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leroylawpa · 1 year

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Choosing the Right West Palm Beach DUI Attorney: Tips for a Successful Defense

Summary:

Look for an attorney with experience in DUI defense.

Consider an attorney with a proven track record of success in similar cases.

Choose an attorney who will provide personalized attention to your case.

Look for an attorney who offers a free consultation to discuss your case.

Consider an attorney who is familiar with the local court system and judges.

Choose an attorney that you feel comfortable with.

If you've been charged with a DUI in West Palm Beach, choosing the right attorney is crucial to a successful defense. DUI charges have serious consequences, including fines, license suspension, mandatory insurance increases, probation, and even jail time. In this article, we'll provide tips on how to choose the right West Palm Beach DUI attorney for your case.

The Importance of Choosing the Right DUI Attorney

Choosing the right DUI attorney can mean the difference between a successful defense and a conviction. An experienced DUI attorney can provide guidance and support throughout the legal process, working to minimize the consequences of a DUI charge.

Experience and Track Record

When choosing a West Palm Beach DUI attorney, look for someone with experience in DUI defense. Consider an attorney with a proven track record of success in similar cases. A skilled attorney will know the best strategies to use in your case and can work to minimize the consequences of a DUI charge.

Personalized Attention

Look for an attorney who will provide personalized attention to your case. DUI charges are serious. You want an attorney who will take the time to understand your unique circumstances and build a defense strategy that works for you. Remember you get what you pay for in life, including attorneys.

Free Consultation

Choose an attorney who offers a free consultation to discuss your case. This will give you the opportunity to ask questions and get a better understanding of the attorney's experience and approach to DUI defense.

Familiarity with the Local Court System

Consider an attorney who is familiar with the local court system and judges. An attorney who is familiar with the local court system can provide insight into the judges and prosecutors involved in your case and can use this knowledge to build a more effective defense strategy.

By following these tips, you can choose the right West Palm Beach DUI attorney for your case and increase your chances of a successful defense.

Q&A FAQ:

Q: What are the consequences of a DUI conviction in Florida?

A: The consequences of a DUI conviction in Florida can include fines, license suspension, community service, mandatory increased car insurance, probation, and even jail time. The severity of the consequences depends on the circumstances of the case and any prior DUI convictions both in Florida and out.

Q: Can a DUI charge be dismissed?

A: Sure, it's possible for a DUI charge to be dismissed if the evidence against you is weak or there were errors in the arrest or testing process. An experienced DUI attorney can review the evidence in your case and determine if there are grounds for dismissal.

Q: What is the difference between a DUI and a DWI?

A: In Florida, the terms DUI (driving under the influence) and DWI (driving while intoxicated) are used interchangeably outside the courtroom to refer to driving under the influence of drugs or alcohol. Officially Florida law does not use the term DWI.

Q: Can I refuse a breathalyzer test?

A: In Florida, if you refuse a breathalyzer test, your license will automatically be suspended for at least one year. The length of the suspension depends on the number of prior refusals. Whether you refused or not cannot be changed. Do not dwell on this issue after the fact!

Q: What are some common defenses for a DUI charge?

A: Some common defenses for a DUI charge include challenging the legality of the traffic stop, questioning the accuracy of the field sobriety exercises or breathalyzer results, and arguing that the defendant's rights were violated during the arrest or testing process.

Q: How can a DUI attorney help with my case?

A: A DUI attorney can provide guidance and support throughout the legal process, including negotiating with prosecutors, reviewing evidence, and building a defense strategy. An experienced attorney can work to minimize the consequences of a DUI charge and help you navigate the complex legal system.

Q: How much does a West Palm Beach DUI attorney cost?

A: The cost of a West Palm Beach DUI attorney can vary depending on the attorney's experience and the complexity of the case. Some attorneys charge a flat fee, while others charge an hourly rate. It's important to discuss fees and payment options with your attorney before hiring them.

#Hire West Palm Beach DUI attorney #DUI lawyer near me #West Palm Beach DUI defense #Drunk driving lawyer #DUI defense attorney #Experienced DUI lawyer #Affordable DUI attorney #Local DUI lawyer #DUI defense lawyer in West Palm Beach #Criminal defense attorney for DUI #Expert DUI lawyer in West Palm Beach #DUI defense firm in West Palm Beach

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teresadinardi · 2 years

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If you are convicted of DUI charges, you may lose driving privileges, pay higher insurance premiums, pay fines, be jailed, and more. Because of the lasting implications that a DUI conviction can have on your private and professional life, you should involve our DUI defense attorneys early on so that we can protect your rights under the law.

#DUI #drunk driving #dui defense #intoxicated #dui charges #dui lawyer

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riniworld · 4 months

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YANDERE!judge x LAWYER!gn!reader

warnings// obsession,yandere theme,Incorrect use of the law (?),mention of Hanging.

refrence// you.

a/n: i forget i have tumbler lol.

just started watching harry potter and i think i know what I'm addicted to.

•you didn't get along with him the first time you arrived.

•having beliefs different from the beliefs of the person who your training under making your training very difficult.

•and he wasn't less annoyed from you,He tried to transfer you to another judge, but no one had an empty spot.

•so now he's stuck.

•whenever you two argue because of a case,you should expect to find a lot of paperwork on your desk.

•he didn't plan on loving someone soon.

•but how can he not,when you are almost always together?

•Or when you bow your head down in obedience when he reminds you of who he is and what his status is compared to you.

•he can't even deny your intelligence.

•Now he doesn't put a lot of paperwork on your desk because he's annoyed with you, but because he wants you to stay more.

•and now your desk in his office because "i have to keep an eye on your work".

•your stuck with him from early morning until late night.

•what's that? Your car broke down? don't worry he'll drive you home just because you were a good trainee.

•he's not a party type but he'll come as long as you're there.

•also he made sure you'll get drunk so he can drive you home once more.

•but he didn't expect you to fall asleep,not on his shoulder at least.

•he has to hide his face so no one could see how red it is...or the creepy smile he has on.

•no one should see that cute peaceful face of yours,they have no right.

•so he excused himself quickly and took you home.

•the next day he became softer and the day after that and after and after.

•it was so strange from him but it's not like you're complaining in fact that made your work more easier.

•But that didn't last long....

•One day, he noticed everyone congratulating you and giving you gifts and you were extra happy.

•he LOVED that smile on your face but had that bad feeling inside him.

•And when he asked...it was the biggest shock of his entire life.

•how could you...? after everything he did?...how could you get engaged!?

•he wouldn't let that slide,he would never.

•and out of nowhere your fiancé has been charged with murder.

•how? when? where? you didn't know.

•but what you knew is that your fiancé is innocent.

•and for your relive The judge of his case is the one your trained under.

•Maybe you can convince him that your fiancé is innocent!

