0 comments/ 4266 views/ 0 favorites From Florida With Love By: Samuelx 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. From Florida With Love The first day, during Jury selection, we got our asses handed to us. I protested when Mr. Cruz began filling up the Jury with women, since female Jurors tend to be quite sympathetic to the prosecution in cases involving female crime victims, especially murder or rape. Judge Randall agreed with Mr. Cruz, and I was only able to get three guys, a black man, a Hispanic guy and a white guy, on the Jury. Everyone else was female and white. We got an unexpected break in the case, though. And I owe it to my wife Jenna, for pointing it out. A long time ago, before donning his Judge's robes and shortly after he left the District Attorney's Office, Harold Randall taught at the University of Miami School of Law. Guess who was one of his favorite students? None other than my darling wife Jenna Qabbani, who is still nominally a member of our firm. The very same firm representing Antonio Villanueva, the filthy rich client whom Judge Randall obviously had a simmering dislike of. We've got him babe, Jenna said, grinning after dropping this bomb on me. I was sitting in the living room, reading papers when her revelation completely changed everything. I took my wife's beautiful face in my hands and kissed her. Women, what would us men do without them? Let's go to bed sweetie, I said, taking her hand. For the first time in ages, I felt like I had a leg to stand on....or three. Bad pun. Alright. The next court date, I brought a motion asking the good Judge to recuse himself. You should have seen the prosecutors and bailiffs faces when I spoke. Judge Randall ordered me to his chambers, and the District Attorney followed suit. I stood my ground, and in spite of the D.A.'s venomous objections, Judge Harold Randall recused himself. Another judge was brought in. Judge Carlos Montoya, an Afro-Cuban former defense attorney and one of the most liberal Jurists in the Sunshine State. He made a fortune defending rich scumbags accused of horrible deeds before a friendly Governor nominated him to the Judgeship. I'd appeared before Judge Randall before. We golf together, in fact. Of course, District Attorney Cruz and his team knew nothing about this. The removal of Judge Randall was serious boon for our side, and Judge Montoya was definitely friendlier. The case rolled on, and so did the money. Our firm was charging Villanueva four hundred dollars an hour. Some firms in New York or Los Angeles would charge more but for Miami, this was more than decent...it was damn good. The case didn't bode well for our client. All we could do was try to throw dirt on someone else. Antonio Villanueva has a history of smacking women around. Does that make him a murderer? We the defense think not. Cruz and the prosecuting team, tore up our best arguments. His dream team was made of up assistant district attorney Elisabeth Roman, a tall, thirty-something, mildly attractive blonde in a sharp suit and Eddie Brockton, a short, well-dressed black guy with a New England accent who has a reputation as a pugilistic prosecutor. Between them, they had more legal experience than our entire squad. Masayoshi and Walker were getting hammered, and so was I. The Jurors looked bored half the time and our client wasn't helping matters by behaving more like a Rock Star than a criminal defendant. I had to give it to Antonio Villanueva, the guy was facing either life in prison or the death penalty if we lost and he was cool as ice. Either he had nerves of steel or he really did it. I didn't care either way, I just wanted to know his secret for remaining so calm. Octavio helped our team by introducing us to Liam Kingsbury, an ex-pro boxer-turned private investigator. If you want dirt on anyone in Miami, alive or dead, Liam Kingsbury is the man you call. He dug up dirt not only on our client, but also our opponents. Thanks to Kingsbury, we found out all kinds of interesting things about all the involved parties. Did I need to know that District Attorney Cruz, Mr. Tough On Crime has a fascination for young Asian women? Hmmm. This explains the odd way he stares at Masayoshi whenever she speaks. Mr. Cruz is married to a lovely Latina, Esther Castillo, and has a daughter with her, little Angelica. I wonder what his wife would think if she discovered he sexed up Asian female escorts at a loft in Dade County whenever she was out of town. The really juicy stuff concerned Elisabeth Roman, the second chair at the prosecutors table and one of the most ruthless people in the District Attorney's Office. Outwardly, the lady was the picture of professionalism and respectability. The daughter of renowned lawyer Clovis Roman, Miss Elisabeth attended Cornell Law School. What's a legal mind like hers doing earning peanuts as an assistant district attorney is beyond me. She lives in a fancy condo in Miami South, no husband and no offspring. Has a black female