Cutter
Court rooms in real life are nothing like court rooms on television. They're dingy feeling, with bad lighting, and empty seating. The public doesn't care about most court hearings, not unless a loved one is involved in them. Cutter had been in his fair share over the years, both as a supporter of those accused, and an accused himself.
He sat back, away from the front, not wanting to make his black leathers and patched vest stand out any more than was unnecessary. This was just an arraignment hearing, not a trial with witnesses where the Vanguard had to be there in force in order to remind them of who they were testifying against. Besides, the farther away he was from the front, the less likely the judge or bailiffs to see the bloody rage in his eyes, or to hear the furious grinding and gnashing of his teeth. After all, one his favorite boys in the world was up front, practically within lunging distance. Jersey was there, standing in the orange suit the county had so graciously provided him. To Cutter, at least, he looked guilty as sin. But that was the problem with those suits. They made everyone look that way.
At the judge's bench, in front of Jersey, sat Judge DeAngelo, Wyland's man in the gown. He was probably in his mid-50s, with the bloodshot nose of a thirty-year drunk. His beady little eyes peered out from behind wire-framed glasses, taking in the whole room like it was his to command. He looked exactly like the kind of man to be in Wyland's pocket. A classic good ol' boy, and a longstanding member of the GOB network.
On one side of Jersey stood the Vanguard's lawyer, Michael Hunting. Hunting was good, smart, and about as trustworthy as any lawyer could be. Which meant, as long as you could afford his fees, he was your best friend and most trusted confidante. The second that cash dried up, though? You'd be lucky if he remembered your name. On the other side of the wayward Vanguard member stood the well-coiffed, spotless, and apparently carefree assistant DA Wyland West. He wore a perfectly tailored navy blue suit, cut to show his frame. He was the perfect specimen of a defender of the public's best interest, and probably looked great in front of the TV cameras. But Cutter could see through the flimsy elegant facade for the piece of shit woman-beater he really was.
Cutter could barely control his fists from clenching, could hardly keep himself from leaping right over the bar separating the public viewing area from the well, the part where the lawyers and judges sat. He lectured silently to himself that he needed to stay calm. He needed to remain cool. He took a deep breath, held it, exhaled. He did it again. And again. This was not just Jersey's freedom on the line, by maybe the whole of the Vanguard. Doing anything rash or stupid now would just hurt all their chances down the line when it came to getting out of this.
“Your honor,” Hunting, Jersey's lawyer, said, “defense would like to request the court release my client on his own recognizance.”
“Prosecutor?” Judge DeAngelo asked, his beady little eyes shifting to Wyland.
“Your honor,” Wyland began, “the prosecution feels that the defendant is a flight risk, due to his associates and the nature of his lifestyle. We'd like to petition that he be remanded until trial.”
“Shit,” Cutter swore beneath his breath. If they remanded him, he wouldn't be getting out of that hole for God knows how long. Depending on how flimsy the case was, Wyland could well try and keep his case at the bottom of the docket damn near indefinitely. He leaned forward, put his hands between his knees, and tried to keep them from shaking.
“Your honor,” Hunting said, stepping forward, “my client is employed, is involved in charitable work for disadvantaged children and the community, and has ties throughout the county. The idea that he'd be a flight risk is patently ridiculous.”
“Your client,” Wyland retorted before the judge could get a word in edgewise, “is a waiter, does one toy drive at Christmas every year, and is involved with a motorcycle gang. I don't think I'd characterize him as an upstanding member of this community, or any other.”
Hunting went to retort, his mouth half-open, but DeAngelo banged his gavel twice, cutting him off. “That's enough, counselors,” he said, slamming the gavel again. “You've convinced me, Mr. West. Seeing as he has ties to this motorcycle gang, I'll leave him remanded till his trial date. Court dismissed.”
