LOVER COME BACK_An Unbelievable But True Love Story

by Scott Hildreth

  He claimed he didn’t provide me with the transfer paperwork. My attorney produced the ink-signed form which had been confiscated from my vehicle at the time of arrest. The dealer then opted to exercise his right under the Fifth Amendment not to testify any further for fear he would incriminate himself.

  I found out years later that they forced him to testify, threatening prosecution if he chose not to.

  On that note, the trial ended. The judge provided the jury with instructions to allow entrapment as a legal defense. They deliberated for three days. Moments before the judge was prepared to declare a mistrial, the jury announced a verdict had been reached.

  “Have you reached a verdict?” the judge asked.

  “We have, your honor,” the foreperson replied.

  The judge cleared his throat. “How do you find the defendant?”

  “On count one, we find the defendant not guilty,” the foreperson announced.

  I felt faint. I was halfway there. The sweet taste of victory caused me to salivate.

  “On count two,” he continued. “We find the defendant guilty.”

  My heart faltered.

  According to my attorney, it was common for a jury faced with multiple charges and little damning evidence to find guilt on one count, and innocence on the other.

  After the guilty verdict was reached, the judge released me. I went home as if nothing happened. He ordered a ninety-day long investigation into my character. After the investigation, a sentencing date was set.

  It was now time for me to learn what my future held. The judge rifled through a stack of paperwork, appeared to read something, and then looked up.

  “Mister Hildreth,” he said, his quaking voice giving indication to the century-long life he’d lived. “I’ve reviewed the evidence, the transcripts from the trial, and the notes from the ATF agent’s investigation. I do not believe you had any intention to possess the machine gun in question, nor do I believe you had any intentions to possess machine guns prior to the offense in question. There is no place in the law, however, for me to second-guess the jury. That jury, need I remind you, found you guilty.”

  He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk, scanned it with his eyes, and then handed it to the bailiff, who in turn handed it to the stenographer.

  “Despite my belief of your innocence,” he continued. “You chose trial by jury. You now stand before me a guilty man. My sentencing today will be indicative of my belief of your lack of intention to possess the firearm in question. Furthermore, I have spoken to the prosecution’s office, and they have agreed not to appeal my decision or my sentencing. I hereby sentence you to three years of probation.”

  My attorney’s knees buckled.

  Mine did the same.

  I’d studied law for three years, spending almost twelve hours a day with my nose stuffed in one of over three-dozen legal books. I knew enough about federal law to know the judge didn’t have the latitude to do what he’d just done. The federal sentencing guidelines prohibited it.

  He’d done it, nonetheless.

  If the appellate court didn’t find out about the lenient sentence, nothing would be done to modify it into a prison sentence. I could serve my probation, stay out of prison, and live my remaining days on earth a free man.

  The laws of double jeopardy would prevent me from ever being resentenced after the probation time was served. The only way the appellate court would find out about the judge’s sentencing was if I chose to appeal the case.

  In the absence of an appeal, I would remain free, forever. To accept the punishment of probation, however, I must accept the guilt. Taking ownership for a crime I didn’t commit – or intend to commit – wasn’t something I could do.

  The world I lived in was black and white. There was right, and there was wrong. There was no in between. Gray didn’t exist. In this circumstance, I was right. The jack-booted thugs in the ATF had proven their willingness to botch an investigation in places like Ruby Ridge and Waco, Texas. They were now proving it in Wichita, Kansas.

  I had news for them. The man who stood before them was courageous enough to take his case to the US Supreme Court steps.

  I leaned to the side and whispered in my attorney’s ear. “May I speak?”

  “You want to address the judge?” he asked.

  “Yes, Sir,” I responded. “I do.”

  My attorney, a former Marine officer, Vietnam War combat veteran, retired Golden Gloves boxer, and Notre Dame graduate, was a hard ass on his best day.

  He gave me a stern look. “Proceed with caution and respect,” he whispered. “No outbursts.”

  I faced the judge. “Your honor, I appreciate your belief of my innocence, and equally appreciate your expression of such in your sentencing of me today. It saddens me to inform you, however, that I must appeal this case to the appellate court. I would like to go on the record as saying that this decision will be appealed. Consider this timely notice.”

  My attorney gripped my bicep. “Your honor, my client will be advised of the risks taken if an appeal is filed. Be advised if we so choose to appeal, a notice will be given in writing—”

  “Your honor,” I interrupted. “In accordance with the Federal Rules of Criminal Procedure, consider that timely notice of appeal has been given on this date.”

  “Mister Hildreth,” the judge said. “It is your right to appeal the finding of the jury, and your further right to appeal this sentencing. If you choose to do so, and the end result is a loss, I will have no other recourse but to send you to prison. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, your honor, I do.”

  “As we speak, however, you are a free man.”

  “I understand, your honor.”

  “If you so choose to appeal,” he said. “Good luck, and may God be with you.”

  I accepted the sentencing. Against the advice of my attorney, I went on to appeal the guilty conviction, risking going to prison in doing so. Based on the grounds that I was coerced by ATF agents to commit a crime I wasn’t predisposed to commit, a brief was filed with the appellate court. Two-and-a-half years later, six months before completing my sentence of probation, I lost the appeal.