•But he was adamant that he was guilty and that all evidence indicated that your fiancé was guilty.

•You wanted to be your fiancé's defense lawyer, but the judge said that you are still in training and can't do this.

•in the end you couldn't do anything and your fiancé was hanged.

•Your dreams have been destroyed and you have fallen into depression.

•but don't worry the judge is always there to comfort you,and he always will be

•you don't need to know that he the one who did all of that.

•You've already fallen into his trap anyway.

hope you liked it:)

have a nice day/night♡

#yandere x reader #yandere #yandere oc #yandere oc x reader #yandere x y/n #yandere x you #yandere oc x y/n #yandere oc x you #yandere judge

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dr-spencer-reids-queen · 8 days

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Reckoner: Final Part

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.3k

Summary: Your world is turned upside down when you get in trouble for something you didn't even do. The entire team is in uproar over this but Hotch says he will take care of it. Can he? Or are you doomed to live out the rest of your days in misery?

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If there are any warnings that exceed the normal death/kills from the show, I will list them.

Thankfully, the team has the current case to keep them occupied so they don't think about you, but Spencer doesn't have that outlet. He's stuck in Penelope's office forced to think about you, what you might be going through, how you must be feeling, and how he can't do anything about it. He's bouncing his leg up and down rapidly because his anxiety is spiking. He would bite his nails if they hadn't already been bitten down to the nub.

"Spence, why don't you take a walk? I'm sure it'll do good to clear your head," Penelope suggests.

"No, thanks."

She sighs and turns back to the computer screens before calling Rossi. She's been working hard on her end to try and figure out who The Planner is.

"What do you have?" Rossi answers.

"I've concentrated on the last three cases because they left the freshest e-prints. However, over a hundred thousand cases pass through the Long Island Court."

"Who had eyes on the files?"

"Literally hundreds of people."

"Change track. Focus on The Enforcer. Look at mob-related murder trials on Long Island over the last ten years. We're looking for a hitman."

Penelope types quickly and comes up with a shorter list, albeit still long.

"There are over ninety-three mob trials in the last ten years."

"Put aside any trials that resulted in a conviction. Weed out mistrials and arraignments."

"Nineteen."

"Were any of those on trial suspected of being hitmen or enforcers?"

"Three, but I got something else here. Tony Mecacci's case was judged a mistrial but check out his suspected victim."

She sends over the file immediately so they can look it over. His victims are the same as the team's current victims. All were shot in the same style as the ones on the file.

".22 caliber, right?"

"Bulls-eye."

"Cross-match our profile of The Planner against all those connected with this trial."

Penelope continues to type as she speaks.

"Let's see here. We have prosecuting lawyer Garret Daniels, Judge Boyd Schuller, criminal defense lawyer Paul--"

"Wait, did you say Judge Shuller?" Rossi cuts her off.

"Yeah, I'm sending over a photo."

Rossi waits for the photo to come through so he can confirm whether or not he knows this person. He does.

"What's wrong?" Hotch asks. "Do you know him?"

"No, but I knew his wife. Two years ago, she was driving home from work and was killed by a drunk driver."

"That could be the tragedy."

"She was the love of his life, that's for sure."

Penelope digs into the Judge's life to see what kind of dirty secrets he has.

"Twelve months ago, Judge Shuller took a leave of absence due to health issues. He was diagnosed with terminal cancer. He has six months to live. That's when the killings started."

"You don't seriously think Judge--"

"Judge Schuller is the planner. Yes, I do," Rossi cuts off the detective. "It fits the profile, and Tony Mecacci is most likely Bosola the Enforcer. What have you got on Bosola?"

"He went off the grid after his last trial," Penelope answers.

"JJ put out a statewide APB and release Mecacci's photo to the media," Hotch orders, and she leaves to do it.

"Judge Schuller's a highly-respected man. We can't just walk in there and accuse him of serial murder."

"Then I'll go to the attorney general and petition the Chief Justice if I have to."

Rossi looks behind Hotch to see Judge Schuller walk right into the police station as if he knew the team was talking about him.

"Maybe not."

"I believe you're looking for me," the Judge says.

Judge Schuller is taken to an interrogation room to be questioned by Rossi and Derek.

"You know we have to advise you of your rights," Derek says and sits across from him.

"I waive my constitutional rights against self-incrimination."

"When you walked in here, you said, 'I believe you're looking for me'."

"Yes."

"Your timing was impeccable, but how could you know that?"

"I knew it wouldn't take you long to find me. Not after what I've left behind."

"So, you don't deny any of this?" Derek asks.

"Why would I? What you see as a crime, I see as justice."

"Ray Finnegan was a friend of mine," Rossi glares.

"Ray Finnegan was a criminal. You should choose your friends more wisely."

"It must have really thrown you when Ray showed up at Emma's funeral."

This pisses Judge Schuller off, and he slams his hands angrily onto the table.

"How do you know about my wife?"

"You have absolutely no idea who I am, do you?"

Ray told Rossi that everyone only meets Bosola once. That means Judge Schuller had to have given Bosola a list of names. He would never have to meet him again, just to make final payments on proof of death which he can send electronically. If anyone can get into Schuller's personal files and financial record, it would be Penelope. She has to do it quickly before everything gets shut down.

Detective Gill made a call to Schuller's office a few hours ago and told them they had two suspects, which means he knows what the police know. Schuller knows the FBI is onto him, which means he didn't come here for a confession. He has a list, and there is more to come.

He came here to stall.

"Can we just get on with what I came here for?" Judge Schuller sighs.

"Why? So Bosola can go on and carry on whatever it is you asked him to do? No. You call him and you end this," Derek says.

"Even if I could, I wouldn't."

"She was born Emma Louise Taylor on the 4th of July, 1958," Rossi reminisces.

"You could get that from anywhere," Schuller glares at Rossi.

"When she was six, her dad bought her a black and white homeless kitten."

"No, if she knew you, she would have told me."

"She named it Oscar," Rossi continues, "after Oscar Wilde. Out of all of Oscar's work, she loved an ideal husband the most."

The judge is getting angrier by the minute the longer Rossi talks about his wife.

"I don't know how you know all of this about Emma or what you hope to achieve, but we're done. You know the charges. Charge me."

"Is that what started all this insanity? Emma's death?"

"What started all of this was the thirty-five years I had to sit and watch as the system I swore an oath to protect failed the very people our justice system was meant to protect!"

"I wonder what Emma would make of all this."

"Every single person on that list deserves justice, and it's justice they managed to evade," Schuller shouts.

"So, you do have a list?" Rossi smirks.

"I'm finished talking."

Rossi and Derek continue to work over Judge Schuller while Emily is in another room talking to Penelope over video chat. Spencer isn't in the room because she managed to convince him to take a lap or two around the building to clear his head or try to.

