Percy’s right hand rested on the ape hangers. His left arm was extended straight out, toward whoever held the camera.
His middle finger was extended high in the air.
Unware the photo was being taken, I sat behind him, resting my head against his shoulder. My baby bump was pressed tight to his back, and my eyes fixed on the horizon ahead.
I wiped my tears with the heel of my palm, and stood.
Peyton stopped pacing and turned toward me. “Well?”
With the newspaper gripped tightly in my hands, I rested my forearms against my protruding belly. I held photos of two generations of soon to be families, both of which were clinging to a system of beliefs, and seeking freedom.
I turned to face Percy. I needed his approval, but it was clear that he couldn’t speak any better than I. We were both an emotional mess. The article, and the photos, were perfect.
He wiped his tear-filled eyes with his forearm.
I clenched my fist and held it between us, waiting for a yes or a no.
He didn’t make me wait long.
As his knuckles pounded against mine, Peyton screeched.
“It’ll be the front page of Sundays paper,” she said. “That edition is color, but the photos will be black and white.”
A nod was all I could offer her.
Standing in the middle of the driveway, I was a quivering ball of pregnant emotion. Nonetheless, I tilted my head back, looked up, and gave credit where credit was due.
Billy junior will be born in a few months. If he’s half the man you were, and half the man Percy is, maybe he’ll be able to fix this mess.
Until then, keep the shiny side up and the dirty side down.
Tell mom I said hi.
I love you both.
Then, I clenched my fist and held it to the sky.
Dedication
To the real Madden and Turner. I told you when I got where I was going that I was going to write a book. Well, guess what? I wrote forty of them. A cop’s a cop, unless it’s either of you. Then, and only then, a cop’s a damned fine example of mankind.
Be well.
To the real Tink. Snitches get stitches, even in the book.
Because some things never change.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are coincidental.
THICK 1 Edition Copyright © 2017 by Scott Hildreth
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
Cover model: Jacob Wilson
Photographer: Wander Aguiar
Cover design by Jessica: www.JessicaHildrethDesigns.com
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Prologue
I peered through the living room’s ceiling-height window and fixed my gaze on the horizon. The ocean had always been my place to find serenity, but it seemed no matter how long I stared, I remained as apprehensive as the moment I started looking.
I turned around, wearing my best example of a stoic expression. “There’s always what we desire and what we’ll settle for. Historically, these two are measurably different. In this case, however, they’re so close to one another it’s scary.”
Seated at his futuristic turquoise leather sectional, he sipped his scotch. “Scary? I don’t like the sound of that. We’ve been in negotiations for a year, Mr. Reynolds. A year. Niches come and they go. All I can do is hope this one remains longer than it takes us to reach an agreement. If not, we’re both screwed.”
“Which would you prefer?” I asked. “My desire or the bottom line? The bottom line isn’t negotiable.”
He set his scotch on the end table and met my gaze. “Give me the bottom line.”
He was in his mid-sixties and wore his shoulder-length gray hair slicked back against his scalp. His feet were bare and tanned, as was his face. Dressed in off-white linen pants and a light blue button-down linen shirt, he looked the part of the eccentric billionaire that he was.
I was wearing faded jeans, weathered leather boots, and a new wife beater. My thirty-year-old Harley was parked aside his Guards Red Porsche GT3 in front of his twenty-foot-high stone fountain, leaking two drops of oil with each passing second.
I’d been to prison twice, killed more men than he had standing guard at the front of his mansion, and rode with what was quickly becoming recognized as SoCal’s most notorious outlaw motorcycle club.
Yet.
A simple negotiation with him had my stomach in knots.
I clenched my jaw and shot him a stern glare. When he broke my gaze, I knew I had him right where I wanted.
“Three and a half million, seven percent of revenue, a 1971 SS Chevelle, and a place at the--” At a loss for words, I wagged my finger at him, hoping the week’s clutter escaped me before I made a fool of myself. “Whatever you call that thing. The opening. At the opening. A place at the opening for all fellas and their Ol’ Ladies.”
He chuckled a dry laugh and reached for his scotch. “Did you say a 1971 Chevelle?”
“An SS Chevelle. There’s a difference. And not some rust-bucket. It’s got to be restored. With a big block and a four speed.”
He lifted the rim of the glass to the tip of his nose and inhaled a shallow breath. After closing his eyes for a few seconds, he opened them and stood. “Non-negotiable?”
I folded my arms in front of my chest. “I won’t budge.”
He sipped his scotch, transferred the glass to his left hand, and extended his right. “You’ve got a deal, Mr. Reynolds.”
I shook his hand. “I was sure we’d reach an agreement if we took time to meet.”
“I had my reservations,” he said. “A year’s a long time in this industry.”