  I went on to appeal the case to the US Supreme Court.

  They didn’t hear my case. It wasn’t surprising, as they only hear one percent of the cases they’re presented.

  It was the same as a loss.

  When I went back in front of the judge, he had already celebrated his one-hundredth birthday. He imposed an unprecedented sentence of just less than three years in prison, rewriting federal law in respect to machine gun possession when he did so. Furthermore, he allowed me to remain at large and later surrender to US Marshalls to begin serving my prison sentence.

  Three months later, I surrendered proudly, knowing I fought until the bitter end without giving up, or giving in.

  The date was September eleventh.

  Chapter Two

  I was being escorted by a man who had a swastika tattooed on the back of his shaved head. I followed him toward a prison cell at the end of the cellblock. The door was flanked by two men whose faces, arms, and legs were covered with tattoos. Upon entering the crowded space, the foul odor of hatred enveloped me like a sickness.

  Each of the inmates who lined the cell’s walls were covered from head to toe in various tattoos, all of which appeared to be the product of a prison-fashioned tattoo gun. Swastikas, Schutzstaffel lightning bolts, and the numbers fourteen and eighty-eight seemed to be the common theme amongst the men who were greeting me with clenched jaws and side-eyed stares.

  My presence wasn’t a matter of choice. I was brought there at the request of the shot caller for the prison’s Skin Head gang.

  Wearing nothing more than a pair of cut-off sweats and black lace-up boots, a man stood at the far end of the twelve-foot-long cell. In case anyone was uncertain of his loyalties, he had the words Skin and Head tattooed across his forehead. A swastika centered above the bridge of his nose separ
ated the two words.

  His bulging biceps and washboard abs gave indication as to how he’d spent his prison sentence. In prison, men took on one of three body structures. Skin and bones, from not eating entirely. Obese, from eating everything in sight, or they were covered in muscles from head to toe from spending all their idle time exercising.

  After sizing me up, his sinister blue eyes met mine.

  I held his gaze, knowing if I looked away that it would be perceived as a sign of weakness.

  He stroked his six-inch long goatee with the web of his hand. “Ever done time before?” he asked, his voice raspy and dry.

  “I have.”

  He walked half the short distance that separated us, which was just enough to give me a demonstration of his exaggerated prison swagger.

  He looked me up and down. “Where’d you do time?”

  “I did state time in Kansas twenty years ago. Drugs.”

  “Ever done Federal time?”

  “Not until now.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “You’ve been here three days, and you about popped off a riot in the chow hall. You’ve got a lot to learn about doing time here.”

  In the seventy-two hours that I’d been incarcerated, someone had taken it upon himself to call me a snitch. The instant the words passed his lips, I unleashed a flurry of punches, stopping only when he was lying in a pile at my feet.

  In prison, having the label of a snitch was comparable to being a child molester or a rapist. I was victim of an undercover ATF sting operation for firearms violations. I had never spoken a word to an ATF investigator short of a fuck you in passing.

  I was the polar opposite of a snitch.

  “He got his ass beat because he was a disrespectful prick,” I said dryly. “I don’t see the problem.”

  He lifted his chin slightly. “Might have been different in a state joint, but in here you can’t go busting every black in the head that pisses you off. If you do, it’ll pop off a riot. A riot puts all of us on lockdown. When we’re on lockdown, I’m out of business. When I’m out of business, I get ugly.”

  I didn’t bother telling him that there was nothing he could do to rid himself of the ugly that oozed from his every pore.

  I stood within arm’s reach of him, considering my response in silence. I was raised to believe that all men were created equal. Neither religion, race, nor creed were grounds for segregation. Witnessing a man’s actions was the only way of knowing who he truly was. In my forty-three years on earth, I’d learned that there was good and bad in all religions and races.

  I’d fought the man in question because he was disrespectful toward me. Skin color had nothing to do with it. His actions alone earned him the ass whipping.

  “It wasn’t a black-white thing,” I explained. “He was disrespectful. I didn’t know I needed to get permission to stand up for myself.”

  His eyes thinned. “There’s a hierarchy here. Following it is critical to this joint’s success. If a white treats you with disrespect, bust him up. If a black or Mexican does it, come tell me. I’ll have a sit-down with their shot caller. Depending on the circumstances, you might get permission to take care of him. That permission comes from me, and me only.”

  The prison had a set of unwritten rules that, if followed, allowed it to function in a manner that minimized arguments and fights amongst the inmates. The men were separated into cliques, with each group sharing the belief that they were superior. In the absence of threat or argument, they were left to believe their opinions of themselves were true and correct.

  Raining on the man’s parade who stood before me wasn’t going to do either of us any good. So, without necessarily agreeing, I agreed.

  “Fair enough,” I said.

  He looked me up and down. “It’s tough finding a man willing to fight for what he believes in. We can always make a place for another stand up white boy.”

  “I’ve got three years to do,” I said. “I’ll just stay out of everyone’s way and do my time alone.”

  “Fair enough,” he said mockingly.

