Page 5 of Thick

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.”