HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  “You little cock sucker, I knew it,” Jackson said as he kicked his foot toward the man.

  “If any one of you cock suckers touches a hair on her head, I’ll fucking kill you,” Jackson shouted as they dragged him through the door.

  “Ma’am, get down on the floor,” a man in front of me demanded.

  “I want to exercise my right to…uhhm…to remain silent. And I want to speak to an attorney,” I said, surprised at how calm I seemed to be.

  In hindsight, I was probably in shock.

  “Ma’am, I’m not going to tell you again, get down on the floor. Do you have any weapons in the home?” he asked.

  The tears began to roll down my cheeks. Everything I had dreamed of, everything I wanted, and the only man I had ever loved were all beginning to spin in my head, and I had no idea of what was truly happening. The sounds surrounding me became dull, distant, and impossible to comprehend.

  And, for some reason, I remembered nothing until two men were screaming questions in my face while I was handcuffed to a table in what I was told were the ATF offices.

  And I began to cry.

  Chapter One Hundred Seventy-Two

  JACK

  October 4th, 2006

  My entire world came crashing down in front of me as the ATF, US Marshalls, and the local SWAT team stormed into our home. Now, being questioned by a man I never liked, had a difficult time trusting, and rarely even spoke to was becoming harder and harder to accept as reality.

  “Mr. Shephard, I’m Special Agent Blackburn with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives. For a few years, you’ve known me as Lucky. You, Sir, are in a world of shit,” he said as he paced back and forth in the small interrogation room.

  “I suggest you cooperate,” the other agent sighed as he stood from his seat.

  “Where’s Emily?” I asked.

  “She’s in the other interrogation room,” Blackburn responded.

  “They’re pounding on her right now. She’s going to give you, the club, and every one of your brothers up, women always do,” Blackburn chuckled.

  “Meant what I said earlier, if any one of you pricks touches her, I’ll fucking kill you,” I hissed.

  “See that?” Blackburn said as he pointed up toward the center of the upper wall opposite of where I was seated.

  “That’s a camera. And it records sound. And you just threatened to kill and ATF agent. You’re double fucked, Shephard,” he said.

  I shook my head and pulled against the handcuffs.

  “Where’s my attorney?” I asked.

  “Must be stuck in traffic,” Blackburn shrugged.

  “Now, I’m going to ask questions, and you’re going to answer them, understand?” he asked.

  I didn’t respond.

  Blackburn rested his hand on the leather badge holder that was clipped to his belt. With his free hand, he rubbed the stubble of a few days growth of beard as he paced back and forth.

  “You’ve been indicted for conspiring to commit murder, using a firearm in furtherance of a crime, making a terroristic threat, dealing firearms without a license, money laundering, and failure to file federal tax returns for the last five years. In short, Killer, you’re fucked. Now, you’re best bet will be to admit to your crimes, and Pratt and I will have a talk with the US Attorney and see if we can get a departure on your sentence. Right now, with the RICO Act, you’re looking at life.”

  He fixed his eyes on mine and glared.

  “I know it’s a difficult thing to grasp right now, but you need to think of how you want to proceed. You haven’t got much time, and our capacity to modify your sentence ends when this case is filed, right Pratt?” he said as he turned to face the other agent.

  Pratt nodded his head. “Right.”

  “So…” Blackburn turned to face me and cocked one eyebrow. “What are you thinking?”

  I did my best to shrug my shoulders, pulling against the handcuffs as I did so.

  “Me? I’m thinking if you get Pratt here to uncuff me, I’ll beat your little ass. That’s what I’m thinking,” I said flatly.

  “We’ll give you some time to think,” Pratt said. “You need a drink or anything?”

  I shook my head. “No. I’m done letting ATF agents buy me drinks. It never ends well. Next time you two pricks come in here, an attorney better be with you. I’m done talking.”

  As they walked out of the room, everything began to make sense. Blackburn - aka Lucky - was an ATF agent, and he had spent the last two years trying to make a case against the MC. As I sat and gazed down at the table, I wondered how many of my brothers were handcuffed in various rooms in the building, and hoped no matter how many there were, that they had the ability to be as resistant as me to answer any questions.

  I closed my eyes, pulled against the handcuffs, and eventually relaxed, resting my forearms on the steel table in front of me. I prayed that Em was holding up well under the pressure they were sure to be putting on her, and that she would be able to understand what had truly happened and not hold it against me. Regardless of the long list of bullshit charges that Blackburn had blurted out, all I had done was express my willingness to protect the people in my life who were important to me.

  The men and two women who I loved enough to sacrifice myself to protect.

  I sighed heavily, glanced up at the camera, and extended my middle finger. As I raised my hand in the air as high as the handcuffs would allow, flying the universal sign of ‘fuck you’, I said.

  NWA said it best.

  Fuck the police.

  Chapter One Hundred Seventy-Three

  EMILY

  October 28th, 2006

  It had been two weeks since they arrested Jackson. Although they didn’t charge me with any crimes, they claimed they could have. At first I was terrified, but after talking to an attorney I was pretty confident they couldn’t charge me with any crimes whatsoever. It was now Sunday, the only day they allowed me to see Jackson.