"Hey, where's Spence? How is he doing?" Emily asks when she notices the lack of Spencer's presence.

"He's not doing too good. He doesn't have the hands-on work like you guys have to keep him distracted. It's killing him knowing Y/N's in jail for something she didn't do."

"Yeah, I know. It's hard on us, too. We don't talk about it but I know we're all thinking about it. Hotch will fix it once we're back, I know it."

"Yeah, me too."

"So, what did you find out about Judge Schuller?"

"We've got loads of two-way traffic going on, which means someone is trying to bounce us out."

"Okay, Bosola doesn't come cheap, so Judge Schuller had to have made some pretty substantial transactions."

"I've got wire transfers to a Cayman Island bank, and that's where the trace ends."

"How many and how much?"

"In June, he debits numerations of nine thousand, nine hundred, and ninety-nine dollars every few days four separate times. Then, he takes a break for a few weeks until he makes his final transaction for the same magic number. Anything less than ten thousand dollars keeps the IRS off your trail."

"So, the final payment must be for proof of death. That makes fifty-thousand dollars the price of a kill."

"He did that three times over a period of twelve months, but two days ago, he raised his account for a hundred thousand dollars all in one hit. He also closed all his accounts and handed his entire estate over to a victim's support group." Penelope gasps in shock and groans in frustration. "Someone who isn't suffering from too many brainiacs in the high-tech kitchen just bounced us out."

"Good job," Emily praises and hangs up. She returns to Hotch to tell him her findings. "If our calculations are correct, there are two more names on that list."

"There are."

Hotch replays the footage from the interrogation from when Emily was on the phone with Penelope.

"Every single person on that list deserves justice," Judge Schuller says and looks at his watch yet again.

"He said deserves, not deserved. Look right there. He looks at his watch for the second time. Whatever he's waiting for is about to happen."

"I don't think you knew Emma at all," Rossi continues to antagonize him. "At least not the one I knew. I made an excuse for myself that I wouldn't be welcome at her funeral. The truth is, I couldn't face it."

"You knowing Emma changes nothing."

"Oh, but it does. Emma changed the lives of everyone she knew, but at least Ray and I saw her death for what it truly was--a tragic accident."

"Dan Patton was drunk. He murdered Emma as surely as if he put a gun to her head!" Judge Schuller yells.

"Is that why his photo's not here? You're saving the best for last? How many other people have you targeted? I want the truth."

"I have nothing more to say."

"I do. I ran into Emma a few years ago at a hotel in Manhattan. I was working on a case and so was she. I knew she was married, but I didn't care."

Judge Schuller knows what Rossi is implying and he refuses to accept that his wife was cheating on him.

"No, she wouldn't... Emma would not do that to me. You're lying."

"Am I?"

"I want the truth."

"You first."

The Judge sighs knowing he's cornered and decides to give it up.

"Dan Patton is the last one. There are no more. Now, tell me the truth."

"That night in Manhattan, she told me our connection was so strong that it could never happen only once, and I was fine with that."

Rossi leaves with a smirk on his face, and the judge is shocked. He shakes his head and looks at Derek who is still seated.

"At least you now know what kind of man you're working with."

"What kind of man are you?"

"I've had enough of seeing the guilty walk free of their sins."

"What about your sins?"

"I got cancer for mine."

Emily, Hotch, and Detective Gil went to Dan's apartment after checking the police department he works for. Turns out Bosola got to him before the FBI could. They found him with two bullet holes, one in the heart and one in the head, but also beaten to death. Bosola is nowhere to be found because he killed him and left immediately after like a professional hitman.

There's no way Bosola is getting off Long Island since the FBI has all ports, roads, and airports guarded to make sure he doesn't get away. Judge Schuller is being moved somewhere safer because he is a high-court judge, which makes this a federal case now. The FBI is taking over this one before more people get killed. If Dan is dead, then the judge's list is complete.

However, something isn't adding up.

The Judge gave away his entire estate and all his money, and he closed out his accounts and paid off his utility bills. He has cancer but he has six months left to live. Why would he pay off his bills now and give away everything he owns? Not to mention the one hundred thousand dollar payment for not one but two more kills. If Dan was killed, then there should be one more.

Usually, the judge waits for confirmation of death before sending the payment, but he knew he wasn't going to be around to see this last proof of death. He sent everything over because he was not making it ten feet out of the police station.

Bosola has one more kill to make before moving on to another client, and it's Judge Schuller himself. With a crowd of reporters and a bunch of bystanders, it's easy for him to blend into the crowd. He managed to shoot Schuller in the heart and escape without anyone seeing him.

Case closed. With that major distraction out of the way, everyone is now focused on you and your situation. No one has said a word or talked about it since Hotch arrived in Long Island, but he's been making calls since getting on the plane to figure out what he can do to help you out.

The first person to get back to him is the lawyer that your dad snagged for you. He got ahold of his contact information and asked nicely to be let into the loop since he is your boss.

"Steven? Did you hear anything?" Everyone knows what Hotch is talking about so they stop what they're doing and listen to his side of the conversation. Hotch looks visibly upset which isn't a good sign. "Are you sure? ... There's nothing you can do for her? ... What about bail? ... Is there anything I can do? ... Okay. I appreciate you calling me. Thanks."

"What did he say?" Derek is the first to ask.

Hotch looks down and tries to keep the anger and frustration off his face as much as he can. When he feels he's neutral, he looks up and addresses the team.

"Y/N is being transferred to Virginia Correctional Center for Women in Goochland awaiting trial and bail. He said they have everything they need to convict her, and it's not looking good. Whoever did this really wants her to suffer for it."

Everyone is sent into silence because no one can believe this.

"I have always found that mercy bears richer fruit than strict justice." - Abraham Lincoln

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds angst #criminal minds series rewrite #criminal minds season 5

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lauralot89 · 8 months

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Reasons to Be Put in a Saw Trap

From Saw to Saw X:

Taking drugs

Committing insurance fraud

Self-injury

Having no personality

Telling patients they are terminally ill

Being married to an oncologist

Being the child of an oncologist

Investigating the Jigsaw killings

Not fulfilling your dreams of becoming a doctor

Being a police informant

Being a crooked cop

Being the child of a crooked cop

Being put in prison by a crooked cop

Dealing drugs

Doing sex work

Being habitually imprisoned

Being too good at forensic science

Taking antidepressants

Being sad that your child died

Being the surviving child of someone who is sad their other child died

Fleeing the scene of a crime as the only witness

Giving a light sentence for vehicular manslaughter

Vehicular manslaughter

Making inescapable Saw traps

Providing legal defense for criminals

Trying too hard to save people

Pimping

Rape

Being an abuser

Being married to an abuser

Causing a woman to miscarry

Recklessly opening doors

Being a Jigsaw apprentice without actually having your heart in it

Murder

Pretending to be Jigsaw to cover up for committing a murder

Arson

Conspiracy to commit arson

Taking a bribe to say there was no arson

Taking a bribe to not publish investigative journalism about arson

Taking a bribe to issue a building permit

Predatory money lending

Working for an insurance company

Being related to someone who works for an insurance company

Being related to someone who died because they were denied coverage by an insurance company

