HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  As Newman and I stepped into our place in line, I gazed down the ranks of men. In my time at Big Sandy, I’d seen men come in, leave, be transferred, and get killed. Although one would suspect someone like me would have no worries after doing eight years, the opposite was true. In prison, a man must always be on guard and attentive to his surroundings at all times. A new inmate attempting to make a name for himself, or someone trying to get his patch with one of the gangs was always a threat. As I studied the men, their movements, and listened to the faint whispers, I relaxed slightly, feeling minimal tension amongst the crowd.

  “No talking during movements,” the guard bellowed.

  After being escorted to the store and waiting in line for my turn, I stepped up to the window and held my ID up for the officer to see.

  “Shephard,” I said.

  “Double A’s and Dial?” he asked.

  I nodded my head. “Sounds about right.”

  He handed me the items and printed a receipt. As he handed me the receipt, he nodded his head toward the piece of paper. I glanced down to see my balance, but based on his gesture, I figured my funds had diminished beyond my previous calculations.

  $2,542.36

  I gazed down at the paper for a moment, wadded it up, and placed it into my pocket.

  “You saying that’s what I got on my books?” I asked.

  He nodded his head once.

  “Next!” he bellowed as he peered past me.

  I slapped my hand against the counter. “Gimme a jar of motherfucking peanut butter.”

  “Shephard, you know there’s no substitutions. Get it next week. Next!” he hollered.

  “Where’s my order sheet?” I asked.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “In the trash by now, why?”

  “Had a peanut butter on it. All I got was batteries and soap. Need that peanut butter, Boss,” I responded.

  He shook his head and grinned.

  “Missed a jar of peanut butter for Shephard,” he barked over his shoulder.

  The inmate working in the commissary walked up and handed the officer a jar of peanut butter. The officer printed a new ticket and handed me the jar.

  “Next!” he hollered.

  I stepped aside, peered down along the ranks of men, toward the guard, and twisted the lid from the jar. As I studied the guard, I shoved two fingers into the jar of peanut butter and slid them into my mouth.

  I found it odd something as simple as a jar of peanut butter was able to provide tremendous satisfaction to an inmate in federal prison, and be nothing more than a snack to someone in the free world. All of the things I had taken for granted on the outside were now viewed as luxuries.

  Being touched affectionately. Listening to a bird chirping. Turning a doorknob and opening a door. Deciding what to wear. Petting a dog. Sitting at a stoplight. Deciding what to eat.

  Taking a shit without an audience.

  These were simple things I would never do again.

  I dropped the peanut butter into my laundry bag and reached into my pocket. After stepping to the side and away from the watchful eyes of the other inmates, I removed the wadded receipt and stared down at the balance.

  $2,542.36

  Many people over the years had made a promise to place money on my books, but very few ever delivered. Most deposits into my account were in the first few years, and after that, nothing ever came. I had no idea who sent the recent money, but whoever had just changed my way of living, and for that I was grateful.

  “You must have long money on your books, buying peanut butter and shit,” Newman said as he tilted his head toward my bag.

  “Living the dream,” I responded.

  And for the time being, the statement was true.

  I was living the dream.

  One scoop at a time.

  Chapter One Hundred Seventy-Eight

  JACK

  July 1, 2015

  After almost a decade of incarceration, a person loses all hope for any change to take place. During the first several months, everyone tells themselves they were wrongfully convicted, they hope for an appeal, or they believe someone or something can or will eventually save them from the unthinkable - remaining in prison.

  But the appeal never comes, and no one ever emerges to save them from anything. Acceptance of life in prison is difficult, but necessary. Hope, to a prisoner, is like a cancer. Hope eats at your ability to accept life as being what it is. Hope will make a strong man weak, and a weak man dead.

  In prison, there is no hope.

  “Mail call!” the officer barked from the end of the run.

  I stood at the cell door and watched the men gather around the officer. As he pulled the mail from the basket, he shouted the names of the respective inmates. After a few minutes, my gaze became more of a blank stare, and my mind faded to thoughts of Sydney and me as children.

  Newman hollered at me, snapping me out of the shallow daydream.

  “Mail,” he shouted.

  “Last call, legal mail, Shephard, Jackson!” the guard yelled.

  Legal mail?

  “Shephard, right here,” I hollered as I walked toward the guard.

  He handed me the letter over his shoulder. I gazed down at the envelope and studied the addresses to make certain it was mine. I glanced around the cellblock and turned toward my cell. After walking into the cell, I opened the envelope carefully and removed the letter. After unfolding it, I began to read the typed words.

  Jackson,

  You don’t know me, but my name is Avery. I’m a friend of your sister, Sydney. I work for a law firm in Wichita, and I was initially intrigued by your case when hearing of the ATF and their persistent requests for you to admit to wanting to kill a member of a rival club. After having my first two letters I had written to you rejected and returned, I decided to write you an official legal letter, as this matter is now officially official (sorry, but I laughed when I wrote that).

