EX-CON

by Scott Hildreth

  “In ten minutes? That can’t be good,” I said under my breath.

  He shook his head, “Hard saying. Might be good, might be bad.”

  In a slight state of shock, I followed him into the courtroom. After finding my seat beside my attorney, I gazed around the courtroom and eventually fixed my eyes on Sydney and her friends. Win, lose, or draw, I appreciated all they had done for me. If nothing else, Avery had secured Sydney a spot in my life as a pen pal forever.

  “Counsel, please stand,” the judge said into the microphone.

  My attorney and I stood. He turned his head to face me and whispered.

  “No matter what the outcome, hold your head high,” he said.

  I swallowed heavily and nodded my head once, “I will.”

  The judge cleared his throat and gazed out into the courtroom as he spoke, “I want it understood there will be no outbursts in my courtroom, regardless of the verdict.”

  The judge turned toward the jury.

  “Has the jury reached a verdict?” the judge asked.

  The foreman nodded his head, “Yes, your honor, we have.”

  “In the matter of Jackson Shephard versus the United States of America, what say you?” the judge asked.

  I gazed down at the floor.

  Your will, not mine, Lord.

  “In the matter of Jackson Shephard versus the United States, we the jury, find him not guilty; as he was entrapped by the ATF to commit the crime listed in the indictment, your honor,” the foreperson responded.

  Not guilty?

  Not?

  I glanced over my left shoulder. Sydney sat between a man and a woman with her hands covering her mouth, crying. I shifted my eyes toward my attorney.

  They said ‘not guilty’.

  Not.

  Guilty.

  I swallowed the apple sized lump in my throat and tried my best to appear to be level-headed.

  “So now what? Back to Big Sandy for a bit? Another appeal on their part?” I asked.

  He shook his head and grinned as he patted me on the shoulder.

  “In the court’s eyes, the government forced you to commit a crime. They entrapped you. You’re not guilty, you’re a free man, Mr. Shephard,” he responded as he reached toward the mound of paperwork in front of him.

  My throat constricted. I stood and stared blankly beyond him as the jury walked away. My eyes welled with tears. I gazed down at the floor and stared for a few seconds. Finally, I swallowed heavily and shifted my tear filled eyes upward.

  “Free?” I asked, “It’s over? That’s it?”

  “Free to do whatever you want. As a matter of law, you’ve never been convicted of a felony. Congratulations,” he said.

  There was really only one thing I wanted. Well, two, but only one I could take care of immediately.

  “Can I go hug my sis?” I asked.

  “You can do whatever you want, Mr. Shephard, you’re a free man,” he responded.

  Free? How free?

  I turned and attempted to stay standing on my shaking legs. Although I fully expected to be tackled and handcuffed by US Marshall’s if I continued, I took a few steps toward Sydney. Nothing happened. I continued to walk toward her. She stood beside a man crying. He stood an easy six foot six and seemed to be solid muscle. I wondered if he was her boyfriend. Slowly, I continued walking in her direction, peering over my shoulder as I approached, expecting a guard to stop me before I got to where she stood. I bit my lower lip and continued until I had walked all the way across the courtroom.

  This can’t be happening.

  I released my quivering lip, opened my arms, and grinned. Somehow, I managed to speak.

  “Gimme a hug, sis,” I said.

  She vaulted herself over the handrail and onto the floor beside me, almost tackling me as she did so. As she held me in her arms, she blubbered into my shoulder. Half embarrassed by my emotional state, I leaned into her and wiped my eyes on the shoulders of her jacket. After a few minutes of sobbing, she collected herself and looked up into my eyes.

  “We’ve got a place for you to stay for as long as you want. You’ll have your own room. And Cambio’s got a bike you can ride. His old Softail, he said you can have it. He said you won’t be truly free until you can ride,” she said excitedly, wiping tears from her face as she spoke.

  I glanced to her left. A man wearing a cut with the Sergeant-At-Arms ribbon stood at her side. His patch read Toad.

