hispanic gangs, or a trigger-happy redneck piece of shit.

In 1980, I enrolled at the University of Florida, where I studied criminal justice. I graduated in 1984, and earned a Law degree at the University of Miami in the summer of 1987. I remember my Law School days fondly. U of M was quite the place, even back then. It's where I met my first wife, Jenna Qabbani. Tall, bronze-skinned and raven-haired, with golden brown eyes and a curvaceous body that ought to be cast in bronze and worshipped on an altar. As you can see, I had it bad.

Jenna is half Arab and half Irish, born to Hector Qabbani, a Lebanese Christian immigrant, and his white wife Jane O'Connell. Jenna was one hot mama. When we met it was lust at first sight for me, and I doggedly pursued the cool, no-nonsense Arab-American beauty. Eventually, my persistence paid off and she agreed to a date with me. Us Haitian guys are notorious seducers, something someone should have told the lovely Miss Qabbani. There's a reason why lots of Dominican guys dislike us Haitian men when we visit their side of the island. We tend to steal their women. Sixteen months after we met, I proposed to Jenna Qabbani and she said yes, in spite of her parents misgivings about our quick romance.

Jenna and I moved into a two-bedroom apartment in Miami's south end, and began studying for the notoriously difficult Florida Bar Exam together. I had it all planned out. We were going to be a husband and wife law firm. A power couple. I passed by a single point on my first try, but Jenna, who had always been an academic superstar, failed by a couple of points. This drove a wedge between us, and I soon find myself alternately consoling my angry and despondent bride-to-be and raging against her for blaming me. We're both hot-tempered and passionate people, you understand?

After passing the bar, I looked for work. As a young black man with a Law degree, I knew that my prospects were good but Miami is still ruled by you-know-who and if you're chocolate-hued AND male, they don't want to hire you. I took a job as a substitute teacher at Powell High School in Dade County to pay the bills. Meanwhile, Jenna studied for the bar exam, and I'm happy to say that she passed it the second time around. Since no law firm in Miami would hire me, I decided to create my own. Fortunately, my bride-to-be, overjoyed at having finally passed the bar exam, happily joined me. Thus, we became LaRoche & Qabbani, Attorneys At Law.

Our first office was in the area of Miami known as Little Haiti, for obvious reasons. For starters, rent was cheap in the area and I knew that my people would rather deal with me than the redneck lawyers here in town. Even though I studied criminal law, and Jenna set out to become a family law practitioner, we found ourselves tackling immigration law. Why? Simply because most of our clients were Haitians, with a hodgepodge of Cubans, and in Florida, both of these groups tend to have immigration issues. It's not a stereotype, just the awful truth.

Jenna and I rolled up our sleeves and got to work. We put in the long hours, dealing with clients who often couldn't afford to pay us, and like all lawyers, we prayed for "The Big One", the case that lands you millions, leading to easy street and/or early retirement. Yeah, that totally didn't happen. What did happen was Jenna and I falling asleep at the office, working long hours with little money to show for it, and having no life. Since we owned the business, Jenna and I decided to take weekends off. Then cut it down to just Sundays. Saturday night was date night.

I think our sons, Armando and Christopher were conceived during one of our late night brainstorming sessions at the office, but don't quote me on that. In 1989, two years after starting our struggling practice, Jenna and I became parents. Something wonderful happens when you experience the joys of parenthood. Your formerly kinky, freaky and naughty, extremely open-minded wife turns into that shrill lady who barks orders at you the moment you come in, barely lets you catch your breath before handing your sons over to you, and thinks sex is overrated. Oh, and your bills go from high to downright astronomical, for having kids isn't cheap.

Jenna didn't believe in nannies, at all. In fact, the only person she let near Armando and Christopher was my mother. Like the benevolent Haitian family matriarch that she is, my mother was happy to step in and help raise our sons. Jenna's parents haven't spoken to her since the day she accepted my marriage proposal, and they weren't exactly thrilled to hear that we'd reproduced. So, yeah, they weren't much help. Does this surprise you? The fact that Jenna's Lebanese father and white American mother disapproved of their lovely Arab-American daughter marrying a black man? It shouldn't. Lots of interracial couples are just as racist as anybody else.

In the South, since time immemorial, white guys have kept black mistresses. In the old days, most of the mulatto or mixed people you saw had white daddies and black mamas. And then the 1960s Civil Rights Movement happened, followed by the politics of Black Liberation and Black Empowerment, and black men began dating and marrying white women. Guess who strongly dislikes that trend? The very same white guys and black women who've been banging each other probably since before America pulled away from Great Britain to become an independent nation. Seriously, whenever I go to the supermarket or the mall with Jenna and our sons, we get stared at. A lot. Who does the staring? Oh, just about everybody. Jenna is half Lebanese and half Irish, born and bred in the USA, and could pass for Greek or Italian with her long dark hair, dark eyes and light bronze skin. In the eyes of America, she's considered white. The fact that she married a big and tall black man like myself irks a lot of people across the board, her parents included.