roommate, though, accountant Karen Franks, formerly of Ithaca, New York. I thought nothing of their association until certain pictures from Kingsbury caught my interest. Let's just say that Karen Franks and Elisabeth Roman are much more than just friends. A District Attorney who's cheating on his wife of twenty years with high-end exotic escorts, a closeted lesbian prosecutor, and a black lawyer who does cannabis in his spare time, that's who's after my client. I had the dirt, but did I have the ruthlessness necessary to use it? That's what I debated, not just with my associates and my wife, but myself. The trial was halfway over, and our firm had already collected one hundred thousand dollars from Villanueva's vast coffers, and closing arguments were weeks away. The old man was counting on us to keep his son out of jail, and he was sparing no expense. With the odds against us, I had to decide whether to break my own personal ethics and fight fire with fire. Thus, I weighed the decision of whether to instruct private investigator Kingsbury to drop some truly damaging info about our opponents in the Miami Herald. The night I made the decision, I couldn't sleep. I lay in bed, in Jenna's loving arms. We stayed up late, talking about our lives, our growing sons, and of course, the case. Jenna showed a lot of interest in the case and told me she looked forward to returning to the practice of law someday, once the twins were five. Sounds good to me, I told her, then I kissed her forehead. Jenna fell asleep within minutes. The busy life of a stay-at-home mom isn't fun and games. I love my wife, I do, but it's nice to know that the sharp-minded, fiercely independent woman I married is still in there. I looked forward to the day when she rejoined our legal practice. Jenna and I were together when our firm was founded. In many ways, it's our baby, besides Armando and Christopher, of course. Raul Walker and Trinity Masayoshi have been indispensable and stalwart colleagues, and Octavio is our point man and enforcer, a wonderful associate and a friend. Yet, before any of them came into my life, I was just a young man with a dream. Jenna helped me fulfill that dream, and more. Without her, I wouldn't have the firm, or this tumultuous yet often amazing life I lead. I'm a father, a husband, and a citizen of good standing in the community. I'm not even thirty and I'm the senior partner at a successful and growing law firm. Many men my age, black or white, can't say the same. I'm really lucky and thank God for His blessings. I decided not to sink so low as to go after my opponents private lives. I thought of their families, and the impact it would have on them if their seedy secrets were exposed. Kingsbury was disappointed, as was Octavio. Jenna told me she was proud of me. You're a good man, the ex-boxer told me, and shook my hand. I smiled wistfully. Yeah, I'm a good man who might have just thrown the case of a lifetime but hey, maybe the Big Guy upstairs will save me from perdition, eh? We made our final speeches to the Jury, and as far as closing arguments went, our was dreadfully simple. I tried to drive home ( to the Jury ) certain facts. Antonio Villanueva was the one who called the cops after discovering Catherine's body. A man as wealthy as he is could have disposed of it without attracting suspicion. He could have fled the country or played dumb after his girlfriend went missing, but instead he cooperated with law enforcement. And now, they were trying to pin the murder on him. The fact that his prints were all over Catherine Trey's body could be explained. They had a relationship. In the past, he hasn't always been a good boyfriend, to put it mildly, but he's no murderer. I reiterated to the Jury that my client was innocent, and that it was their sworn duty to set him free. Then I thanked them for their service. Shooting me a snide look, District Attorney Cruz got up, and thanked me for my fine oration. Then he looked at the Jury, and tore apart my argument, right in front of them. He called my client Antonio Villanueva a violent criminal, a woman-beater and a monster using his family wealth to hide from justice. Find him guilty ladies and gentlemen, Cruz's final words to the Jury. I looked at the Jury, then at my client. For the first time, Antonio Villanueva looked rattled. I looked at him and nodded gravely. We got this, I said quietly. The Jury was deadlocked for three days, and when they finally reached a verdict, I don't know who was more surprised, District Attorney Cruz and his dream team or me and my flabbergasted associates. We the Jury find the defendant Antonio Villanueva not guilty, that's what the foreman, the sole white guy on the Jury, said one bright Friday morning inside the Miami-Dade Criminal Court. I looked at Raul Walker, then at Trinity Masayoshi. Damn, Trinity said, grinning. Walker was dead silent for a moment. Shit boss we won, he laughed. I looked at the Jury, then at Antonio Villanueva. Cool as a cucumber, he