Cutter was fuming. They were holding him as a flight risk? He hadn't done anything serious! He got up and stormed down the central aisle. He could hear the proceedings continuing behind him, despite the gavel having been sounded multiple times. He stopped to look back, to see if there was any more that would happen.
“But, your honor,” Hunting said, approaching the bench.
“If you'd like to speak to me about this case,” Judge DeAngelo said, his voice level and coldly cruel, “you can see me in my chambers this afternoon. Until then, I am done with this, Mr. Hunting.”
“Yes sir, your honor,” Hunting said, backing off a little.
Raging, Cutter slammed into the exit and pushed out into the hallway, scattering a crowd of civilians. He took as many deep breaths as he could, held them as long as he was able. But, it wasn't any help. He was seeing red. He went and sat on a bench outside the courtroom and put his head down. He clasped his hands together, squeezed them hard, and tried to control his outrage.
When the anger got really bad, he had to do this, had to control himself. In his earlier years, just after high school, he'd discovered that he had a temper, a pit of rage that sat deep inside of him. It was part of how he'd joined the Vanguard in the first place. Apparently, they respected it when a thin gawky guy could take on one of their patched members mano a mano, even if it had been because he lost his temper in a biker bar parking lot. It wasn't till after his first few years in the MC, though, and Smalls talking to him about it, that he'd realized it was a problem. Smalls, who'd been a jarhead in Desert Storm, taught him how to control the anger as best he could. When that kind of anger struck him, in a crowded room or even a public place, that was the last place to lose it.
Cutter didn't know how long he stayed like that, how many minutes he spent just focusing on his breathing like Smalls had taught. Eventually, the anger began to recede from the forefront of his mind. The thunderheads that had reared their ugly faces on the horizon had slipped back behind the curve of the earth. But, they of course were still there. They just weren't a threat to anyone else at the moment. Someone cleared their throat, bringing Cutter back to reality.
“You okay?” Hunting asked. “Tough break in there.”
Cutter didn't glance up. He just nodded, and sat upright, his eyes straight ahead.
“Mind if I sit?” his lawyer asked, gesturing to the bench.
Cutter ran a hand down his face. He'd been up later than he should have the night before with Liona, and had left her sleeping in his bed that morning. All that exhaustion was hitting him like a ton of bricks now. “Sure thing,” Cutter said, not bothering to scoot over or make any room.
Hunting squeezed into the spot next to him, put his briefcase across his lap. He wasn't a small guy, not by any means, but he was almost dwarfed next to Cutter.
“There's nothing we can do,” Cutter asked after a short, but pregnant silence, “is there?”
The lawyer shook his head. “We can try and appeal, but there's no guarantee on that, though.”
“My guy's a sitting duck in there,” Cutter said, his voice low. “Other clubs are going to smell blood in the water and get somebody into lockup, or pay someone already there. Jersey ain't exactly pure as the driven snow, here, and he's got enemies.”
Clubs like the Bolt Riders, the biggest rivals to the Vanguard, had members on the inside. If they heard Cutter's MC was beginning to splinter like this, they'd circle on them faster than a shiver of sharks. That's how it was when you warred over territory. You waited for a sign of weakness. Then you struck. And, right now, as the club was divesting its old business and using the cash to open up new flows, was the worst time. He suddenly felt like Germany invading Russia, like he'd opened a second front in this war. Between the law, and the other gangs in the area, the Vanguard were getting backed into a corner.
Hunting considered Cutter's words for a moment, then sighed. “I could petition for protective custody in there, Cutter, but I'm going to be honest with you: you're probably not going to get it for him.”
There had to be something he could do, though. Something he could pull. Cutter shook his head and ran a hand down his face again. “You gotta have something. You're our lawyer for Christ's sake. Isn't that what we pay you for?”
