Page 22 of Thick

His anger toward the incident gave me some comfort in telling him about Tate’s past conviction. “Well. He was charged with starting a riot in protest of the not guilty verdict of that officer.”

He sipped his coffee, and then set the cup aside. “Anyone get hurt?”

“No.”

“Shots fired?”

“No.”

His eyes narrowed. “Was it a peaceful protest?”

“Pretty much. People picketing.”

“Bikers?”

“No. It was just angry citizens. I read the report in his file. According to him, he was riding down the street and pulled over when he saw the people protesting. According to the cops, he changed a peaceful protest into a riot. A few windows were broken by protestors who were throwing rocks and beer bottles, and that’s what brought on the charges.”

“Is he a Hells Angel?”

“No.”

“Is he that kind of biker? The kind that rides in a gang?”

“He’s not a Hells Angel, but yeah. He’s in a biker gang.”

“Tattoos?”

I laughed. “Yeah.”

“Wears a leather vest with a logo on the back and such?”

“Yep.”

“That’s why they charged him. That vest and that insignia made him a target.” He reached for his coffee. “That was his original crime?”

“That’s it.”

“What about the second charge. Why’d he have a gun?”

“That’s another good one. Get this. He was in a bar and a fight broke out. He stepped in to help a guy who was being beaten by a group of men, and when things got out of hand, someone handed him a gun. That someone was an ATF agent, and when he accepted the gun, he was arrested. That’s why the US Attorney’s Office dropped the charges. The ATF agent set the whole thing up.”

“Both incidents are a perfect example of the risks associated with the choices we make.”

I looked at him in disbelief. “So, he shouldn’t be a biker because of the risks it brings?”

“I didn’t say that. Regardless of who he might be, a good portion of society will always look at him with jaded eyes. They’ll see him as the biker that’s portrayed on the news. The one who shoots up the other bikers in a bar fight or manufactures dope for a living.” He reached for his coffee. “Does he have a job?”

I laughed. “You’ll love this.”

“He’s an aeronautical engineer?”

“No, better.”

“A hairdresser?”

“Almost. He’s a romance novelist.”

Midway through a sip of his coffee, he coughed the drink into his cup and then looked at me no differently than if I’d just told him I was going to have triplets. “He writes romance books? Like your mother used to read?”