Season 01 of 05: Satan's Recruitment of Angelo Raguel

Angelo Raguel

(Archangel Raguel, Angel of Justice)

Calls to end injustice—unheeded. Divine rule and the laws of man—discredited. The Supreme Court—besieged. Help called for, prayed for—never came.

Protest signs blocked my escape: Black Lives Matter, Defund Police, Antifa, White Privilege, Reparations, Tax the Rich, Burn America Down.

Shoved through the horde, I stumbled down the courthouse steps amidst shouts: “Fascists! Nazis! Racist pigs!” A sudden push snapped me backward. Tumbling over a cement barrier, my tie got caught and squeezed my throat.

Need air!

Tear gas burned my eyes while my lungs scorched with smoke.

Pro-police supporters in riot gear, the Brotherhood of Law Enforcement, a vigilante militia, stood firm. Tension crackled in the air; their tactical vests emblazoned with bold letters: BLE. The militia stood with visors down, expressions obscured, looking like rigid dark sentinels. They remained unmoved by the chaos.

Online threats. Scary phone calls. Restraining orders issued. Would BLE help me, or seek revenge? Justice or vengeance? Safety or danger?

A masked protester lunged through the line; his sign thrust high. Bold, black letters screamed:

EMMANUELLE—HE IS HERE.

The second coming? Wild prophecy? A warning?

No time to think. The officers attacked. Batons swung, hammering the masked man to the ground.

“Police brutality!” The crowd erupted.

A crush of bodies surged toward the police.

Gotta get out of here.

The police megaphone crackled, “Get back!”

The captain’s voice boomed over the chaos. His fingers twitched over the holster. Shields locked. The line surged forward. Protesters stumbled, shoved, and fought. No safe direction. The wrong move could turn this crackdown into a massacre.

People scattered as instinct took over. Panic drove every step.

A lyric drifted up from some distant memory, ’just the nature of my game.’

Wriggling through the chaos, my shoulders crashed against bodies. The police formed a phalanx; their shields created an impenetrable wall, forcing the crowd back. The rhythm of boots marching on the pavement sounded methodical, almost mechanical. They throbbed. The rhythm shifted as the march changed to a charge of riot police, an unrelenting force.

Barely escaped the crush.

Grunts, groans and calls for help echoed about.

Face to face with a riot policeman, the view through his visor revealed nothing but cold determination staring back.

Protesters ran in every direction, their eyes gushing from the gas. Fear surged. The swarm of bodies was suffocating.

There’s nowhere to go but through the entangled madness.

I crawled over the fallen to make headway. Behind me, I heard the thud of batons striking signs. A rhythmic beat reminiscent of tribal warfare.

“Disperse immediately!” came the booming order over a loudspeaker, and as if on command, the line of BLE supporters united with the police, the threat clear. No need to adhere to law and order. The Brotherhood released rounds of tear gas and charged in fist fighting and wrestling demonstrators to the ground. Kicked into submission, the protesters’ resistance faltered.

The sharp, stinging fumes reached my eyes and throat. A quick pull of my necktie over my nose and mouth filtered the acrid air. A cough followed; a rough sound that was lost amidst the chaos.

Flames flickered in the hills. Smoke blacked out the stars and muffled sirens, horns, and shouting. Loud bangs, gunshots, or fireworks, ripped through the air, brief flashes of red, white, and blue piercing the haze.

My pulse quickened.

Each crack splintered the air, sending ripples of fear through the crowd. A pro-law enforcement vigilante dragged a protester off and chained him to a truck. A knee drove into the man’s back, and his screams were swallowed by the rage.

This sultry summer night, sweat dripped down my back, and heat radiated from the pavement. My heart pounded; the pressure building in my chest gave rise to an urgency to escape the clamor and confusion. I needed shelter from the disorder generated by my client’s exoneration.

Ahead, the local lawyer lounge beckoned, offering a retreat from a day of media sparring. The code: 666. I poked it in, remembering the old joke: What’s the difference between a lawyer and the devil?