Being an attorney for an insurance company executive

Smoking

Being in a love triangle

Being a Nazi

Pretending to have been in a Saw trap

Being the publicist for someone who pretended to have been a Saw trap

Being the lawyer for someone who pretended to be in a Saw trap

Being friends with someone who pretended to be in a Saw trap

Being married to someone who, unbeknownst to you, pretended to be in a Saw trap

Working in a morgue

Working in a police station

Putting someone in a Saw trap at Jigsaw's request

Killing the person who put you in a Saw trap at Jigsaw's request

Mislabeling medical records

Letting your mugging victim die of an asthma attack

Knowingly selling faulty motorcycles

Committing infanticide and then blaming it on your spouse

Drunk driving

Shooting an unarmed civilian at a traffic stop

Shooting a witness to prevent them from testifying against crooked cops

Peddling fake cancer cures

#Saw #Saw franchise #Saw traps #I'm not including the video game traps #because I'm tired

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mariamariquinha · 2 years

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Bossa Nova (Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon x f!reader) - Prologue

One

Summary: You got divorced. Happy New Year.

Word count: 1087 (almost a teaser)

Warnings: This piece has a lot of talks about male genitalia (you’ll get it), divorce talks, everyone here have a dirty mouth (which can be self indulgent, I’m trying to not curse that much) and Nick O’Brien.

Author’s Note: I opened my Google Docs, stared at it for like five minutes and then I’ve wrote this. This story will have a masterlist, don’t worry. This will also have discussions about a lot of adult things so... Yeah, if you’re looking for a fluffy thing, sorry.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Join my taglist! Don’t forget to reblog, comment and like! As always, I would love to know what you’re all thinking! ❤

--------------------------------

The table was neat – the most clean table you’ve ever seen, you could tell. Theodore sat there with nothing more than a numb expression, and maybe (just maybe) you’ve spent enough time crying over the end of the relationship by yourself for him to give you any other reaction than indifference.

It was over, you thought, not daring to shake hands with him after the judge officially defined the divorce. There was a tap on your shoulder, you could tell for sure, from your brother (because it was the closest he would get to show you any affection).

“Where are you going now?” Your brother asked, watching you pull your sunglasses on nonchalantly as soon as you left the building. That made you sigh.

“I've had my chance to burn the things he gave me, I've drunk every bottle of wine in my house... I still need to test the options."

You shared a smile.

“You should try going out, you know, enjoying what youth you have left.”

“Navel piercing or butt tattoo?”

“Sounds like a very well thought out answer.”

“Oh, it was,” You adjusted the strap of the bag on your shoulder. “I did a list. These two are the first ones, closer to skinny dipping on Spring Break with some hot people from Florida.”

“Did you only think about doing the things your ex husband likes after the divorce?”

He looked at you with raised eyebrows when you turned to face him, as if he was sure he had caught you. Well, it was a fair question, but before you could answer him with another defensive comment, you saw Theodore leaving the building with his lawyer, all stiff and serious. He gave you a look, then glared at your brother, probably thinking to himself that he should work on an investigation about someone’s family before starting a relationship, especially a marriage.

"Yeah, I really don't see the appeal," Your brother murmured while watching Theodore get in his car. "And he wasn't even rich when you two got married."

"Don't tell me..." You sighed in defeat.

"At least you got the house."

"The house I don't like, yep."

Your brother was quiet, but you knew he was observing you as you watched your ex drive down the street in that Mercedes (one of his few demands). Maybe, deep down, he knew that you were sad, disappointed even, but trying to rationalize everything in a more thoughtful way. And no, you didn't like the house, even though it was worth a lot, and having it at the end of the process gave you the impression that Theodore did you a favor.

"Are you okay? We could grab lunch," He offered.

To think it was the closer you’ve got from having a better relationship with him was kinda depressing, too. That glimpse of protection, naturally reflected from the way he fought for a fair arrangement, the way he wanted to search for an honest answer about what really happened with you, would be just a distant memory – one he would likely count as a professional win and nothing more.

Still, you gave yourself the small pleasure to feel welcome, even if for a moment, or the illusion of thinking that your brother really decided to do something really nice for more than the family’s reputation during Thanksgiving. It was like a plot hatched to avenge Theodore, who 'betrayed not only you, but the whole family.'

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. Looking at the name on the screen, you groaned, and your brother peeked without discretion to the device screen.

“Now I understand why you like working with these guys,” He sarcastically mentioned, making you elbow him near the stomach in retaliation. “Big Nick really does look like a drunk detective with a small dick from the 80s.”

“I never stopped to think about the dick size of the guys I work with,” You mumbled back.

“And apparently none of your love partners either,” You stared at him with a frown, confused between answering the call and asking why the hell he would even know this type of thing about Theodore. He shrugged. “I just know.”

“Good to know you have a sixth sense for the male anatomy. Put it on your resume,” And then you answered, sighing a small ‘hello’ to show your annoyance at the way he simply smiled.

“That's the kind of thing you could use now that you’re single. Start documenting California's male resources and do a doctoral thesis.”

“I wouldn't try to compete with your cock-sucking experience.”

“Am I interrupting something?”

Nick had a mocking concern on his voice when you listened to him talk on the other end of the line. Fuck, you closed your eyes for a second, just imagining how he would never let that die for quite some time.

“No, I… I was talking to my brother.”

“I can call later. It sounded important.”

“Oh yeah, it was. You would get along so well with my brother,” Nick laughed at you.

“It's only surprising that you have such extravagant words in your repertoire.”

“And I'm sure you don't want to be the target of most of them.”

“Well, now that you’re officially single and all, maybe we could work on dinner just to help up with your research on dicks.”

“Did you really call me just to make a shit-up call like that?” Your brother raised his eyebrows by your side, to which you retributed with a grimace.

“I didn't even need to make the invitation formally, how interesting.”

“Nick,” You groaned in impatience, rubbing your forehead while eyeing the floor. "Spill it out."

“It’s work, okay? Important one.” A pause. “Think you can get to a crime scene in... Fifteen?"

The time on your phone said rush hour wouldn't start for another hour, if you were a little lucky.

“Gimme twenty. If I know you well, you'll take me across town."

“I’ll text the address.”

The call ended up like that, and your brother was looking at you with a puzzled expression when you waited for the text.

“Is it serious?”