  Seeing him in the Federal Holding Facility wasn’t an easy thing for me; glass separated us, and I wasn’t able to touch him. Seeing him wearing the orange suit seemed strange because he looked like a common criminal, and regardless of what they were saying about him, he was far from common, and he was not a criminal.

  “Good morning, Miss Stewart,” the guard said as I dropped my car keys and purse into the basket.

  “Good morning,” I responded, surprised that he’d remembered my name.

  “Just walk though slowly,” he said as he pointed to the metal detector.

  I held my arms to my sides and walked through the contraption, expecting it to beep. After passing through without incident, I turned to face the guard and grinned.

  “Have a nice day,” he said as he handed me the basket.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  The guards at the facility were far more pleasant than the ATF agents who arrested us. I had always believed law enforcement officers were hired to serve and protect and not harass, ridicule and lie. The level of unprofessionalism I witnessed from the agents on the day we were arrested was beyond what most US citizens would even believe, and I expected not many realized just how arrogant and rude the ATF agents really were.

  As I walked down the long corridor I cringed at the thought of seeing Jackson while he was incarcerated. Although I fully realized I would wait for him as long as I had to, seeing him on the other side of the glass wall was difficult for me.

  Knowing I had no other choice was easy for me to understand, but not something I naturally accepted as being what was best for either of us.

  Jackson wasn’t someone I could ever replace. Not having him at home left me feeling empty, alone, and without purpose. I had spent the last two weeks cooking, cleaning, and crying. I hadn’t even returned to work, fearing I may have a breakdown if I even attempted to talk to anyone about what had happened.

  Strangely, none of Jackson’s brothers from the club came around or even asked about him, and from w
hat little was reported in the newspaper, Jackson was the only man the ATF had arrested. Maybe it was some type of biker protocol, but if you asked me, I felt his brothers in the club were more like shitty friends or associates, and much less like the true brothers he believed them to be.

  “Shephard?” the guard asked as I opened the door into the visitation room.

  I nodded my head and attempted to force a smile.

  “Booth “A”,” the guard said as he pointed to the steel chair bolted to the floor in front of the glass partition.

  I sat down in the chair and gazed through the thick glass which was reinforced with strands of wire. After a few minutes of staring blankly into the opposite room, I saw Jackson approaching out of my peripheral.

  I smiled and pressed my hand against the glass. As he sat down, he did the same.

  “How you holding up?” he asked.

  “Rock solid,” I responded, doing my best to hide the fact I was lying.

  “Yeah, me too,” he said.

  His beard was thicker than normal, and his hair was slightly longer than it had been on the previous week. Normally, he trimmed his beard every two or three days, leaving nothing but short stubble on his face. Now, his beard was fuller and resembled an actual beard, which seemed odd. Seeing the changes in his appearance provided affirmation that changes were taking place in his life as well as mine.

  “Is everyone leaving you alone?” I asked.

  “Babe, they’ve still got me in solitary confinement. I’m all alone. Probably best,” he said.

  I fought against the growing pressure in my throat and swallowed heavily. It was very difficult seeing him in this manner, and not anything I would ever become comfortable with.

  “Well, at least nobody’s messing with you,” I said.

  “I’ll be fine whenever they let me out into population, believe me,” he said.

  “Any of the fellas stop by?” he asked.

  My throat tightened. I wanted to lie and tell him they had all stopped by, worried about his well-being, and that they had been taking donations to assemble a legal team capable of crushing the charges against him, and that he’d be free in no time to speak of. Instead, the scared little girl in me surfaced, and my lower lip began to quiver.

  He gazed down at the floor and shook his head.

  “It ain’t easy for any of us,” he said as he shifted his eyes upward.

  “You get my cell phone and stuff?” he asked.

  Still biting my lower lip, I nodded my head.

  “Any of ‘em text or call?” he asked.

  I remembered the items they provided me at the front desk after he was arrested: his cell phone, keys, wallet, and his silver cuff. As I shook my head from side-to-side, my lower lip freed itself from my teeth and I began to sob.

  I shook my head and wiped my eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” I said as I tried desperately to keep from crying.

  “Em…”

  “Em…”

  “Emily.”

  I wiped my eyes, took a shallow breath, and glanced upward.

  “Yes, Sir?”

  “You got the key to the safe deposit box, right?” he asked.

  I nodded my head.

  “There’s about eighty grand in there in cash. I want you to use for whatever you need to. To survive through this,” he said.

  My eyes widened and my heart filled with a little more hope.

  “We could get you a real attorney, one who is mean, and tough, and…” I blurted excitedly.

  He slapped his hand against the glass.

  “No. Listen to me, Em. That money isn’t going to some fucking attorney. Do you understand me?” he said.

  “Yes, Sir,” I responded. “But…”

  “But nothing, Em. But fucking nothing. I’ve got a court appointed attorney. I’ll be fine. I set that money aside for whenever I might need it. And now, I need it for you. Keep paying the rent, keep your spirits up, and this’ll be over before you know it, okay?” he said as he raised his hand to the glass.