A young Hispanic bartender with a broad welcoming smile, served a basket of chips and exclaimed, “Armani suit, flamboyant tie,” while forming his fingers into the shape of the devil horn hand sign. “Angelo Raguel’s trademark.”

Flaunting my colorful silk necktie, a swirling blend of bright blues, pinks, and greens, and adjusting the loop, allowed a moment of reflection. “The media loves-hates these ties,” a small smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.

“Congrat’s on the acquittal of your client.” The bartender’s tone was friendly, but toned with a mix of awe, having a media celebrity at his bar.

“Thanks.” My fatigued reply as he circulated down the bar. Not sure if he heard it or not.

The TV above the mirror-encased liquor cabinet flickered with jittery reflections of the news as my interviews dominated the coverage.

The TV image and the mirror gave me a Janus-reflection: the two-faced god. One side, Armani-clad, polished, and poised. The other, a middle-aged Black man, hollowed by regret, staring into the looking glass, seeing the truth beneath the mask.

No wife. No children. No one to share my life with. No one left to forgive me.

Twisting words so the guilty can walk free. Fame clings but offers no comfort. On-screen, a stretched smile. Unnatural and controlled. The real me? Trapped behind the glass. Aging. Worn.

Haunted. Empty seats at the dinner table. By the memory of my wife’s voice, playfully warning, “Just tell them I’m at home waiting for you.” She knew my weakness. She saw the cracks in me before I ever did.

But she never could have known how unfaithful. How I failed them all.

The glass distorts my reflection, warping my features like a man sinking beneath the waves. Maybe that’s what I’ve been doing all along, drowning, one case, one verdict, one drink at a time.

Forcing a break from the looking glass, a glance around the lounge revealed a shark pool of legal elites and their parasites, where lust masquerades as love and connections are currency. Reassurance from these people? Hardly. Their pretension of admiration means nothing at all.

Shifting back to the televisions, and the self-review continued: That overweight, balding man staring back. Was that really me?

The bartender returned, “We’ve been following your trial for months. You held up great.”

“Gained weight,” I said just loud enough for the barkeep to hear.

The mixologist, practiced in the art of charm, smirked, “They say being on TV makes you look heavier.”

With head tilted upward and lips pursed, the question arose, “You serve a drink called a Devil’s Circus?”

“Favorite of a female patron,” the barkeep replied, offering a directional glance.

A woman, black, passed my periphery, alluring, fixating.

My attention shifted back to the bartender, “My client testified it was the last drink he had before the incident.”

“I’ll make it for you.” The blender roared to life; ice pulverized into a fine crush. The sound was oddly soothing, a momentary escape from the drone of the news and sports shows.

Back to reflection, it required a quick touch up. Fingers patted down kinky hair, touched the bald spots, swiped over the mustache, as thick lips parted to check for food between teeth. Hazel eyes dulled, and drowsiness threatened, almost provoking a self-slap like on long drives.

Turning from the mirror, I scanned the lounge again. Lawyer sharks circled; opportunistic sycophants followed close behind. Focused on the few other African American attorneys in the room. A minority. Tailored suits, controlled expressions, masks concealing their personas.

One passed by. Our eyes met. Recognition flickered, a silent acknowledgment: “Black lives matter.”

“Yes.” We knuckle-bumped. A brief sharing in a sea of self-interest. A firm knock and a silent nod. Not camaraderie, something older; a recognition of fights won and those still to come.

The drink arrives. It’s an icy cherry-colored margarita, with two red chili peppers cut and secured to the rim, looking like devil horns. Named for the devil. Just a coincidence? My client testified he drank one before the shooting. Fingers hesitated on the glass for half a second too long before lifting.

Removed the decoration to avoid spilling the full-to-the-brim cocktail before a sip was taken; the cold liquid slid down my throat, followed by Mezcal Tequila warming the passageway. There’s something else, a numbed tongue. Taste buds lose their sensitivity, nothing dramatic, just a whisper of a Novocain-like effect when the dentist deadens your gums.