“Kinda of,” You huffed, hiding from him the eggplant emoji with a question mark accompanying the address. “Maybe there’s a lot of men in my life, though. Should think about joining a feminist club or something."

"Or become a lesbian."

"And who would make the lives of emerging men miserable?"

------------------------------

Taglist

@sexuallover

@paintlavillered

#benny magalon x reader #benny borracho magalon #benny borracho magalon x reader #den of thieves #den of thieves fic #maurice compte

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dwidallas · 1 year

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Can I Get My DWI Reduced in Irving, Texas? You can get your DWI reduced in Irving, TX. You should know that Texas has mandatory guidelines for certain levels of DWI offenses that include fines, loss of driving privileges, and jail time. You will face harsher consequences if you are a repeat offender, injured other people, carried an open container of alcohol, or had a child with you when you were charged with drunk driving. Have you been accused of a crime in the DFW area, and need a criminal defense team? Call us today at (214) 691-5630 for your free consultation. #dwidallasattorney #dwidallas #dallas #dwi #dui #criminaldefense #drugcrimes #criminallawyer #familyviolence #criminaljustice #lawyer #ponyup #attorney #crimeslawyer https://www.instagram.com/p/Cp2tcu7OtkP/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#dwidallasattorney #dwidallas #dallas #dwi #dui #criminaldefense #drugcrimes #criminallawyer #familyviolence #criminaljustice #lawyer #ponyup #attorney #crimeslawyer

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sin-sidejob · 2 years

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There’s a running joke between the gang and various main characters of Inside Job to bother Delaney and her profuse refusal of legally representing them, citing how she specializes in corporate law and affairs not defense work

Still doesn’t stop Myc and Andre passing her five bucks each and dashing out yelling about how she’s their lawyer and they’re driving home drunk

The only one she’ll represent is Finn, @radioactivebowtie ‘s oc, due to how she loves them but knows that it’s unlikely + she’d kill for them anyhow

#my thots #inside job headcanon #Myc #magic Myc #andre #Andre Lee #self insert #inside job #delaney tag #self insert: delaney #sona: delaney #Finn tag

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tropes-and-tales-archives · 2 years

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A King’s Ransom, Part Nine

Word Count: 4541

TW: Violence (unsanctioned cage-fighting). 18+ only.

AN: Part of an unfinished series. The series masterlist here.

Nevada was at an utter loss at what to do. First of all, no woman ever walked away from him. Second of all, if any other woman had walked away, he’d probably just shrug and move on to some new piece of ass. Between the club and his other, less legal activities, there was always a steady stream of girls – girls with ambitious boyfriends who wanted his ear, girls who wanted a job of their own, girls who just liked the allure of a bad guy like him.

But you were the one he wanted, and you had ignored his apology. More than that, you and your roommate had been completely unflustered by his lame threat. If word got out that a couple of mousy-seeming bitches were running the show, it’d be a blow to his reputation. More than half of his success was due to fear and intimidation, after all.

He was reeling at what to do next. When he didn’t have enough information, he found a way to get it – so he put two of his best guys on each of your tails.

The guy who tailed you gave Nevada much of the same information he already had: business in Manhattan and Queens, business in the Heights. Softball games – you had a hard-looking line drive, and you always went out with your team afterwards but limited yourself to a single beer before you took off.

You had your usual defense and fighting classes. Your usual nights out with Jules – now at a bar on the boundary between Inwood and the Heights – where your roommate got sloppy drunk and grinded on guys and you sat at the bar, stone-sober, and made sure she got home safely.

You managed to shake the tail from time to time, and it made Nevada wonder if you knew you were being watched. He had his guy put a tracker on your car when you were at Jiu Jitsu one night, and he was able to see where you went when you shook your tail. Hell’s Kitchen. Hunts Point. Newark, a few times. All the worst places.

There was only one reason why you would go to places like that, Nevada figured. You used to go slumming at his club, you dropped into the gutter and fucked him a few times. You were obviously the type of woman who was tightly-wound and needed a release with trashy, dangerous men. And since Nevada was out of the picture, you had moved on.

The realization made him see literally red. It crept around the edges of his vision until everything was awash in crimson, and he ended up putting his fist through the mirror in the men’s room of the club, cracking two bones and cutting himself so deep that he needed serious stitching.

The guy on Jules brought Nevada more information. , Jules was Juliana Aimé, a local lawyer. Jules was a sort of jack-of-all-trades to the Heights and surrounding neighborhoods. Nevada searched for her on the internet and found a bit more information. She, too, had a simple, elegant website, and she specialized in everything from immigration paperwork to real estate deals. She had social media, and Nevada trawled it until he found a few pictures of you. One photo had clearly been taken at his club months back: you were in your usual black getup, and you had arms slung around each other and genuine smiles.

Past that, there were older pictures. From college. It looked like you and Jules went to the same university. Nevada scrolled through one night, taking deep swallows of whiskey as he examined every picture of you. It was like traveling back through time. The graduation pictures where you looked a lot like you did now, just a little younger. Then the pictures of you and Jules at college shit: parties and football games and lounging around in dorm rooms. All the way to freshman year, where you were a skinny, awkward looking teenager with an awful haircut that made him smirk.

Well, maybe you didn’t want Nevada around anymore, but he still had a business to run. And now that he was shifting the focus of his entrepreneurial endeavors, he needed a lawyer to help handle the paperwork.

-----

Gabe set up the meeting, keeping it purposely vague under the pretense of a “new client consultation.” The SUV pulled up in front of a bland looking office building where Jules kept a small suite of rooms for her operation. Nevada climbed out of the vehicle with a small bag clutched in his uninjured hand, and he pulled his sunglasses off in the gloomy, overcast November day.

When the secretary led Nevada into Jules’ office, she didn’t even look surprised.

“Mr. Ramirez,” she said. She stood up and shook his hand as if he were some usual asshole looking for help with their form N-400. “What can I help you with today?”

Nevada settled into a chair while Jules sat back down. He looked her over – she was gorgeous in her own right, and in a well-cut suit and polished, subdued makeup. Nevada wondered if you and her were in some sort of psycho bitch club that required modest clothes. When his eyes settled on her face, he noted a very similar smirk to yours. He was already fucking irritated again.

He kept his temper under control though. In broad terms, he laid out the business plan you had essentially given him – or as much as he could remember from when he read it and before you took it back. He wanted to explore purchasing a few more cash-based businesses; specifically, a spa-type place and a dry cleaner. He needed someone to help with the legal paperwork – the purchase and sale agreements and all the other boring shit.

Jules smiled at him. “I can help you with that, but do you have properties in mind? Are you financing the purchase or paying in cash? What about escrow?”

He shook his head, uncertain.

“I don’t really handle any of that,” she continued. Her smile widened. “I know someone that can help though. She’s good with numbers.”