smiled and shook my hand. Gracias my friend, he said. I nodded and smiled. You should have seen the look on our opponents faces, though. District Attorney Cruz, Mr. Tough On Crime, looked deflated. Elisabeth Roman collected her files, and Brockton, the black assistant prosecutor, shot us an angry look. This isn't over, he said. I smiled benignly, taunting him. Maybe if he had done more than just warming his seat throughout the trial his team might have won. I shook hands with my colleagues, then rose as a very satisfied-looking Judge Carlos Montoya thanked the Jury for their service. We were dismissed, and happy about it. I immediately called Jenna with the good news. We won sweetie, I shouted in the court's hallway, and a stern-looking old bailiff asked me to tone it down. I shrugged and walked away. Whatever, dude can't steal my thunder. I had won my first major case, let the good times roll. I went home, and the first thing I did was hold my wife Jenna and our sons Armando and Christopher in my arms. The case had taken me away from them, and I swore that nothing in this world would ever separate us again. The Villanueva family was very generous in victory, and our firm pocketed just one a million for the case. I took excellent care of my stalwart associates Raul Walker and Trinity Masayoshi, and gave a special bonus to our old friends Octavio Sanchez and Liam Kingsbury. We couldn't have done it without them. We had a celebratory dinner at our home and invited Octavio and his family, along with Raul Walker and Trinity Masayoshi. None of this would have been possible without you, I said, looking at my family, friends and business associates, while raising my glass. You tell them babe, Jenna chimed in. As we ate some delicious Shawarma sandwiches along with rice and potatoes ( one of Jenna's culinary specialties, from her father's region of the world ) I looked at these people who meant so much to me, and thanked God for His blessings. Little did I know that interesting times awaited our family, our firm, and the world. The 1990s were a turbulent time in America. I remember where I was when I watched OJ Simpson getting chased by the police all over the highway in Los Angeles. I remember the Rodney King beatings, and the acquittal of the bigoted cops, followed by the L.A. Riots. Jenna and I watched in horror as the politics of race and later, gender and identity, divided our nation. As an interracial couple raising a family in the South, we had to be careful. As our sons Armando and Christopher grew older, we taught them how to be careful. How to behave around racist white guys, especially the ones in police uniforms. We taught them to stand up for their rights when they had to, and to make it a general rule to avoid conflict. You don't have to win every battle to win a war, nor are you obligated to attend every argument you're invited to. In 1994, Jenna rejoined our firm, but not as a criminal defense attorney. Although we bill ourselves as top criminal law experts, we had to make room for one immigration attorney, Jenna Qabbani-LaRoche, my darling wife. I can't tell you how happy I was to see her get back to work. Jenna has one of the most gifted legal minds I know, and I really missed having her at the office. A five-year hiatus from practicing law hadn't rusted her skills, and she quickly began generating enough revenue and wowing clients that Masayoshi and Walker had no objections when I nominated her as our second senior partner. Yes I'm the boss and she's my wife, but I play fair. Life went on, and our sons grew. The twins continue to amaze me day by day. Armando and Christopher are visually identical, both are six-foot-two and well-built, but inside they couldn't be more different. Christopher is athletic, outgoing and kind of a control freak. I think he gets it from Jenna because he sure as hell didn't get it from me. Armando is easygoing, friendly and flexible. Just like his dad. He once told me he wants to be a lawyer. I can't tell you how happy that makes me. Speaking of lawyers, our firm expanded...and shrank. Octavio Sanchez fulfilled a lifelong dream when he got accepted at Saint Thomas University's Law School in 1996. I'm happy for him and his family. Raul Walker left us in 1999 to join a firm in Orlando, and Masayoshi returned to California in 2002. While in Miami, Trinity ran into a guy named Jeffrey Fujimoto, an architect she knew from her days as a wide-eyed law student. It was love at second sight, I guess. They got married in 2003 and have a daughter, Mira. I'm very happy for them. For a while, the firm consisted of Jenna and I, just like the old days. Once more we were LaRoche and Qabbani, Attorneys At Law. I got to admit, I liked it like that. I can't tell you how much fun it is to have office sex sometimes, whenever Jenna and I pull a late night at work. One time we got caught by the cleaner, an old lady named Ines. I still laugh whenever I remember the look on her face. I had Jenna bent over