“I apologize for the delays. It’s been hectic for the last nine months.”
“I can only imagine.” He arched an eyebrow. “Color preference for the car?”
“Red. With white stripes.”
“And, how many tickets? I have a gut feeling it’ll be a packed house.”
“Twenty-four.” I no more than spoke and I had to correct myself. “Make it twenty-three. We just buried one of our men.”
“I heard.” He lowered his chin. “My condolences.”
“He was a good man.”
“I’m sure he was.”
“Is it too late to add something?”
His mouth twisted into a smirk. “Depends on what it is.”
“Can you mention him? You know. At the beginning? Or the end?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
I offered him a nod of appreciation.
“I’ll have a contract for you to sign as soon as it makes it through legal. Let’s say 30 days.”
I shrugged. “Handshake’s good for me.”
He shook his head and then chuckled lightly. “You’re one of a kind, Mr. Reynolds.”
“No,” I said. “I’ve got a handful of brothers that are like carbon copies. You’ll meet them at that thing. The opening.”
“I look forward to it.”
I glanced at my watch. “Well, I’ve got to get. Last thing I need is to get one of LA’s finest on me for not having working turn signals. It’s an hour and a half back to Oceanside.”
He extended his hand. “I’ll have Trent show you out.”
I shook his hand and turned toward the door.
“A premier, Mr. Reynolds. It’s called a premier.”
Chapter Two Hundred Six
Bobbi
I unlocked the hinged food slot and released it. The heavy chunk of iron swung open and slammed against the jail cell’s steel door with a loud bang. After sliding a tray through the opening, I pushed the meal cart to the next cell and repeated the process. For the inmates who were still sleeping, the disruptive sound from my morning’s duties cut through the silence of the institution like an irritating alarm clock.
My interaction with the prisoners during my morning routine was almost nil. Being a female Federal Corrections Officer in an all-male holding center was an oddity. It brought a tremendous amount of attention my direction, not all of which I found desirable or flattering.
I peered through the wire-reinforced glass window and into Tate Reynolds’ cell. Wearing prison issued khakis and a wife beater, he was dressed like everyone else in the prison. The similarities, however, stopped there.
He was polite, kind, and respectful. His ability to maintain a consistently calm demeanor throughout his incarceration intrigued me. I often imagined what my life would be like if I was on the other side of the cell door. Calm and polite weren’t traits I suspected I’d have.
I unlocked the slot and carefully lowered it to the open position. “Reynolds, it’s time for breakfast.”
On the floor of his cell doing pushups, he rose to his feet and turned to face me. A handsome man with colorful tattoos, short brown hair, and a muscular build, he was easy on the eyes.
Wearing a slight smirk and glistening with sweat, he sauntered toward the door. “I was hoping for oatmeal and hard-boiled eggs. What’d you bring me?”
I pushed the tray into the slot and grinned. “Oatmeal, coffee, and two hard-boiled eggs.”
He paused a few feet from the door and crossed his tattooed arms over his broad chest. “Who says dreams don’t come true?”
A member of a notorious Southern California motorcycle club who was arrested while trying to break up a bar fight, he’d been incarcerated for several months while waiting on his hearing. Although I’d been trained not to make eye contact with the inmates – or to show emotion – refraining from those things in his presence wasn’t an easy task.
I tried to look away, but his hazel eyes were just as irresistible as his handsome looks. He met my gaze and I couldn’t help but grin.
“Any word on your hearing?” I asked.
“Postponed it again.” He gave a slight shrug. “Second time they’ve done it.”
“Maybe their case is weak.”
He chuckled a low-pitched but genuine laugh. “I had a gun in one hand and a guy’s neck in the other. Not much to prove, Officer Madden.”
I straightened my posture and lifted my chin. “Stay positive.”
The advice sounded juvenile, and I wished I hadn’t said it. Stay positive. What kind of advice was that? Ridiculous advice, that’s what it was.
“I’m only looking at five years,” he said as if a five-year prison sentence was nothing but a walk in the park. “I can sleep through a five-year bit. It’ll be over in no time, and then I’ll be riding my Harley down the PCH to Oceanside.”
“Are you still going to ride with the motorcycle club when you get out?”
His gaze hardened. “I’m not in this place because of the club. I’ve got no plans to abandon my family, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Every time I talked to him, it seemed I said something I later regretted. I needed to learn to keep my mouth shut, but I found him too easy to talk to, and impossible to ignore.
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” I said in an apologetic tone. “I was just asking.”
“Those men are my brothers. I’d much rather ride with them than alone.” He picked up the tray, gave the oatmeal a stern glare, and then looked at me. “When I get out, I’ll look you up. We’ll go on a poker run or something. You’ll see. They’re a good bunch of fellas.”