He narrowed his eyes a fraction but forced himself to keep his voice level. “She won’t talk to me.”

She leaned back in her seat, rocking back and forth as she tented her hands in front of her. “She’s stubborn, for sure. Hard-headed, and I’d know – we’ve sparred enough and I’ve landed enough head-shots to know that her skull is thick.”

Nevada snorted at this.

“Still, you deserve it. You misjudged her.”

He was silent a moment, running his thumb over the edge of the bandage on his injured hand. “I don’t know her at all,” he finally admitted.

His mind flashed back to the first night you spent together, when he woke up in the hotel room and watched you sleep beside him. Then his mind shifted to the thoughts that had plagued him for days, pure imagination that made him envision you fucking some other dude, some other piece of shit in all black or too much gold jewelry. He gritted his teeth and held his temper in check as best he could.

“Sounds like you thought you did though,” Jules said.

He nodded but didn’t reply.

Jules lifted her hands, palms up in a gesture of consolation. “Well, business is business. She may help you.” She opened her mouth to continue, but then thought better of it and paused. Nevada could see her struggling with what to say.

He took the opportunity to reach down and pick up the bag he brought with him, placing it on her desk. It was the real reason he was here anyway. She didn’t move to touch it but looked at him quizzically.

“It’s for her,” he said simply. “She did a lot of work for me – good work – and she never charged me for it. I owe her, and I hate being in anyone’s debt. I estimated how much time she spent working and rounded up.”

“She’s going to hate it. It’ll make her feel like a whore.”

Nevada shrugged. “If so, she’s a very high-priced one. We only fucked four times, on two occasions.” Jules quirked an eyebrow at that, but he continued. “Make sure she knows this is for her work. Make sure she knows I appreciated it.”

She stood up and took the bag, opening it a bit and glancing inside. “No,” she finally said. “I’ll ask her if she’ll help with the other stuff, but I’m not serving as your bag-man.” She zipped the bag shut and pushed it back over it towards him.

Nevada’s temper flared up. How many women had fawned over him for his money? Not your or your roommate though. Neither of you had any fucking regard for the cash he practically threw at you. He reflexively clenched his bad hand and winced at the pain.

“How the fuck do I get this to her if she won’t see me?” he growled through his clenched jaw.

Jules sat back down in her seat and resumed her gentle rocking back and forth as she considered him. “You’re following her. Find an advantageous moment and toss it out the window of your SUV at her for all I care.”

Nevada had the good sense to look a bit ashamed. Of course you two knew he was tailing you. Jules threaded her hands together. Her face grew serious.

“You know,” she said. “I don’t think you’re good for her, because I don’t think you’re good for anyone, really. And I’m not saying she was happy, because I’m not sure she can be happy…” she trailed off. She shrugged, mostly to herself. “All I’m saying is, you threw her off her balance a little, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. You distracted her a bit. She needs a distraction, especially right now.”

Nevada wanted to ask a hundred questions. What had you told Jules about him? What did she mean about throwing you off balance? Why did you need a distraction now? And why couldn’t you be happy?

Instead, he scoffed at Jules. “She’s already got a new distraction, I heard.”

Your roommate nodded at him, her mouth set into a hard line as she frowned. “And she’s going to get seriously hurt. Or killed.”

“Who she fucks is her business,” he replied, ignoring the odd twist in his chest at the thought of you hurt or worse. Jules tilted her head at him in confusion though.

“What are you talking about?” she asked. “Jesus Christ, Trujillo. She’s not fucking anyone. She’s fighting them.”

*****

Everyone needed an outlet from their everyday lives. For normal people with normal jobs, it was a glass of beer after work or a pint of ice cream or a hobby like running. Some people slept around, some people did drugs. Some people went to Atlantic City and lost money they didn’t have on the slots. It was a pressure valve that kept things from boiling over.

Jules’ outlet was getting wasted and grinding on dicey guys, and you obliged her because she was more of a sister than a friend. And she joined you at all your fighting classes, burning off some energy there too.

You had a normal job, but your real job was anything but normal, which meant that you needed other outlets to blow off steam. The classes usually sufficed: you’d master one form of fighting, then move on to another. It helped you clear your mind and kept you exhausted enough to fall asleep at night. Kept the demons at bay, as it were.

The interlude with Nevada had been a nice change of pace, but it had ended, as you knew it would. Unfortunately, it ended just when you probably needed it most. The situation with Meredith’s family – Gaines and Alastair Brooks – was like a constant pressure in your skull. The pictures you pulled from their computer drifted behind your eyelids when you tried to sleep at night. You felt tense constantly, your shoulders around your ears and your neck knotted with stress.

A small part of you considered going back to Nevada’s club, biting back on your pride. It wouldn’t be hard, you thought. You could wear a fucking low-cut dress. But you were too intractable, in the end.

You lost control one night in boxing, whaling on a guy until the instructor broke you up and gave you hell. You knew exactly what happened – he looked a little bit like Meredith’s brother, and something in you snapped and you saw red.

You hadn’t seen red in a very long time.

But after the class, the instructor had slipped you an address and a number. You started to make an excuse, but he cut you off and explained he wasn’t asking you on a date – he was telling you about an unsanctioned club.

“They’re always looking for more women fighters,” he told you.

The location changed every week. The first week, you fought a woman and won, then took a second match later and won that too. The second week, none of the women wanted to pair off against you, no matter the odds, so you got paired with a small man.

He was short but roped with lean muscle, and the odds were heavily in his favor. You put a hundred on yourself. Then you took to the ring, slippery with blood from the last match. He danced around you for a moment, peacocking. Once he got close enough, it was three hits: one to the sciatic nerve, one to the brachial plexus, and the final to his jaw. He went down hard, and you collected a hell of a payday.

But it didn’t get the images out of the backs of your eyes. It didn’t stop the pressure in the back of your skull. It didn’t help you sleep at all. You still spent long nights lying in bed, your eyes dry and irritated and your skin feeling too tight.

Tonight, you were fighting another man. Bigger. He had a foot on you and fifty pounds, easily. His legs were like trunks, his chest was broad and laden with muscle, and his meaty fists were scarred from a lifetime of fighting. He leered at you openly as you made your way into the ring to join him while the emcee went over the rules – mainly, that there weren’t many rules. Tap out or knock out. That was about it.

You should feel scared, but part of you wanted him to hurt you. Possibly kill you. If he hurt you, the pain would give you something to focus on other than the relentless helplessness you were feeling. And if he killed you…. well, there was no sleep deeper than that.

*****

The week’s fights were in Hunts Point, and Nevada took a small entourage to the location. He had enough street cred that the crowd parted around him, but he stayed in the shadows, watching for you. Jules had given him the information. It was against her better judgment, but she was worried about you, which worried Nevada even more. Jules seemed unflappable.