  I’m the Ol’ Lady of the President of the Selected Sinners, a Kansas based 1% club. The club is thirty strong in Wichita, and has chapters in Oklahoma and Texas as well. Overall, they’re a tight knit bunch of brothers who would do anything for each other, or for the cause.

  I’m far too excited to go very long without just getting to the point I would like to make, but for the sake of safety, I’ll request you take the time to sit if you aren’t already sitting.

  Now, I’ll assume you’re sitting and I will continue with my announcement.

  I paused, peered over my shoulder, and into the cellblock. After reassuring myself no one was watching, I gazed down at the desk and continued.

  I filed an appeal on your case based on your having been provided an attorney who was incapable of sufficiently defending you, and secondly on your being entrapped by the ATF to commit the crime in question. The appellate court accepted the appeal, and has responded.

  I really hope you’re sitting down right now.

  Jackson, they’ve accepted your appeal. You’re going to have a new trial, and if they find you were entrapped, you’ll go free. For what it’s worth, the attorney taking your case will be my boss, and he has never (yes, I said never, as in NEVER) lost a federal case.

  The cost of the trial, the fees, and the paying of the attorney has all been done in advance, and will be of no cost to you.

  Mr. Shephard, breathe easily. Your life is in very capable hands.

  I can’t pretend to understand what you’ve gone through, or what you go through on a daily basis, but I have a favor to ask of you. The club placed some money in your account, so I know you can afford to do it. I’ve done a lot for you, and I want something in return. It will cost less than a dollar, and will take only an hour’s time.

  Write your sister a letter. Her address has changed and I have attached it in the next page of addresses.

  She loves you dearly, and would love to hear from you.

  That’s all.

  Well, I can’t wait to meet you in court, and Sydney’s
looking forward to seeing you as well. She’s the Ol’ Lady of the club’s SAA, Toad. All of the fellas send their best, and Axton (my Ol’ Man) made it mandatory for the club to attend the trial, so you’ll have the support of the entire club and you won’t go through this alone.

  I know it’s been a long time, but do your best to recall everything that happened through the course of the investigation. We’ll have almost no time to prepare, so anything you can remember will be used in your favor.

  All my best.

  Avery (the bad-ass bitch who got you a new fucking trial)

  I dropped the letter onto the desk and gazed down at the neatly typed pages. As my mind swirled into a whirlwind of emotion, the unthinkable happened.

  My heart filled with hope.

  Chapter One Hundred Seventy-Nine

  JACK

  Present day

  I felt odd sitting in the courtroom. The memories of my initial trial were not good ones, and I believed at the time that I was railroaded through the system and sent to prison on a bullshit charge. Although I accepted it as being part of life and realized I wasn’t capable of changing it, I didn’t like it then and I didn’t like it now.

  The attorney appointed to my case was an extremely aggressive man, and was much better prepared than my original attorney. As he asked the questions, I did my best to answer in a manner I expected he wanted me to.

  “Did you know agent Blackburn was an ATF agent at this time?”

  I leaned toward the microphone and spoke clearly. “No, Sir.”

  “Did you view the members of your club as brothers?” he asked.

  I nodded my head. “Yes, Sir, I sure did.”

  “Family?” he asked.

  “Yes, Sir, I did. They were my family.”

  “Mr. Shephard, where is your mother today?” he asked.

  I hoped he knew the answer, and it seemed odd he would ask even if he didn’t know, but as much as I was offended by the question, I suspected somehow it must have had merit.

  “She’s dead, Sir. She passed away when I was a very young boy,” I responded.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. And your father?” he asked.

  “The same, Sir. He passed at the same time. I grew up in orphanages and eventually in a foster home with my only sibling, my sister,” I responded.

  “I’m sorry for your losses,” he responded as he turned toward the jury and appeared to be wiping tears from his eyes.

  Oh, this motherfucker’s good.

  “Would it suffice to say the club and your MC Brothers were the only family you had?” he asked.

  I nodded my head toward Sydney and responded. “Yes, Sir, them and my sister.”

  “And you perceived agent Blackburn as a brother?” he asked.

  I glanced toward the prosecuting attorney’s table. Blackburn sat at the table with a shitty grin on his face. The cocksucker had infiltrated our club, and had lied to become a fully patched in member. To me, even though I disliked him, he was a brother, and no differently than I told him on the night in question, I would have taken a bullet for him. Now, I wouldn’t piss on him if he were on fire. In my mind, he was marked for death, and living on borrowed time.

  “Yes, Sir, I did,” I responded.

  “To the best of your knowledge, were the Shovelheads MC a 1%er club?” he asked.

  “Yes, Sir, they were,” I responded.

  My attorney walked away from his post and slowly approached the witness stand. He looked confused. As he rubbed his jaw in his hand and glanced toward the jury, he spoke, “And Hell’s Fury was also a 1%er club?”

  “Yes, Sir, we were,” I responded.

  “When a 1% club who has claimed territory - for this sake I’ll call them the parent club -has another club ride into the territory without permission, wearing their colors including a lower rocker claiming the same territory, how does the parent club perceive this trespass?”

  “As disrespectful, it’s considered a threat,” I responded.