  I cleared my throat and extended my hand, “You Syd’s man?” I asked.

  He nodded his head as he reached for my hand, “Toad.”

  “Jack,” I said as I shook his hand.

  “Well, you ready to get out of this shit-hole?” he asked.

  I glanced around the courtroom. With the exception of us, the room was empty. As hard as it was to believe, it appeared I truly was a free man. The thought of not going back to prison still hadn’t quite sank in. I turned toward Toad, realized I probably shouldn’t try and speak, and chose to simply nod my head once.

  “You up for a ride?” he asked.

  I nodded my head again in agreement.

  The man standing behind him raised his hand in the air. “Saddle up,” he said.

  Saddle up.

  I never thought I’d hear those words again.

  Sydney stood beside me, grinning and crying softly. I glanced around the courtroom as all of the fellas began walking toward the door. Normally, hearing my little sis cry would cause me pain, but at that moment it was music to my ears.

  I still didn’t feel free, and as awkward as it seemed as I walked out of the courtroom, a certain comfort washed over me.

  I had a second chance to live my life.

  And I intended to do just that.

  Live my life.

  JACK

  Very few men were provided a second chance in life. Having an opportunity to make changes in life, once the time has passed, is procedurally and physically impossible. For some reason, however, I was being given a chance to do so.

  And, I intended to make it count.

  “So you’re telling me I can ride that little softie anywhere I want?” I asked.

  Toad glanced up from polishing the tank on his bagger.

  “Sure can,” he said, “As far as I’m concerned, it’s yours.”

  “It’s yours, and as soon as I get a few things taken care of, I’ll pay you for it. Just really needing to know if I can take it out on the road alone,” I asked as I pushed the plug into the top of the oil tank.

  “You can do anything you want with it. I realize it’s not as road worthy as a bagger, but it’ll have to do,” he said over his shoulder.

  “No disrespect, I see you and a few of the other fellas ride baggers, but I never had much use for ‘em. Riding a house on wheels isn’t riding as far as I’m concerned. Hell, I’ve ridden from one coast to the other on a Softail. Anything I need can be strapped down or worn. I’ll strap a bedroll to the ape hangers and wash my clothes in a river. That’s fucking riding,” I said.

  “That’s old school as fuck,” he said with a laugh.

  “So, you ain’t gonna trip if I take it for a day or so?” I asked, realizing I was still talking in prison speak.

  “Take it wherever you want,” he said, “I mean it. Consider it yours.”

  “Appreciate ya,” I said with a nod as I turned away.

  I walked to the workbench and picked up a clean rag. After several minutes of wiping the dust from areas that seemed to have never been cleaned, I stood back and admired the bike. It was black, covered in chrome, and actually just as nice as the bike I had ridden for most of my life. Many men felt a need to upgrade, buy accessories, and add useless pieces of attached shit to their motorcycles. I, on the other hand, had always felt less was more; leaving my motorcycle as stripped down as possible.

  Having only what I needed and nothing more allowed me to truly feel free when I rode. There was never a feeling of need on my part for creature comforts on a motorcyc
le. A CD player, cruise control, a windshield, and hard saddle bags would cause me to feel no differently than if I was riding in a car, and as far as I was concerned, cages were reserved for my ride to my final destination.

  The cemetery.

  And I was far from dying.

  “Good looking little sled,” I said as I admired the bike.

  Toad nodded his head and grinned, “It’s alright.”

  He was a man of few words, but from everything I could see, and what little I had heard, he was rock solid. After hearing the story of how he stepped in front of a man who was trying to shoot one of his former Marine brethren, I realized I wasn’t the only one who took protecting the ones I loved as a way of life and not a choice. He explained he didn’t make a decision to step in front of the gun and get shot, but that it was his natural reaction to a potentially violent situation. Something inside of him caused him to naturally react. No differently, from what he said, than swatting at a mosquito or scratching an itch. In the end, he was shot in the chest, and hospitalized with a collapsed lung, broken collar bone, and comatose.

