Tate

He checked his watch and then reached for his briefcase. “I’ll need a response. I can’t proceed without your direction.”

Being handcuffed to a steel table while I met with my attorney did little to support the innocent until proven guilty facet of the law. I tugged against my restraints and then met his curious gaze.

His bronze skin resembled leather, and it went hand-in-hand with his sun-bleached blonde hair that he wore carefully combed into a ducktail.

I held his gaze and slowly cocked an eyebrow. “Your best advice is for me to plead guilty?”

He looked me over as if I were filth. “You are guilty.”

“You’re supposed to provide me with a defense.” I tried to remain calm, but it didn’t come easily. “That’s what I paid you for. It’s your job.”

He adjusted his tie, and then gave me a smug look. “It’s my job to give recommendations based on the facts of each case.” He looked away. “It’s difficult to defend someone who was caught red-handed.”

I was ready to fire the condescending asshole. Being patronized was high on my list of pet peeves, and having a man with his experience do so made matters that much worse. I clenched my jaw, inhaled a long breath through my nose, and then exhaled.

“If I plead guilty, I go to prison for five years. If I go to trial and they find me guilty, I go to prison for the same five fucking years,” I explained. “There’s no risk in going to trial, only the possibility of reward.”

He gave me a confused look. “I don’t follow your logic.”

“You know, I’m really not surprised,” I said with a dry laugh. “If I take this case to trial, some juror might side with me and hold out on a verdict. Then, the case ends up in a hung jury. The judge thanks everyone for their service and declares a mistrial. In the end, I go free. I’m not pleading guilty. I’m going to trial. Maybe you’ll get a sympathetic biker on the jury.”

“Trials cost the taxpayers money,” he said flatly. “A guilty man going to trial is frowned upon by the system.”

I tried to keep from laughing. “Frowned upon?”

He gave a pompous nod. “Looked down upon.”

“I know what it means, asshole. You act like taxpayers are a separate entity of people. I’m a fucking taxpayer. It’s rare that I get anything for all the money I pay, so I’m going to spend some of my tax dollars on a God damned trial.”

“I suggest the contrary.”

“I made note of that,” I said, stone-faced. “Earlier. When you recommended that I plead guilty.”

He clutched his briefcase against his chest. “I’m not prepared to take this case to trial.”

I looked him up and down. “You better get prepared, motherfucker. If you don’t, I’ll file a motion for Ineffective Assistance of Counsel.”

He gasped. His briefcase lowered to his lap in the process. “I--”

“You what? This isn’t my first rodeo, counselor. Remember, I’m a felon in possession of a firearm. That means I’ve already been down this road at least once. I’m not pleading guilty. I made the mistake of doing that last time. We’re going to trial. I suggest you either get prepared or return my fucking retainer.”

He stood and then brushed the wrinkles from his suit. “In an effort to save the taxpayers tremendous cost, and the court tremendous time, it’s my professional recommendation that you consider pleading guilty.”

“Considered, and denied.” I looked up and met his gaze. “We’re going to trial.”

He let out an exhaustive breath and then shook his head in clear disgust of my decision.

I lifted my cuffed hand until the chain went taut. “Remind that wad of shit standing in the hallway that I’m in here, will ya?”

He pushed the door open and then glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll let the prosecution know we’re taking this to trial. They’re not going to be happy.”

“I’m locked in a 6-foot by 12-foot cell for 23 hours a day,” I said, my tone beginning to convey my anger. “I’m not very fucking happy, either.”

The door closed behind him.

The charges in my first criminal case weren’t what most would expect from an outlaw biker. While rolling through a neighborhood looking for a gas station, I happened upon group of people who had gathered to protest the shooting of a black motorist by a white police officer. Having previously seen the video footage of the shooting on the news, I was sympathetic to their cause. In complete support of the protest, I pulled my motorcycle to the curb and watched in awe while the people waved their signs and chanted.

I leaned against the seat of my bike and raised my clenched fist as they marched past. When the cops arrived, I was arrested along with many others who had refused to stand down when directed to do so. Because of my smart mouth – and the kutte I was wearing – I was segregated from the group.

Later that night, I was charged with inciting a riot.

I viewed the crime as a joke, but the prosecution certainly saw it differently. At the recommendation of a public defender, I pleaded guilty under the assumption I would receive probation for the criminal infraction.

Instead, I received 27 months behind bars. Because of my gang affiliation, they sent me to the same prison as if I had robbed a bank.

What little respect I had for the judicial system dwindled to nothing. I did my 27 months without incident, and returned to society with the label of a convict.

Fast forward five years, and I was in trouble again.

While having a few drinks in a bar in Los Angeles with a new prospect for the MC, we saw a fight break out no more than twenty feet from where we were sitting. A lop-sided affair, with one man standing up against four, it was difficult for me to witness without intervening.

So, I intervened.

A flurry of fists, feet, chairs and teeth went flying. Then, at some point, a knife was pulled. The prospect handed me a gun to even the odds. As fate would have it, two undercover ATF agents were in the crowd, and I was subsequently arrested.

Having already seen the ways of a public defender, and now facing five years in prison for being a felon in possession of a firearm, I opted to hire an attorney. A very expensive attorney. It frustrated me that his desire to defend my case was measurably less than my desire to stay out of prison.

The door opened and Officer Perry stepped in. He was the jail’s senior officer, and an absolute asshole. When he walked the cellblock, he always reminded the inmates that he was the one in charge, and we were the lowly filth who he was hired to protect the innocent from.

He was a man who obviously masked his own insecurities by being a prison guard. What deficiencies he had in the real world were left at the entrance of the jail, and for eight hours a day, he could be the man everyone had to answer to.

“Hands on the table,” he growled. “Palms up.”

“Hands down, palms up.” I shifted my eyes to the floor, paused, and then met his gaze. “That reminds me of what I tell your wife when I see her. Kind of. Head down, ass up is her cue. Ironic how they resemble one another, isn’t it?”

“Keep up with the smart mouth, Reynolds, and I’ll toss your ass in segregation.”

I believed in treating people with respect, but only if they were respectful to me. Officer Perry was a disrespectful fuck if I’d ever met one. Therefore, he got my ugly side.

He unlocked the handcuffs, slipped one through the restraint loop, and then secured it to my wrists.

“If I keep it up, and you toss me in the SHU…” I looked right at him. “Can she come up there and give me a handy through the bean slot?”

“I mean it,” he snarled.

“So do I,” I said flatly. “I wonder if I could get my cock through that thing.”

“One more remark…” he warned.

Normally, I would have given him – or anyone who challenged me – two more remarks. Hell, maybe a dozen. Doing so would land me in the Special Housing Unit, or SHU, and I’d be on lockdown for 24 hours a day.

I’d been tossed in the hole plenty of times during my tenure in prison, so his threat fell on deaf ears. The thought of not seeing Officer Madden, however, prevented me from proceeding with my torturous comments. Talking to her for a few minutes each morning was the highlight of my day.

Had we met under any other circumstances, I wondered if things might be different. Without a hung jury or a miracle, the only relationship I’d ever have with her would be a continuation of our five-minute-long conversations through a two-inch-thick piece of glass.

I seriously doubted I’d get a hung jury. So, I pursed my lips, flattened my hands against the table, and prayed for the miracle.