  He widened his eyes as his mouth fell open comically. “A threat?”

  I nodded my head and leaned toward the microphone. “Yes, Sir.”

  “And when a 1% club makes a threat, what might that threat include, generally speaking?”

  Oh, I see where you’re going…

  “Violence,” I responded.

  “Violence. I see. Let me back up a little bit, to where we were before. This club, the Hell’s Fury, these fellas were your family, is that correct?”

  “Yes, Sir,” I responded.

  “I see. And when agent Blackburn asked you what you’d do if they came into your territory, wearing a lower rocker claiming Kansas as if it their own, what was your fear, if any?”

  “They were a rival club, always causing problems and talking…”

  I turned toward the judge. I knew what I wanted to say, but had no idea if I would be allowed to.

  “Can I cuss?” I whispered to the judge.

  “Yes, son, you can,” he responded.

  I leaned toward the microphone and continued. “Talking shit. Saying they were going to do this, and do that. If they rode in wearing their colors, I guess my fear was that they’d probably kill us, or at least try.”

  “So, your eventual response to ATF agent Blackburn was one more of protection than of aggression, was it not?”

  “Objection, your honor. He’s leading the witness,” the prosecuting attorney complained.

  “Granted. Rephrase your question,” the judge instructed my attorney.

  “Why did you eventually respond in the manner you did to the ATF agent? Agreeing that you’d kill members of the Shovelheads if they came to town?”

  I’m trying to stay with you, brother. You’re shocking the shit out of me. See what you think of this.

  “I didn’t realize he was an agent. At the time, he was a brother, you know, part of my family. My fear was that the Shovelheads MC might hurt him or some of my other brothers. My thoughts at the time were that I needed to protect my family,” I responded.

  “Your only family?”

  “Yes, Sir, my only family,” I responded.

  “No further questions for this witness, your honor,” Kurt said flatly.

  I left the witness stand feeling good about my case and the new trial. Win or lose, at least I was being allowed to have my sister, her new friends, and the jury hear the truth. In my first trial I was not asked many questions, and the information projected to the jury was one-sided and left me feeling as if I did something wrong, all the while knowing all I did was respond to a question in a half-drunken stupor.

  After a short recess, my attorney began questioning the ATF agent. The questioning was difficult for me to listen to, as his responses reminded me of the ‘lost recordings’ and what I expected to be bullshit answers - primarily lies - prepared to insure my case was lost and I went back to prison.

  I really didn’t expect anything less.

  I leaned back, gazed toward the witness stand, and studied agent Blackburn.

  If I get out of here, I’m going to hunt you down and make you pay, you cock sucker.

  “How long was your investigation of the Hell’s Fury?”

  “Two years and one month,” Blackburn responded.

  “And in that time, twenty-five months, how many arrests were made?”

  One, you piece of shit…

  Me.

  “One,” Blackburn responded.

  “One? A twenty-five month long investigation of an Outlaw Motorcycle Gang, and it only produced one arrest?”

  “Yes,” Blackburn snapped back.

  “Did the ATF make a decision not to prosecute the other cases?”

  “There were no other cases,” Blackburn responded.

  “Let me get this straight. You successfully infiltrated an outlaw gang of motorcycle thugs for twenty-five months, and produced this as your only case? Seems more like they were a group of good old boys, not an OMG…” my attorney stated.

  “Your honor,
I object. It appears the defense counsel has chosen to provide his own testimony,” the prosecutor howled.

  The judge turned toward the jury and raised his index finger in the air. “I’ll ask the jury to strike the last statement made by the prosecutor. Counsel, you have been warned.”

  “In discovery, I requested the voice recording of the conversation on the night of the instant offense. I was advised it did not exist in legible format. Are you aware of the lack of availability of said recording?”

  “Yes, Sir, I am. Unfortunately, the recording device did not work properly on that evening, and background noise made the recording worthless,” Blackburn responded.

  “I was provided recorded conversations before and after the date in question. In fact, I have a few hundred hours of recorded conversations. Almost four hundred hours if memory serves me correctly. Now, my question to you is as follows…”

  Kurt paused and turned toward the jury.

  “Agent Blackburn, how many conversations through the course of the investigation were unintelligible, to the best of your knowledge, that is?” he asked as he continued to face the jury.

  “One,” Blackburn breathed in response.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear your response. Can you speak into the microphone?”

  Fuck yes, make him repeat it ten times.

  Blackburn leaned forward and responded. “One.”

  “Only one missing, and it just so happens it’s the critical one,” my attorney seethed.

  “Strike that last statement. So, agent Blackburn, I’m curious. During your infiltration of the group of outlaw bikers, did you give them your actual name?” he asked.

  “No,” Blackburn laughed.

  Sure as fuck didn’t, you chicken-shit.

  “Did you make one up?”

  “Yes, I did,” Blackburn responded.

  “Did you give them an accurate history of who you were?”

  “No Sir, I provided fictitious information. Information believed to be more acceptable to the type of people I was investigating,” Blackburn responded.

  “So you lied. You told lies to the bikers to get them to either like you or accept you, is that correct?”