His plan was to find you and get you the fuck out before you did something stupid. Nevada was pretty fucking tough and even he felt hinky. It was an abandoned warehouse, and the ring was surrounded by a high chain-link fence that was locked during each match, making escape impossible.

The crowd was rowdy, and Nevada’s nose curled at the testosterone, blood, and sweat that hung over the warehouse like smog. He actually hated crowds, which was why he tried to stick to his balcony at the club. But at least his club was just horny, drunk assholes. This place had a dangerous air to it, and the thought of you coming here – alone – made him feel sick.

He kept his head on a swivel and his guys did the same. All he had to do was find you. You could do damage, but if he and he guys all got to you at once – you couldn’t fight them all. They could drag you to the Escalade and drive you back to Inwood where you belonged.

One match ended, and the loser was dragged from the ring, a thin stream of blood streaking across the mat. A worker darted in and mopped it up quickly while the emcee announced the next round.

“Shit,” Nevada heard Gabe say, and he felt his captain nudge him and point. Nevada followed where his finger was pointing and saw a huge man take to the ring. He shifted his gaze a bit and saw you mount the stairs right behind him.

“Mierda!” Nevada yelled. He was too far away; his men were too far away. He shoved through the crowd as he watched, helpless, as you were locked into the ring with a mountain of scarred muscle that looked at you as if you were a meal to be devoured. You just gazed back at your opponent with that placid look you had, like the mild-faced saint statues in his mamí’s church. Beatific. Serene.

The emcee called out the rules, pitiful few that there were as last-minute bets were placed and wads of cash changed hands. The odds couldn’t be in your favor. Nevada could probably place a tenner on you and come away a millionaire at this point. Your opponent towered over you, and you just rolled your neck and stretched your shoulders.

Your opponent was in boxing trunks and heavy boots and nothing else but a feral grin. You wore black tights that ended just below the hinge of your knees, showing off your shapely calves. Low black sneakers. A simple black tank top underneath a black track jacket with blue stripes running down the arms.

Nevada wanted nothing more than to get you out of there and into his SUV. He didn’t even care if you broke his other hand in the attempt. He didn’t care if he never saw you again, as long as you were away from the animals in this warehouse.

But the emcee climbed out of the ring, hit the bell, and the fight started. Nevada could do nothing but watch.

*****

There was no way you could beat him head-to-head. First of all, your head came to the middle of his broad chest, and second of all, one of his legs probably weighted as much as your entire body.

You laid out a strategy in your head: defensive first. Wear him down with footwork, let him tire himself out with showy, meaty swings that didn’t connect. Stay soft and loose. Once he was tired, get him on the ground. Jiu Jitsu was all about smaller people defending themselves against stronger people, and getting them on the ground was a great equalizer. If you could get him in a chokehold, you might get out with minimal damage.

He started out exactly like you figured – he threw one heavy punch, a jab, and then followed it with a slow and heavy cross. He was a slugger. There was no finesse or thought to his hits. He just wanted to land blows, heavy and cruel.

He was easy to dance away from. He had a longer reach, but he was so slow. You dodged him, and once or twice, grabbed his arm and used his forward momentum to throw him into the chain-link. It made the crowd jeer and howl, making his face grow dark with fury.

“You think you’re fucking Sweet Pea Whitaker?” he snarled. “We fucking waltzing here?”

You didn’t respond, focusing on his fists. He raised his left arm and swung a wild haymaker that missed its mark and unbalanced him. You took the opportunity to lay two hits of your own – a quick, stinging jab to his bicep that you hoped would temporarily paralyze him there, and then a punch up high under his ribs as he turned away from you. A kidney shot. Whatever happened to you, he’d at least be pissing blood in the morning.

It went this way for eternity: him lumbering around the ring, you dancing away and taking quick jabs designed to hurt, paralyze, or otherwise tire him out.

But he wasn’t tiring, and you had a solid two weeks of poor sleep under you. You could feel your legs getting heavy.

It was the mat that undid you. They never fucking mopped up properly after each fight, so there were always little minefields of sweat and blood (and a few time, loose teeth) to watch for. Focused on your opponent, you missed the slick of blood near one corner and felt your foot start to go out from under you. Your eyes darted down, and you missed his fist as it connected square to the side of your face.

You heard the crowd roaring but it sounded faint and far away. There was a buzzing in your head like a hive of bees, and you looked up just in time to see your opponent’s cruel grin as his second punch hit you right in the gut, knocking your breath from you.

He shoved you against the chain link fence, his forearm pressed against your windpipe as you struggled against him. He shoved a knee, hard, against your groin and seemed to remember suddenly that you weren’t a man.

“You don’t belong here,” he sneered, his rank breath hot against your face. “But maybe after, me and some of my buddies can show you where you do belong.” You gritted your teeth and tried to push against him, but he just leaned in close to your ear and whispered all the filthy things he and his friends were going to do to you after the match. The buzzing in your head grew louder and louder. You shook your head once, twice, but it was too late.

Red flooded your vision, hotter than the center of the sun. You lost control, and the muted, logical part of you whispered that it shouldn’t feel so good.

*****

Nevada felt a riot of conflicting emotions: concern, worry, fear, anger. He watched as you danced around the lunk you were fighting, making it look like an art form, admiring the way your body twisted and weaved around the ring. You made your opponent look like an idiot, and he almost thought you had him.

Until you slipped, and then it was two heavy punches to the head and gut. Nevada could feel the reverberations in his own bones, and he cringed in sympathy. He pushed closer to the ring until he was right against the chain-link fencing, desperate to get to you.

He watched as the guy pressed himself against you, and he ignored the flare of fury that rose up in him. He’d find out who he was, torture him slow, kill him. No one touched you like that but him. He watched as the guy whispered something to you. Nevada focused on your face, crumpled in pain and frustration at first.

Then something shifted. The guy said something that made your eyes snap open, but they weren’t your usual bright, teasing eyes or even the furious ones when he had tried to lay his hands on you that one time. They were flat and black, a dark version of the lifeless eyes of the nurse sharks he used to see when he went out in his abuelo’s boat as a kid. He watched the grimace of pain drop off your face completely. Your body went limp in your opponent’s arms and, confused, he dropped his hold on you.

You were on him in a flash, so quick he couldn’t even raise his arms to defend himself. Your fists were small, but as you had demonstrated, you knew exactly where to hit. A flurry of punches around the man’s body, and he stumbled away from you, a perplexed look on his face. Nevada almost laughed to see it.

You swept his legs out from under him, and the entire crowd roared, in triumph to see an underdog get an upper hand, or maybe in frustration to see a bet be potentially lost. He scrambled clumsily to get back on his feet but you were as fast as lightning, twisting his body under yours until you had him in a hold.