Shake off the feeling, just probably stress, nothing at all.

My gaze shifted from the reflection to the bar. The image in the mirror lagged, then a second look revealed no movement, though something continued to nag before a head shift and a blink dispelled the illusion. Just a trick of the dim lighting? What is in this drink?

It seemed nobody noticed me on TV.

Wrong.

The female, whom I noticed earlier approached, glanced at the screen, and said, “Self-defense. Told everyone!”

My legs parted to allow her passage. Her figure, accentuated in a skin-tight black reflective dress, glistened under the bar’s disco lights. A whiff of skunk weed stimulated sinuses; the pungent odor clung to her. Flopping onto the adjacent stool, she signaled for a drink, then flashed a smile that clearly communicated who should cover the charge.

A tune hummed in my mind, something about a spider and a fly.

Flirtation was welcome. Loyalty wasn’t a burden. What’s different about her, I can’t really say. The way she moved, a magnetic attraction, an inescapable force. Eyes fixed and knowing hinted that the end was preordained, as if she’s waited for an eternity for this moment to spring her web.

Love at first sight?

Running away would have been wise. Fascination held me in place. And just like that, I walked willingly into the trap. My grin affirmed the bargain.

“We’re friends,” she said while watching my celebrity defendant on the tube.

A montage of my client shows his celebrity events: his famous touchdown at the Super Bowl, his movie roles, his extramarital affairs exposed in the tabloids, and finally his shooting of an ex-police officer who pulled him over for ‘driving while Black.’

The TV anchorman explains, “The ex-officer turned out to be a member of the Brotherhood of Law Enforcement, BLE, pretending to be an official policeman, who had been fired from the force for provoking racial incidents and harassing Black individuals.”

On the TV my client exiting the courthouse gained the attention of several bar patrons, who either cheered or jeered.

Turning to face me the girl on the stool next to me rendered an amused smirk and coyly said, “Intimate.”

The smirk changed to a smile, widened, and a spark ignited alluring eyes. Power on. Target locked. She stared at me as a hunter would while adjusting the crosshairs on a rifle scope to pinpoint the exact kill spot. Her wide pupils glowed digitally, as if data were being captured, analyzed, and memorized. She maintained a flirtatious demeanor, and a shake of her bosom achieved the desired distraction.

“Jezebel,” she introduced herself. My glass raised in response, accompanied by a fleeting recollection of the biblical Jezebel, Queen of Darkness. The air around her whirred with static electricity and the hair on my arms stood on end.

Leaning forward the flirt suggested, “Maybe you and I could be friends?” The movement draws my attention to the Ancient Egyptian symbols tattooed on her breasts and left shoulder.

Symbols of what? A jackal-faced god held a cross with a split loop. Ankh? The Egyptian symbol of eternal life? The significance of the split?

“Maybe.” A slight nod, a raised eyebrow, and a lustful stare accompanied my response.

Sliding forward, the teaser’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You know everyone was so quick to judge guilt, but my opinion was self-defense. The BLE guy had it coming. He was rough with people, always using excessive force.” Smirking, as if proud to have personal knowledge of the actors, “Your client had no choice.” The way she spoke carries anticipation, like a predator closing on its prey.

My head tilted in agreement, “Yeah. He was trying to protect himself,” my voice low, measured. “That ex-cop had a history. He’d been under investigation before. Nobody wanted to believe it, but the evidence was there.”

Approval sparkled in the watchful eyes. Too much sparkle. “You did a good thing, Angelo Raguel, standing up for him when no one else would.”

“Prosecuting those who seek power through evil has been my life’s crusade,” I said, taking a sip. “Justice…my only reward.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, I almost believed them myself.