  By the grace of God he pulled out of the coma and recovered fully. He, not unlike me, was given a second chance.

  “It’s fucking perfect, is what it is,” I stated.

  “Well, brother, if you’re happy, I’m happy,” he said over his shoulder.

  Almost immediately I felt closer to him than I had ever felt to any of my brothers in Hell’s Fury, partially because he reminded me of me. His suffering from PTSD and the fact he was provided with what I perceived to be another chance at living life made me more comfortable accepting him than most of the other men I had met, because I realized I also suffered from PTSD, and I was given a second chance.

  Damned near a decade in prison would cause even the most stable of souls to suffer.

  I felt I was accepting Toad as more of an actual brother - the one I never had growing up - than a brother in the MC sense. My sister was happy with him, engaged to be married, and so deeply in love that it was almost difficult for me to witness. Each and every time I saw their expressed love for each other, and it was quite frequent, it reminded me of my loss.

  “Syd’s cooking dinner, should be ready in a few,” he said as he wiped his hands on a rag.

  I shook my head, “Love to stay, but I have a few things I got to take care of. Might be a day or two, but I’ll be back.”

  He lifted his chin slightly and locked his eyes on mine. “Need someone to roll with ya?”

  I shifted my gaze down to my feet.

  “No. Just have a few things I need to take care of,” I said.

  I missed Em deeply. A hollow shell of my former self, I wondered if it would even be possible that I would one day return to the loving, caring man I had once been. Expressing emotion in prison made a man an easy target, and over time, all prisoners became hardened and not only less willing, but less capable of feeling anything at all. In prison, letting go of the ability to feel emotion was the only thing that allowed a man to truly survive.

  Now, trying to remember how to allow emotion to become a part of my day-to-day activities wasn’t difficult, it was proving to be impossible. Although I didn’t share my thoughts with anyone regarding my feelings of being insensitive, I hoped one day I would be able to return to the living.

  “Sure you don’t want to eat first?” he asked.

  “Get something on the road,” I responded.

  “Tell Sydney I’ll see her in a couple days,” I said.

  “Tell her yourself?” he asked, his voice filled with a slight bit of hope.

  I shifted my eyes up from the bike and stared at him for a short time.

  “Alright. Well, be safe, brother,” he said.

  I rolled the pair of jeans, clean boxers, and a few wife beaters I had brought into the garage in a blanket and strapped the roll to the handlebars. As he stood and studied me, I started the bike, backed it out of the garage, and offered a nod of my head as I released the clutch and pointed the bike north. My only hope was that I didn’t get pulled over by the police, because one thing I didn’t have was a driver’s license; something on my list, but far from a priority.

  The Selected Sinners had all but immediately voted to make me a fully patched member, providing me with a sense of family, brotherhood, and self-worth. For reasons I wasn’t able to explain, I hadn’t quite accepted brotherhood as being something I was quite ready for. I accepted the patch and the responsibility that came along with it, but accepting a group of men as necessary part of my life wasn’t something that was coming to me naturally.

  For now, physically, I was somewhat of a loner.

  And emotionally, I was alone.

  JACK

  After a ninety mile ride, I rolled into town feeling alone, nervous, and for the first time I could ever remember, scared. Rolling along so slowly the motorcycle barely stayed upright, I turned each corner without thought. The town had changed very little, no differently than I expected. Finally, I turned the last corner, and came down the small hill.

  The car in the driveway was my first hint. The perfectly manicured lawn was my second. As I rolled closer, the sound of the exhaust popping behind me, the name on the mailbox provided all of the confirmation I needed. I killed the ignition, rolled to a stop, and swept the kickstand down with the heel of my boot.