You wrapped both of your legs around his neck and one of his arms and then rocked backwards. He struggled, but Nevada knew better than most how strong your thighs were. He felt a faint pulsing in his groin to remember that night at the hotel, when he showed you what his mouth could do. He remembered the feel of your thighs on either side of his head, tightening and loosening and responding to him.

Your opponent thrashed, flailing his free arm, but you just tightened your hold, visibly squeezing your thighs against his neck while your arms held his locked arm tight. Nevada couldn’t see your face, but he could see your opponent’s. It was growing darker and darker as the blood was pinched at his carotid.

With no other option, the man took the last of his remaining strength and surged backwards. It wasn’t enough to break your lock on him, but it was sufficient for him to swivel his head just enough against your leg. Nevada caught a gleam of the man’s yellow-stained teeth before they sunk into the soft meat of your inner thigh.

You bellowed in pain and released your hold, but the man’s victory was short lived. Within a second, you were straddling him, pinning his arms under your knees as you sat astride him, high up on his chest. He was huge and you were tiny and he should have been able to buck you off of him, but your fists were on him, a storm of punches to his face that left him stunned at first and then dazed and then eventually unconscious.

Nevada could hear the sound of bones breaking – he’d heard it a million times in his own line of work, and he winced again in sympathy. He heard the liquid gurgle as your opponent started to choke on his own blood. The cage was unlocked and the emcee and another man crowded in and pulled you off of the man, struggling against you until you realized you had won. You stopped resisting then and allowed the emcee to hold one of your arms up in victory as your opponent was half lifted, half dragged out of the ring. The crowd was so deafening that Nevada could feel it in his bones, a primal thrumming that you had created.

Nevada couldn’t look away from your face. The flat, dead look in your eyes was replaced by a fury he’d never seen before, on you or anyone else. He was simultaneously afraid and turned on. He wasn’t sure which emotion was stronger, but he knew one thing: the rage and wrath written across your face belied an uncomfortable truth – something terrible had happened to you, and this raw violence that he was witnessing was its legacy.

#nevada ramirez #nevada ramirez imagine #nevada ramirez x reader #nevada ramirez x you #trouble in the heights #trouble in the heights fanfiction #tropes-and-tales

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beardedmrbean · 2 years

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During the opening statements in the trial of a West Springfield commercial truck driver accused of killing seven bikers, while under the influence of cocaine, fentanyl and heroin, in a 2019 New Hampshire crash, witnesses described the scene of the horrific crash as akin to a “battlefield.”

Volodymyr Zhukovskyy, 26, of West Springfield, has been indicted on seven counts of manslaughter, seven counts of negligent homicide while driving under the influence, seven counts of negligent homicide, one count of aggravated driving while intoxicated and one count of reckless conduct. Zhukovskyy pleaded not guilty to the charges.

Witnesses of the June 21, 2019 crash on Route 2 in Randolph, New Hampshire, were called to the stand during opening statements in a New Hampshire Superior Court on Tuesday to describe the graphic and unsettling scene of the crash.

Anne Baron, a nurse who was in a car behind the truck and got out to see if she could help anyone after the crash, said the scene was reminiscent of the movie “Saving Private Ryan.”

“Limbs scattered around, never seen that before, even as a nurse,” eyewitness Anne Baron said on the stand Tuesday, according to the Associated Press, “People dying. It was just a lot.”

Baron said she stayed with a badly injured man and tried to perform CPR when he stopped breathing but was unable to revive him.

Another witness, Miranda Thompson said they “saw dead bodies and debris everywhere,” WMUR reported.

Eyewitness Stephen Piwowarsk described the aftermath of the crash as a “battlefield.”

“I don’t have any war experience, but it was like a war zone,” Piwowarsk said, according to WesternMassNews.

Authorities accuse Zhukovskyy of being under the influence of a controlled drug or drugs at the time of the 2019 crash, following a report that found fentanyl, morphine and a chemical found in cocaine in his system.

During Tuesday’s opening statements, Prosecutor John McCormick said Zhukovskyy knew how dangerous heroin was because on May 5, 2021, the West Springfield man overdosed on the drug while on a fishing trip with his family and was later revived by police, who administered an overdose reversal drug, according to the Associated Press.

Zhukovskyy told police that he had used both heroin and cocaine the morning before the crash, but that he was “fine and OK to drive” later that evening, authorities said.

The man also told investigators he reached down to get something in his truck before he struck the oncoming motorcycle riders, according to court documents.

“This wasn’t just an accident,” McCormick said. “This was criminal recklessness and criminal negligence.”

Zhukovskyy also had an OUI arrest out of Connecticut at the time of the crash. The arrest should have triggered a suspension of his license, but the out-of-state violation was never processed by MassDOT.

Steve Mirkin, Zhukovskyy’s lawyer, said his client had taken the drugs on June 21, 2019. However, the lawyer added, there was no evidence that he was impaired at the time of the crash and the police did not make any observations in the hours afterward suggesting that he was impaired, according to AP reporters.

Mirkin said the president of the Jarheads Motorcycle Club, Albert “Woody” Mazza, who led the pack of riders, lost control of his motorcycle and collided with Zhukovskyy’s truck first, causing the crash.

The defense attorney claims that Mazza had been drinking and his blood-alcohol level was close to twice the legal limit of .08 in New Hampshire. Federal investigators found that some of the bikers and passengers were impaired by alcohol, but claim it wasn’t the reason for the crash.

“Drunk drivers kill,” Mirkin said. “Al Mazza was drunk. Vlad Zhukovskyy is not guilty of any of these charges.”

Tuesday’s opening statements proceeded with the jurors visit to the crash scene Monday. They traced Zhukovskyy’s route from an auto dealership in Gorham along U.S. Route 2 to the crash site in Randolph, about 10 miles away.

Seven members of the Jarheads Motorcycle Club were killed during the June 2019 New Hampshire crash.

The motorcyclists were traveling east when they collided with Zhukovskyy’s truck traveling westbound, which was towing an empty flatbed trailer.

Those killed include Michael Ferazzi, 62, of Contoocook, New Hampshire; Albert Mazza Jr., 59, of Lee, New Hampshire; Desma Oakes, 42, of Concord, New Hampshire; Aaron Perry, 45, of Farmington, New Hampshire; Daniel Pereira, 58, of Riverside, Rhode Island; and Jo-Ann and Edward Corr, both 58, of Lakeville, Massachusetts.

In addition to the seven deaths, several other bikers were injured in the crash.

The National Transportation Safety Board approved a report in December 2020 that stated Zhukovskyy’s drug use was the “probable cause” for him crossing the center line on the highway and sparking the fiery crash.

Prosecutors said Zhukovskyy should never have been on the road in the first place. His commercial driving license should have been revoked in Massachusetts because of a drunken driving arrest in Connecticut about two months earlier, they said.

#nunyas news

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