  I raised my hand to the glass and situated it to meet the outline of his.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Over before you know it,” he said.

  “Promise?” I asked.

  He nodded his head. “Promise.”

  Chapter One Hundred Seventy-Four

  JACK

  November 20th, 2006

  After filing a motion for a right to a speedy trial, the court date was set for the end of November. According to my attorney, it was a case of circumstantial evidence, primarily testimony, and a few recorded conversations. Strangely, the recording of the night I stated I was willing to kill a member of the Shovelheads wasn’t legible, and therefore wasn’t included in evidence.

  The remaining charges were dropped, and according to my attorney, were simply bullshit used to persuade me to plead guilty to the only offense they intended to charge me with.

  Conspiracy to commit murder.

  My attorney seemed confident without the recording, and without anyone to corroborate the story of the night in question, that the trial would be short, without any surprises, and I would be a free man when it was all over.

  Eager to get it all behind me, and disappointed at the US Attorney’s office for filing a motion to keep Em out of the courtroom, I sat through the trial alone, short of the presence of my sister. Surprised very little by the lack of attendance on Hell’s Fury’s part, it still disappointed me greatly that the men I perceived as brothers were all absent when I felt I needed them the most.

  According to my attorney, the motion filed to keep Em out of the courtroom was done as a tactic to keep me agitated and therefore easier for the US Attorney to irritate on the witness stand. My irritated nature would then support their claim of my temper and state of mind as the killer they represented me as being.

  Claiming they may decide to have Em testify against me, as she wasn’t protected by the clause preventing wives from testifying against their husbands, she was prohibited from observing any of the testimony in the trial.

  After having sat through the trial laced with lies, lost recordings, and false accusations, I was grateful she wasn’t in attendance.

  “And when you questioned him, specifically what was asked, Special Agent Blackburn?” the US Attorney asked.

  “I made reference to the rival club, the Shovelheads, by simply mentioning there had been discussions regarding them wearing a lower rocker claiming territory,” Blackburn responded.

  “And the defendant turned to me and offered his resolution to the statement,” Blackburn continued.

  “And, according to your earlier testimony, the lower rocker as you called it, was nothing more than a piece of cloth with the Kansas embroidered on it. Is that correct?” the US Attorney asked.

  “That is correct,” Blackburn responded.

  “Continue. The defendant’s resolution to the rival club wearing a piece of cloth with the name of the state in which they resided was what?” the US Attorney asked.

  “That he would kill each and every one of them,” Blackburn responded.

  You worthless little bastard.

  “And how did you react?” the US Attorney asked.

  “Contrary to my training and instructions from the main office, I was actually in fear for my life, Sir. It was no secret his road name was Killer, and he was prepared to kill anyone who opposed him,” Blackburn responded.

  I swear, if I ever get my hands on you…

  “Road name? Can you expand, and explain to the jury what that means?” the US Attorney asked.

  “Absolutely. When an individual prospects for an outlaw club, they are trying out for a spot, say, no differently than trying out for a football or baseball team, say, as a free agent. During that process, every move, reaction, personality trait, everything is observed by the club. In the end, if accepted as a member, the recruit is given his colors, or patch as it is referred to, and a club name. The name is called a road name, and it is
indicative of the man who wears it,” Blackburn explained.

  “And his was Killer?” the US Attorney asked.

  “Yes, Sir,” Blackburn said with a nod.

  “And were you given a name? When you were patched in, as you said,” the US Attorney asked.

  “Yes, Sir, I was,” he responded.

  “And may I ask what it might have been?”

  “Lucky,” Blackburn responded.

  “Interesting. Would you care to share why that particular name was chosen?” the US Attorney asked.

  “One night at the clubhouse, while acting in the capacity as an undercover agent, and attempting to be accepted as a prospect, we were all playing poker. I had won no less than half a dozen hands, and everyone called me lucky. The name just stuck,” he responded.

  You lying little prick. You got that name after you wrecked that little Sportster, and made it out alive.

  I tapped my attorney on the shoulder and whispered in his ear.

  “He’s fucking lying,” I said.

  “What did you expect?” my attorney responded.

  “So, based on your observation as a trained ATF agent, what would your testimony be regarding the earning of road names by a patched in member be?” the US Attorney asked.

  “Without a doubt, they are indicative of the who the man is, and what the club perceives him as being,” he responded.

  “An accurate description?” the US Attorney asked.

  “Yes, Sir,” he responded.

  “No further questions,” the US Attorney said.

  “Your witness,” the judge said.

  “No further questions, your honor,” my attorney stated.

  “You’re not going to ask him about the lies?” I whispered.

  “His testimony is made under oath. It is assumed everything he is saying is the truth, and I can’t question him regarding your opinion that it’s a lie. It’s for the jury to decide,” he responded.

  “My opinion? It isn’t a fucking opinion, he’s lying,” I said through my teeth.