He often joked about what things would be like if we’d met on the street. Truthfully, I wished we had. Even if I wanted to spend time with him, doing so would be impossible. Corrections Officers were prohibited from having any contact with the inmates beyond the limits of the institution.
There was nothing in the handbook about daydreaming, though. It was a good thing, because I did plenty of it. “Sounds like a good plan.” I smiled and wondered if it looked cheesy. “Enjoy your breakfast.”
After passing out the food to the remaining inmates, I returned to the observation station. Officer Perry’s attitude met me at the door.
He was pacing the floor at the far end of the office, swinging his keychain in his hand as he walked. It was his only means of exercise. When I entered, he paused. Halfway through a lap, he looked at me and scoffed. “I don’t know when you’re going to learn, Madden. Probably take having one of these dip-shits slip a shank between your ribs to convince you that they’re not good people.”
I sat down in front of a row of monitors, shot him a quick glare, and then turned away. “Jesus, Perry,” I spat. “Nobody’s getting shanked. All I did was ask him if he had a trial date scheduled yet.”
“Keep talking to him like he’s one of your old classmates,” he warned. “Crazy bastard will hunt you down when he gets out of prison – if he gets out – then him and his biker gang will take turns with you and leave you for dead in the alley behind the fish market with your panties dangling off one of your ankles.”
“What the fuck?” I gave him a look. “Graphic much?”
He shrugged. “Happens all the time.”
“It does not,” I snapped. “And, he’s not like that.”
Gazing blankly into the cellblock, he brushed his comb-over across the top of his head with the palm of his hand. The long strands of orange hair flattened against his pink scalp, leaving the top of his head splattered with four one-inch wide stripes of hair.
“They’re all like that,” he seethed.
I gave a half-hearted nod and wagged my eyebrows. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He turned toward me and rested his forearms on the top of his belly. “You need to be invisible to these guys,” he explained. “I’ve been here long enough to know the importance of that.”
Perry had been a corrections officer for ten years, which was nine years and nine months longer than me. After retiring from the military at thirty-eight years old, he started his career as a corrections officer. Balding, and just south of fifty years old, his attitude was as long as his horrible comb-over. He’d spent 20 uneventful years behind a desk in the Navy, and had never seen a moment’s action within the walls of the jail.
To hear him talk, however, he was a seasoned veteran.
He yearned for the opportunity to either beat or pepper spray an inmate, but that day had yet to come. More proof that no one was getting shanked between their ribs in the federal holding facility.
The small wing we worked in housed only the federal inmates. Although they were as threatening as the state controlled population, there were far less of them. It made guarding them – and controlling them – a more manageable task.
“He seems different,” I said.
“That’s because he wants you to see him as different. Believe me, he’s not. He’ll crawl inside your head, get you to lower your guard, and then he’ll stick a sharpened spoon handle in your gut.”
I gazed blankly through the glass and into the cellblock. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Keep up with that dismissive attitude. They’ll be hauling you out of here on a stretcher with a punctured spleen.”
I swiveled my chair to the side and met his stare. “How long have you been here?”
“Ten years, three months, and fourteen days.”
“In that time, how many officers have been shanked? Here in the federal
holding center?”
“None,” he said. “Because we don’t fraternize with them.”
Officer Perry may have had more experience than me, but I knew people. And what I knew about people told me that Tate Reynolds wasn’t going to shove a spoon handle in my gut.
During the few moments we shared each day, I felt appreciated. I realized he was incarcerated, and that talking to him may have been risky, but it was a risk I was willing to take.
I wasn’t a twenty-something one-hundred-pound twig of a girl with a thigh gap someone could watch television through. I was a thirty-something with thighs that chafed from rubbing against each other when I walked. I ate salads and did two hours of cardio a day so I could refrain from abandoning my status of seriously overweight and morphing into obesity.
I found society’s labels ridiculous, and often wondered why if I was comfortable with myself, society couldn’t become comfortable with me?
“As long as he treats me with respect, I’ll do the same with him,” I said. “If he shanks me with a spoon handle, then you can say I told you so.”
“Believe me, I’ll say it,” he said with a crisp nod. “While I’m mopping up the blood.”
Chapter Two Hundred Seven
Tate
He checked his watch and then reached for his briefcase. “I’ll need a response. I can’t proceed without your direction.”
Being handcuffed to a steel table while I met with my attorney did little to support the innocent until proven guilty facet of the law. I tugged against my restraints and then met his curious gaze.
His bronze skin resembled leather, and it went hand-in-hand with his sun-bleached blonde hair that he wore carefully combed into a ducktail.
I held his gaze and slowly cocked an eyebrow. “Your best advice is for me to plead guilty?”
He looked me over as if I were filth. “You are guilty.”
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