“Look,” Hunting said, his voice quiet and serious. “I'm going to level with you. Judge DeAngelo's normally a pushover, he only gives a shit about cigars and golf. But Wyland's back early from his vacation, and DeAngelo will do damn near anything Wyland West asks. With the exception of maybe sacrificing his first born, but even that's up for grabs depending on how much Wyland's daddy is offering for the judge's reelection fund. Now, maybe if he wasn't here on the case, something would have been different. But it's an open secret that West's next in line to be DA, and what he wants becomes what everyone else wants. And, apparently, he wants Jersey.”
Cutter's stomach sunk, the pit of it just dropping out and disappearing into oblivion. So, it was all Cutter's fault, in a way. If he hadn't gone to Liona and Wyland's wedding, if he hadn't found her on the side of the road and picked her up, they'd both be in Maui, Cancun, or Paris, or whatever, and Jersey would be more than likely getting out today. Goddammit, why'd he have to think he was so fucking clever?
“Don't look now,” Hunting said, drawing Cutter's decision, “but here's the man of the hour.”
He jerked his head right, just in time to see Wyland coming out of the courtroom. He was surrounded by a gaggle of aids, briefcase in hand. They moved down the corridor, talking as they pressed into the crowd. “No, no,” Wyland said, clear as day, “it was her decision. I don't know why she chose to do it, but I feel like she just needs some space to clear her head and reevaluate some things.”
Cutter went to jump from his seat as he heard those shit-eating words coming out of that shit-eating mouth. DA or not, he was going to slap that smug look off his face, then beat it in just for good measure. “Hey Wyland,” he shouted as he began to rise from the bench.
Hunting lay a hand on his forearm, though, before he could. “Hey,” he hissed. “Get hold of yourself, Cutter. I'm not going to represent someone who flies off the handle like this.”
Wyland, though, had heard the president of the Vanguard's call. He spun around on a heel, easy as he could, a big pearly white grin on his lips like he didn't have a care in the world. His eyes, though, were lit up by something else, something intense and dark. He stuck a hand up in the air and waved to them both, still smiling.
Cutter growled deep in his chest, like a wild animal or a mad dog. Hunting, though, kept his hand on his arm. “Cutter,” he warned.
Without the wave acknowledged by either man, Wyland gave them an expressive fake frown. Then, to Cutter's absolute disbelief, the motherfucker winked at him before turning around to walk away with his assistants and hangers on.
“Did you see that shit, too?” Cutter asked his lawyer.
“Yeah,” Hunting said, shaking his head. “I don't normally say this about people, especially not peers. But, something’s not right about him. And everyone knows it.”
“Really?” Cutter asked.
“Rumors mostly,” Hunting said, “but not much else. Not enough to get him disbarred or anything, that's for sure. Certainly not with his dad in the background like he is.”
“What kind of rumors?”
“The usual. Most people don't believe them, though. But, no one denies he can be a real fucking prick.”
Cutter smirked. “Yeah. And I'm on the receiving end of it right now.”
Michael Hunting gave him a half-smile back and went to stand. “Don't worry about your buddy, Cutter. The case against him is weak, once we can get it to trial.”
“But getting it to trial, that's the problem, isn't it?”
The counselor nodded. “That about sums it up. Think your man will last in there?”
Cutter thought about, then nodded. “Jersey's tough, and we do have some friends on the inside. But, it's gonna-”
Hunting held up his hand, stopping him midstream. “Nope,” he said. “Don't want to know. That's a whole rabbit hole I don't want to go down.”
The big biker nodded. His lawyer had been clear on a few things when they'd put him on retainer: he didn't want to know the full extent of everything. He wanted a somewhat clear conscience on certain things in his life.
“Call if you need anything else,” Hunting said.
Cutter nodded. “Will do.”
The lawyer walked away, briefcase dangling from one hand. Cutter would call if he needed anything that he could get. Deep down in his heart of hearts he knew that he could call every lawyer in the county and they still wouldn't be able to help him. He shook his head and got up from the bench. This wasn't going to be solved with the law, that was for damn sure.