Just about the worst thing a black man can do to himself is lose sleep over racists. I had a wife and two sons to take care of, and since Jenna more or less decided to be a stay-at-home mom, our family's financial well-being fell onto my broad shoulders. With so many responsibilities thrust upon me, I could care less what bigots of any shade thought of me. I did get a gun permit, though. In Florida you can never be too careful. Jenna and I moved our family to one of the few middle-class neighborhoods located near Little Haiti. Our neighbors were African-American, Hispanic and white.

As the sole active attorney at LaRoche & Qabbani, I decided to focus on other areas of the law where I thought I could garner some income. I'd grown tired of immigration law. Appearing before cold-hearted, weary old white judges and pleading with them not to deport my impoverished black, brown and yellow clients had taken its toll on me, emotionally and financially. I had collected enough I.O.U.s to last me a lifetime. Thanks but no thanks. Henceforth, my firm would do criminal defense. Jenna helped me with research when she could, which wasn't very often.

I found myself an amazing paralegal, a short little man named Octavio Sanchez. Fiftyish, dark-haired, rotund and jovial, he's got one of the sharpest legal minds I've ever met. Octavio moved to Miami, Florida, from his hometown of Zapopan, Mexico, fifteen years ago. He studied criminal justice at the University of Miami, where he met his wife Janine Thompson, a six-foot-tall, statuesque black woman of Jamaican descent. Together they have two daughters, Liliana and Marianna. Lovely family, a lot like mine, actually. Octavio and I became close friends and our families often enjoyed summer barbecues together.

Octavio once told me he hopes to go to Law School someday but lacks the funds. That's a shame because he knows more about the law and Floridian politics than most people in the Sunshine State. With this indefatigable little man by my side, I finally had a chance of being a kick-ass criminal defense attorney. We defended drug dealers, hustlers, pimps, rapists and murderers. Hey, everyone needs a good defense, right? I wasn't worried about guilt or innocence, or changing the world like so many idealistic young lawyers my age. I had a wife and two sons. I had bills to pay. Over a three-year period, the firm racked up quite a few victories. Octavio and I were utterly ruthless, digging up dirt on client and opponent alike, and doing whatever it took to win. We tried forty seven cases, and won forty six.

With the money we made, I sought to seriously improve my family's lives. I bought Jenna a car, something red and shiny, and started a college fund for Armando and Christopher. We hired two other attorneys, a young white guy named Raul Walker, originally from Los Angeles, California, and a tall, lovely young Asian woman named Trinity "Tree" Masayoshi. She's originally from San Francisco, California, and her parents are Japanese immigrants. Both were drawn to the bare-knuckle type of litigation practiced by my firm, and I happily hired them. I was the senior partner and CEO, but Octavio ran day-to-day operations. The guy knew every judge, and almost every lawyer in town. In fact, Octavio landed me my first big-name client.

In the summer of 1992, a shocking crime rocked the State of Florida. Antonio Villanueva, a tall, good-looking Afro-Cuban student at the University of Miami. Antonio is the son of multimillionaire real estate mogul Pablo Villanueva, and his Jamaican-American second wife Carla Cameron. This young man was recently accused of murdering his girlfriend, supermodel Catherine Trey. The case was sensationalized to the point of being a soap opera. It was an election year, and one of Florida's most notorious prosecutors, District Attorney Elias Cruz, set out to make an even bigger name for himself by taking down the filthy rich murder suspect...especially one who happens to be part black. Sounds interesting, but definitely way above my pay grade.

There are tons of wealthy, powerful law firms in Miami with incredibly sharp lawyers. Men and women with Law degrees from places like Harvard University, Columbia University, Cornell, Yale and the fabled University of Pennsylvania. Like every attorney in Florida, and much of the general public, I was fascinated by the case. There were lots of speculations across all sections of Floridian society about the gorgeous white woman who supposedly got killed by her wealthy, mixed-race boyfriend. The media's sensationalism is to blame for the attention the case got, but only a part of it. I think people just love a good murder mystery. It fascinates them.

I mean, who wouldn't be? Catherine Trey, the tall blonde-haired and blue-eyed supermodel had been linked to big shots before, like a certain actor from the Law & Order television series. She did three episodes and was considered famous. Moreover, Catherine wasn't like all those Hollywood starlet types, the gal was originally from Tallahassee. A gorgeous white actress rising in the world of Hollywood definitely makes headlines when she crosses the color line and starts dating a biracial man, especially in Florida. This made her notorious in the eyes of many a native Floridian, and they privately classified her as "one of our own gone bad". This meant that the general public wanted revenge for her death.