  I attempted to swallow, almost choked, and stepped over the seat. The last time I had seen the outside of the house, I was being dragged into a government Suburban by two ATF agents. The memories were more than I was prepared to deal with, and although the majority of them were good ones, it seemed like the life was being choked out of me as I gazed at the front porch. I inhaled a deep breath, tilted my head to the sky, and exhaled. As I sauntered up the sidewalk toward the front door, my heart began to race in anticipation of what I expected was sure to come.

  I rang the doorbell and stepped back two steps. After a moment, the door opened.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  I bit my lower lip, nodded my head, and attempted to maintain my composure.

  “Yes, ma’am…I uhhm…I used to live here. It’s been a bit, say almost ten years, but I was uhhm…I was…I was shipped out in kind of a hurry, and I left someone here. Her name was Emily Stewart. Would you have any idea of where she might have gone?” I asked, fighting against the emotion that boiled within me as I spoke.

  She shook her head.

  “I’m sorry, I moved in last October. It’s just a place I’m renting while I’m working out at the airport. Sorry,” she responded.

  I shifted my eyes up from the toes of my boots, and nodded my head. As I pointed toward the back yard, I tried to explain my other need.

  “I uhhm,” I murmured as I wagged my finger toward the fence.

  Her eyes widened slightly and she stood waiting patiently for me to continue.

  “Yes?” she said, attempting to get me to continue.

  I shook my head and lowered my hand to my side.

  “Nevermind,” I said, “Thank you for your time.”

  “The library has internet. You might try, maybe you can find something about her there,” she said as I turned away.

  I glanced over my shoulder and tried my best to smile, “Thank you.”

  The time I had spent in prison, away from any means of technology had left my mind - and me - in the stone ages. Something as simple and common as the internet had escaped me as even being a possibility. I hadn’t stroked the keys on a computer in almost ten years, and as far as I knew, they didn’t even exist. Her very kind and sure to be useful suggestion had me feeling like a complete fool.

  I sat on the bike and watched as she shut the door. After starting the engine and riding half way around the block, I pulled over, parked, and removed my leather gloves from the bedroll. I pulled the gloves onto my hands, clenched my fists a few times, and walked up the driveway of a home I didn’t immediately recognize.

  After jumping over their fence and into t
heir yard, I walked confidently to the far side of the fence and lifted myself over it and into the easement. A few more steps and I climbed over the wooden security fence and into the adjoining yard.

  I stood and stared.

  Right where I had planted it, it remained. Now three times larger than when I had last seen it, the rose bush completely covering the trellis. I glanced around the yard, stooped down, and walked immediately behind it for cover.

  After gripping the base of the bush with my gloved hands, I pulled for all I was worth. Although it moved slightly, it didn’t uproot itself at all. I bent at the knees, gripped a little tighter, and thought of the day they were screaming at Emily in the living room, guns drawn and acting like the jack-booted thugs they really were.

  I straightened my knees, pulled with every ounce of muscle I had worked ten years to develop, and growled from deep within my lungs.

  Slowly, the bush lifted from the earth and snapped free of the soil. I set the large ball of roots to the side, leaned down, and dug in the soft soil of the large void. After a few seconds, the green plastic of the box I had buried was right below the tips of my fingers. After I brushed the dirt free of the box, I lifted it from the hole, hoping the rubber gasketed weather-proof box was as good in real-life as the advertisements claimed.

  I tucked the box under my arm, walked to the fence, and tossed it over into the easement. After climbing over the two remaining fences, I walked to my bike and removed the tool kit from under the seat. I carefully worked the screwdriver against the dirt-covered latches for a few minutes, and they eventually popped free. Eager to look inside, I shoved the screwdriver into my front pocket, opened the box, and peered inside.

  Just the same as the day I left it.

  I grinned, glanced up and down the block, and pulled the pistol from the box. It appeared to be as perfect as the day I placed it in the box, which was surprising considering the weather and the amount of time that had passed. I nodded my head in appreciation of the quality of the box I had chosen. I leaned forward and shoved the pistol into the center of the bedroll, removed the magazine, ammunition, and money from the box, and dropped the empty box beside the curb where I was parked.