the conference room table and my pants were at my ankles. Don't you ever knock? a furious Jenna shouted, while I giggled. Ines promptly shut the door, and left. We never saw her again. One fine day in June 2007, our sons Armando and Christopher LaRoche graduated from Miami's Powell High School. The same place where I once worked as a substitute teacher back when I was a rookie black male lawyer whom none of the rich white firms in Miami would even entertain the idea of hiring. On that beautiful day, my darling wife Jenna Qabbani-LaRoche and I watched our sons graduate, along with hundreds of their peers. I promised myself that I wouldn't cry, but I did. Hand in hand, Jenna proudly watched our boys shine. Our identical twins were headed to very different career paths. Christopher was headed to Ohio State University on a football scholarship, where he would study business administration and Armando had an academic scholarship to Texas Southern University. My son picked the historically black university with a built school even though he had offers from Princeton and Boston University, among others. According to Christopher's research, the criminal justice program at Texas Southern University is extremely rigorous, and the Thurgood Marshall School of Law is even more intensive than the vaulted Ivy League law schools. Makes sense, now that I think about it. Black folks don't have it easy, so why wouldn't our institutions be tough? With our sons in college, Jenna and I had an empty nest to ourselves. We got ourselves a condo and rented the house to students and young families for half of the year. Life continued, what else could it do? Business was good at the firm. We hired three young attorneys fresh out of law school and two paralegals. Things were stable to the point of being boring. At least until the twins first year in the higher education system. They returned home at Christmas time...changed. At least, that's how it looked to me. What do I mean by that? Um, see for yourselves. Christopher introduced us to a towering young black man named Omar Tyrone Henderson, his, um, boyfriend and teammate on Ohio State University's football team. Armando brought home a tall, pretty blonde-haired and green-eyed young woman named Yelda Bahceli, an exchange student from Malatya, Turkey, who happens to be pregnant. With his brat. Well, our macho and athletic son is gay and our nerdy son got a chick pregnant. I was flabbergasted by these unforeseen developments but Jenna warmly welcomed Omar and Yelda into the family. Welcome home, she said, and hugged them both, to the relief of Christopher and Armando. In November 2008, as the United States of America elected Barack Obama as its first Black president, my wife Jenna Qabbani-LaRoche and I became grandparents. Armando's new wife Yelda Bahceli delivered our lovely granddaughter, Aisha Bahceli LaRoche. I became a grandfather at the age of forty six. Damn. My wife Jenna is only forty four, she doesn't look like anybody's grandma! Oh, well. Got to roll with the punches. We can't complain, especially since the Lord has blessed our family in a myriad ways. I want to make it perfectly clear that although I was surprised by Christopher and Armando's life choices, I love my sons equally. Armando and Yelda are back in university, and hope to finish their degree. As my own parents helped Jenna and I when the twins were born, it's our turn to help Armando and Yelda. They transferred from Texas Southern University to FAMU here in Miami in order to be closer to us. Taking care of little Aisha while Yelda and Armando are in school has brought new joy into our lives. Jenna and I love being the youngest grandparents on the block! Christopher and Omar care deeply for each other but can't come out publicly because they both hope to make it into the NFL someday. I wish them the best with their dreams and goals. I was quite touched when they shared with me the story of how they met, their bond, and how they were forced to hide by a homophobic sports world. I told my son Christopher that I love him no matter what, and thanked Omar for being there for him. There you have it, ladies and gentlemen. The story of how a young lad left the island of Haiti with his mother and father, moved to America, grew up, went to university and found the love of his life. The tale of how our law firm got off the ground, how our family came to be, and those we loved, and fought against. And what a magnificent family we have. I mean, we've got Haitian, Lebanese, Irish, Turkish and African-American in our bloodline. We could represent the United Nations with such diversity! Could a story like ours take place anywhere other than America, the land of diversity and opportunity? I think not. And now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to get going. I hear Jenna hollering for me downstairs. My turn to change Aisha's wipes. Ah, the perks of being a fifty-two-year-old grandfather in the Dirty South! Pray for me, y'all!