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She wanted it, too, that’s what made it so hard.
I lifted the heavy crystal glass to my lips and let the burning, woodsy amber liquid slide over my tongue and down my throat. I closed my eyes because, damn, it was so good. And I listened to the Mozart playing through my home library speakers. This was what I listened to every day during the trial of Gomez Montelongo, cartel leader. He murdered several federal agents—my father was one—who had been after him for years. Most of Montelongo’s crew went down with him.
Except his wife and kid. They were in protective custody. But I had no doubt the wife knew every dark, dirty deed her cartel-leader husband did. Even though she became an informant, there were many things she claimed she didn’t know, which I doubted were true. And the daughter … a dumb person would know where her loyalties lay.
At the time, Montelongo’s daughter was a teenager in private school and old enough to know what was going on. Old enough to try and protect her father. Only her mother informed law enforcement about the drug cartel, but she knew nothing about the arms dealing, the trafficking, or the other atrocities Gomez Montelongo committed.
The anger I still had for the trial came back. Though we won, and I got Montelongo behind bars for life eight years ago, and what prompted my promotion to the district attorney, there was so much more we had on him that never saw the light of day.
Many times, I wanted to make Montelongo’s wife, Inez, pay for not telling us everything. She should suffer where her husband didn’t. As far as I was concerned, they were equal partners in the horrors they unleashed on weak individuals. She fucking knew everything. And probably their daughter too.
I set down my glass, my jaw clenching. The obsession took over me again. I was an obsessive person, it was a personality trait. I didn’t get over shit, and I had to know everything when and how I wanted to know it.
With compulsive urgency moving me, I turned in my chair and placed my hands on the desk. My laptop had been in sleep mode, but woke up immediately with my fingerprint on the touchpad.
I navigated through all my confidential files—ones I decided to keep for myself—and pulled up the Gomez Montelongo case. There I read the names of his wife and daughter. Inez Hernandez Montelongo, thirty-eight years old. Maria Anya Montelongo Hernandez, fourteen years old.
Maria Anya…
What were the fucking odds? I sat back, my finger lifted to my mouth, and my mind spun a million miles a minute. But my student, the one who demanded space in my mind, wasn’t Maria Anya Montelongo Hernandez. She was Anya Sanchez. Not the same. Right? Not the same?
Yes. The very same.
I conducted more research and confirmed I’d made the correct conclusion. My student was Montelongo’s now adult daughter who was in fact twenty-two years old.
I stood and walked away from the screen because this was doing my head in. The uncontrollable need I had for justice was turning ugly. Illegal. And I was frustrated because it was personal. Montelongo killed my father, and that meant anyone associated with him helped him do it.
Fuck.
I stormed out of the library and down the hall toward the curving staircase leading to the second floor. I had no intention of staying home now that a nuclear bomb waited to be set off inside me. If I didn’t release this energy, I’d implode, and I’d take anyone who crossed my path.
As I walked up the stairs to my bedroom to change into evening clothes, my cell phone rang, vibrating in my linen blazer pocket. I stopped in my tracks, pulled the phone, and held it out in front of me.
An email from a student. It was from the university email system. I was a madman pawing at my phone, desperate to get the message. And when I was there, I clenched my fingers around the phone just to keep it from falling.
Mr. Miller,
I went back to you our office during your office hours to discuss the C- you gave me, yet you were gone. Do you not keep your offices hours? I was very disappointed in your blatant disregard for student’s time. If your hours are eleven to noon every day, than I expect you to be there. But this isn’t about that, sir. It’s about the grade you decided to give me, which I believe is a complete false assessment. I do not accept your C- and I am setting my intention with this email to challenge this grade. I would like to meet with you to discuss your rationale on my grade, and I will give you mine. There must be some middle ground that is fair for both of us.
Thank you in advance.
Anya Sanchez
My heart surged. Was she out of her fucking mind? With one, all the grammatical errors, and two, her unbelievable audacity, she wanted me to take her seriously? She must have been furious to get my grade, and she should be more pissed at herself for challenging me on any level. When was she going to understand that I called the shots?
I selected the reply button and set my fingers to type out the shortest email I’ve ever written.
Miss Sanchez,
No.
Kind regards,
Ursin Miller, JD
Criminal Justice Adjunct
Chapter Seven