  I turned toward the door and peered into the cell block. Four televisions were mounted high on the ceiling with the screens angled toward the men who were gathered beneath them.

  One was surrounded by whites, one by blacks, and one by Hispanics. The last was being watched by various other races who were in the minority. The segregation of the men wasn’t by choice. A television was assigned to each race by the prison’s warden.

  He was of the opinion it solved problems.

  I was of the opinion it was the first step in creating them.

  With a mesh laundry bag draped over my shoulder, I gazed through the glass door and into the prison’s courtyard. No differently than the other eighteen hundred prisoners housed inside the brick walls of the institution, I’d spent every waking hour locked inside. I hadn’t seen sunlight or stood beneath the open sky for almost three years. I was anxious to gulp the fresh air and feel the warm summer sun on my face.

  The door’s bolt shot open with a metallic clank. I glanced over my shoulder. Four sets of doors separated me from the cell block to my rear. I turned toward the one door that separated me from freedom and took a few hesitant steps.

  Nothing happened.

  I took a few more.

  Still nothing. Apparently, they were truly going to let me walk out of there.

  I inhaled a deep breath and walked through the door with authority, pushing it open as if I’d earned my place on the free side of the three-inch thick steel-reinforced glass.

  The sweet smell of freshly-cut grass hit me like a clenched fist. Immediately behind it, the scent of various flowers tickled my nostrils. I closed my eyes and grinned.

  It was over. I was free.

  “Hildreth,” a familiar voice said from beside me.

  I opened my eyes and turned toward the voice. Dressed in full uniform, one of the prison’s guards stood at the edge of the steps.

  Cambridge was an intimidating figure. Physically fit to a point that it disguised his age of fifty-five, he loomed over most of the inmates, standing six-foot-eight in boots. He wore his gray hair in a buzz cut, despite being out of the military for twenty years.

  I’d worked under his watch for my entire prison stint. We were far from friends, but we’d become as friendly toward one another as an inmate and corrections officer could.

  “Cambridge?” I asked. “What’s going on? You’re not taking me back in there, are you?”

  He pushed his hands into his pockets, looked me over, and then shook his head lightly. “I’ve worked here for eighteen years. In those eighteen years, I’ve never encountered anyone like you. Hell, I’ve never met anyone like you, anywhere.”

  A look of confusion washed over me. “You waited out here to tell me that?”

  “I waited out here to ask you to do me a favor,” he explained.

  Despite my newfound freedom, it seemed odd having a prison guard ask a favor of me. I set my bag on the ground at my side. “You want a favor from me?”

  “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid,” he said. “Don’t kill that guy that testified against you, and don’t kill that ATF agent, either. Just get back to living life. A man like you can make a difference on this earth, but not if he’s in here.”

  Early in my incarceration, I’d expressed anger toward the two men he’d mentioned. Eventually, however, I forgave them for what they’d done. I found it troubling that he’d learned of conversations I had in private, but quickly remembered that nothing was truly private in prison.

  “I’m not going to kill anyone,” I assured him. “At least not either of those two idiots.”

  “What are you going to do?” he asked. “For work?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged dismissively. “Maybe I’ll write a book.”

  “A book?” His mouth twisted into a half-assed smirk. “What kind of book?”

  “Something heartwarming,” I responded jokingly. “Infu
sed with my opinions and beliefs, of course. Maybe a little sex.”

  “If anyone could do it and succeed at it, it’d be you.” He extended his hand. “Take care of yourself, Hildreth.”

  I didn’t simply shake a man’s hand when it was offered. I’d offended many by not shaking their hands, and looked at doing so as an endorsement, of sorts. An agreement that the man attached to the hand I was shaking was morally equal to me. It was a habit that I developed from twenty-five years of being a biker.

  I accepted his outstretched hand, shook it, and grinned. “Do the same, Cambridge.”

  Chapter Three

  I pushed the garage door up to shoulder-height and peered inside the unlit space. What was left of a lifetime of accomplishments was shoehorned into a ten-foot-wide by twenty-foot-long storage facility.

  After I surrendered to US Marshalls, my home – and a good part of what I owned – was sold by the men in my Motorcycle Club. Ironically, even though my father despised the men who forced him to move away from what he considered to be paradise, I’d become one of them.

  A biker.

  The proceeds from what was sold was used to pay attorney’s fees, fines, and provide me with a monthly income while in prison.

  My remaining belongings were set aside and placed in storage. I wasn’t completely certain of what was left, because I hadn’t spoken to anyone in the MC for two and a half years. Short of my father and children, I’d chosen to separate myself from all friends and family while I was incarcerated. No phone calls, no visits, and no opened letters.

  It allowed me to serve my sentence alone. Dragging anyone else into wide range of emotions that were associated with incarceration wasn’t something I cared to do.

  Just inside the garage door, my chopper sat, covered in dust. Upon seeing it, a lump rose in my throat. I faced Teddy and swallowed heavily.

  “You guys kept it?” I asked.

  “Chico took out a loan against it so he could give your kids Christmas presents and buy ‘em clothes. He paid it off a couple of months ago.”