I figured that whoever ends up defending the Villanueva lad would have his or her hands full. I also figured the guy could afford it. I mean, his dad is one of the wealthiest men in Miami. Big-name law firms must be falling over themselves to take the case. Imagine my surprise when Timothy Suarez, a man representing the Villanueva family, was introduced to me by none other than Octavio. Apparently, Octavio and the senior Villanueva knew each other back in the old country and the old man confided in him that the big-shot law firms that approached him about the case didn't inspire much confidence. Octavio, like the Machiavellian charmer that he is, all but thrust our law firm into the old man's lap.

Sitting across from Mr. Suarez in my stylish yet modest new office, located within ten minutes of downtown Miami, I couldn't help but feel smug. This man in the twelve-hundred-dollar Brooks Brothers suit was desperate, and I was his only hope. Bypassing all the rich white lawyers in town, in a culturally charged case, the Villanuevas came to us, the Law Offices of LaRoche, Martinez, Walker, Masayoshi & Associates. Dammit, our very name sounded so multicultural as to sound like a United Nations special interest group. We won't let you down, I promised, and shook Mr. Suarez's well-manicured hand.

Thus, our little firm was thrust into the spotlight. A superstar district attorney, a culturally charged case, and an entitled asshole of a client, what every defense attorney with a no name firm dreams of. The first time I met our client, Antonio Villanueva, I disliked him. Have you ever met a pompous jackass who thinks he's all that? That description fits Antonio Villanueva to a T. Tall, dark and handsome, with light brown skin and lime-green eyes reflecting his Cuban and Jamaican heritage, he seemed likable until he opens his mouth.

I had serious worries about how Antonio Villanueva's body envelope would come across to a Jury, especially in Florida. The guy puts the D in dick. After speaking to him for half an hour, I wanted to smack him. Trinity Masayoshi was trying very hard not to roll her eyes and Raul Walker had on the stone-faced look he usually reserves for people he feels the utmost contempt for. Me? I kept my poker face on. If you're going to be a lawyer, representing all kinds of people, you have to keep your emotions under control.

What do I mean by that? Last month, I represented Bobby Albright, a racist redneck accused of beating up a young black woman, Malika Jacobson, whom he met at a party at Miami-Dade College. As a black person, I felt nothing but intense hatred for my client, but as his attorney, I kept him out of jail. I made sure his rich parents paid two hundred thousand dollars in damages to Malika and her family. Our firm's cut was seventy five thousand dollars. Bobby Albright stayed out of jail, but the case bankrupted his family's restaurant business. After thirty years in Miami, Albright's Steakhouse closed its doors. What can I say? Racism can be an expensive hobby, and one of the best ways to hurt the bigots is to hurt their wallet.

All things considered, my firm gave Antonio Villanueva the best defense money can buy. So what if he's a sexist asshole with a history of smacking women around? I wanted to send my sons Armando and Christopher to an Ivy League school, and thought about spending a few weeks in Paris, France, with Jenna this summer. I've taken her and the boys to Barbados, Haiti, and Hawaii. Fun places, but now that I'm getting my name out there as an attorney, it's time to upgrade. Besides, we could always use a fourth car.

Generally speaking, rich young men accused of sex crimes make for lousy clients, on a defense perspective. Yes, they can pay, but defending such cases isn't easy. The first time I met District Attorney Cruz, I knew he'd be a tough nut to crack. Tall and good-looking, a little over forty, with dark hair, light bronze skin and icy blue eyes, he's a shark in a business suit. A pro-death penalty crusader and a prosecutor with a ruthless record. As an opponent, Mr. Cruz was impressive.

The guy has sent a lot of men and a couple of women to the electric chair, and if he can take down a big fish like Villanueva, he just might run for Governor of Florida. From the prosecutor's view, the case looked like a slam dunk. Antonio Villanueva called the cops after discovering Catherine Trey's body in the trunk of his car. The guy was guilty as sin in most people's eyes. I bet Mr. Cruz could already see himself running for Governor on a pro-law enforcement slant. Dude hadn't counted on our firm, though. A four-person law firm with only one office, and one paralegal. We were in over our heads.

I was in way over my head, and I knew it. The best prosecutor in the State of Florida, perhaps the country, was marshalling his vast resources against me. He had his sharp legal team, all of them sharks in suits ( and dresses ) and they had experience on their side. Oh, and the case was sent before Judge Harold Randall, a former prosecutor, and personal friend of Mr. Cruz. I was dead meat and I knew it. Judge Harold Randall was fond of the death penalty, and back in the day, he'd been Mr. Cruz's mentor. We didn't stand a snowball's chance in hell.