My thoughts seemed hollow tonight, stretched thin between the courtroom and the streets outside. What is justice, really? The law? The verdict? Or is it the rage still burning in the eyes of the protesters, versus those who believe I defended a guilty man and excused his murder because of race and politics? Or is it the quiet relief of the acquittal? Justice served for the man I defended but do not fully absolve?

Does the rule of law belong to those needing protection? Or to those who wield power?

The ice slouched in my glass as the drink swirled, its ripples distorting my reflection.

And if I’m wrong?

Is the word just another illusion, something we tell ourselves so we can sleep at night?

“Angelo Raguel: Archangel of Justice,” she fluttered her eyes flirtatiously. “That’s why we’re friends, right?”

Our eyes locked. Her pupils dilated and contracted, not to external light, but to an internal flickering source. Unnatural.

A memory gripped me as my mother’s voice whispered, The strobing pupils, the sign of demons.

“Are you familiar with archangels?”

“I’ve known a few in my time.”

A wave of déjà vu grips me. A gut-deep certainty, we’ve looked into each other’s eyes before. But when? Where? Why?

The connection was broken as the drink beckoned. The tequila, smoother than before, left a numb throat, but not merely from the ice. The freeze could be blamed, yet something else lingered: a creeping sedation beneath the cherry sweet.

An obese Assistant District Attorney approached and called out, “Mr. Raguel.” He squeezed between our stools, his suit strained at the seams, as sweat glistened on his forehead. “You know why God can’t find a good lawyer?”

My eyes rolled and glanced at him expressing my lack of interest in his answer.

Impatient for a response, the D. A. chimes in, “Satan’s got them all!” He laughs at his own joke, his glee sounding like an anguished wheezing sound. “Congrats on getting a cop-killer freed!”

My jaw clenches slightly. “He wasn’t a cop-killer. It was self-defense. You know that officer was booted out and joined the BLE. He had a record of impersonating a police officer. My client was defending himself. The evidence spoke for itself.”

The girl’s drink arrived, a Devil’s Circus, and the bartender stopped to adjust my bill. I say to him, “Chica bonita,” referring to the hussy beside me.

The bartender looks her over, crosses himself, and says, “Precaución.” The lilt of his Spanish carries the warmth of the Caribbean, hinting at his island roots. He adds, “Protégé a tu familia, cuídalos de lo que acecha en las sombras.” His gaze lingers for a moment too long, as if hinting at an unknown threat.

“Mi esposa te da las gracias,” I reply, the Spanish coming naturally to my lips. His accent reminds me of my mother, who was born in Santa Dominica. A devout Catholic, but also a person who knew the mysteries of Santería, the Afro-Caribbean practices that blurred the line between the divine and the dark. Her whispered warnings about spirits and demons echo in my mind now, and the flicker in the demon’s eyes makes me uneasy.

The bartender’s warning lingers, an unease settling into my chest. Another swallow allows me to deliberate my response to the D. A.’s joke. “No one wants to defend God’s reasons for letting evil roam.” The words feel heavy in my mouth, the truth of them weighing me down.

The barfly sipping the cocktail purchased by me says, “Blaspheme,” and slips around the D. A.’s bulky frame, her eyes now stable. She leans forward, displaying her feminine lures, her smile widening.

The fat man smirks. “Angelo would advocate for Satan just to prove God wrong.”

“Challenge accepted.” My voice was louder than I had intended. “My plan being to stand in front of God and proclaim Martin Luther King’s statement, ‘Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.’”

The floozy exclaimed, “Toast!” and shimmied as the three of us clinked glasses. Her dark skin glows under the bar light as she undulates.

Then she begins to chant, “Uuu…uuu. . . uu. . . u. . . u. Uuu…uuu. . . uu. . . u. . . u. Ah. . . ah. . . ah. . . aaah.”

As the chant vibrated, a chill ran down my spine, the same feeling as when our eyes met. A sense that unseen forces were at play.

Video link to talking storyboard Episode 1. (copy/paste into your URL

https://youtu.be/vQapggFH9I4