“Yeah,” he said, his hips still gyrating back and forth. “That goop down deep in their throats. Hell, you probably ain’t got a cock big enough to find it, but ole Biscuit does.”
I rolled my eyes and shook my head as I took a drink of beer.
“So anyway, I’m pounding away and things get kind of slippery. So I pull back…” He pulled his hips back and paused. “And I don’t realize it at that exact minute, but my cock slides all the way out of her mouth. So I go to shove it back in, thinkin’ the tip is still in her mouth, and the head hits her top lip, and the fucker’s all covered in slobber and throat snot, so it shoots up the side of her face and sticks her in the eye.”
“Now, initially, I don’t think nothing of it, other than the fact I just poked her in the eye with my cock. So I pull my hips back and prepare to shove her throat full one more time,” he said.
“And she looks up and opened her eyes…”
His eyes widened significantly as he continued to speak. “And she’s starin’ back at me smiling’, ready for the cock, and she’s got one brown eye and one fuckin’ blue one. I got my cock in my hand, starin’ back at her, and I blink my eyes, not sure if what I’m seein’ is what I’m seein’. Nope, she’s still crouched down there, with her mouth open, starin’ back at me with one brown and one fuckin’ blue one – ain’t got a fuckin’ clue of what’s happened. Now this freaks me the fuck out, because the entire reason I like this girl, other’n the fact she can suck a golf ball through a garden hose, is that she’s got them crazy blue eyes. And I glance down, blink one more time, and my eyes focus on my big fat cock. And the tip of my rod’s got a little transparent blue dot on the end of it.”
“Contacts?” I shrugged my shoulders as I began to laugh.
He nodded his head. “Yep. That’s when I learned about ‘em. Fucked it right out of her God damned eye.”
I shook my head as he slid into the seat.
“That’s a hell of a story,” I said as I finished my beer.
He laughed as he reached for his vodka. “Damndest thing I ever seen.”
“So what was all that about?” the waitress asked as she walked up to table.
“What?” Biscuit asked over his shoulder.
The waitress thrust her hips back and forth, more in a fluid motion that Biscuit’s jerky haphazard method. She placed her hands on her hips and smiled as she gyrated a few more times, appearing to be perfecting a dance move more than imitating Biscuit. As much as I hated to admit it, seeing her do it was not only quite sensual, but rather erotic. It was evident she had at least some experience at dancing and did so quite well.
“God dayumm,” Biscuit said as he turned in his seat to face her.
As she stopped gyrating, she grinned and slapped her hand against her thigh.
“I just thought it was funny when you were doing it. I’m sorry, I’m just bored,” she said.
“You can come over here and fuck the air anytime,” Biscuit said.
“Is that what you were doing, fucking the air?” she asked.
“Here? Yeah, I was fucking the air. But in the story I was tellin’, I was fuckin’ a girl’s mouth,” Biscuit responded.
Here we go.
“Sounds fun,” she said with a smile.
“I probably ought to go clean some tables before I get myself in trouble,” she said.
I grinned and tilted my head in her direction as I reached for my full bottle of beer. Oddly, as she turned to walk away, her eyes remained fixed on Biscuit until her body was completely turned around. As she walked toward the bar, she glanced over her shoulder once and grinned.
“Damn, Biscuit. Looks like she likes ya,” I said as I slapped my left hand against the table.
“Sooner or later, they all do,” he said as he glanced over his shoulder.
I rolled my eyes as I lifted my bottle of beer.
“So what’d you want to talk about?” Biscuit asked as he reached for his can Red Bull.
As I shook my head, he reached for his vodka and drank the remaining liquor from the glass.
“Nothing, just needed to unwind. I’m good now,” I said.
“You sure you’re alright, Brother?” he asked.
I nodded my head, “Positive.”
“How long you want to stick around?” he asked.
“Drink this and go?” I responded as I raised my beer in the air.
“I might stick around until she gets off,” Biscuit said as he tilted his head toward the bar.
“Trial’s tomorrow,” I said.
“You see that girl’s legs?” he asked.
I nodded my head, grinned, and drank the remaining beer from my bottle. Biscuit’s decision to stay and try his luck with the waitress provided very little guidance to my current situation, but did provide some comfort in the form of reassurance.
Reassurance the woman I would end up with, if I ever did end up with a woman in my life, would come from a far more grueling application process than thrusting my hips in the air.
“You sure you’re alright?” Biscuit asked as I finished my beer.
I nodded my head. “My old girlfriend, Sam. Her mother died. Just wanted to try and let it all settle. Just trying to make sense of it.”
“Oh shit, your sweetheart? Damn, Brother, I’m sorry. What happened, if I might ask?” he asked as he shook his head from side-to-side.
“Aluminum foil. It was an accident,” I said, realizing my poorly executed explanation would raise an eyebrow as I finished speaking.
“Damn, did she work at the Reynold’s Wrap factory or something?” he asked
I shook my head as I reached for my keys. “No, she was cooking and went to pull some aluminum foil off the roll, and it cut her wrist. She bled to death before the ambulance arrived.”
He shook his head as he stood from his seat.
“Well, when a deal like that happens, you just got to stand back and realize that this world we’re living in ain’t ours, it’s His; and things like that are just proof of it. His plan’s much bigger’n this,” he said as he pointed his finger back and forth between us.
“Agreed,” I said as I slapped my hand against his back.
“See you in the morning,” I said as I turned away.
“Long as I’m done with her,” he said.
I chuckled. “Just don’t fuck her in the eye, and everything’ll be fine.’
And just like that, everything made a little more sense. Sometimes, having a friend or loved one confirm our already one-sided beliefs provided all the reassurance necessary for us to continue believing our way of thinking was just what it needed to be.
As I walked to the bike I realized although I didn’t believe the death of Sam’s mother was necessary, I was able to accept it as being out of my control, and part of a plan I did not understand today, but one day may.
OTIS
The courtroom smelled like money. The judge was seated on an elevated platform in front of where we were seated, but on the far side of the courtroom. In the center of the floor was an ornate lectern used by the attorney as he presented his case. On the immediate left was the jury, seated in comfortable leather seats as they studied the witness. Directly in front of us were two tables, one occupied by the defense attorney, and one by the prosecution and defendant. As they presented their cases to the judge, the attorneys faced away from us, making their facial expressions impossible to read.
Sitting in the courtroom amidst the ATF agents made me feel uneasy. Seeing roughly sixty Selected Sinners supporting Sydney’s brother was enough to allow me to believe Jackson had all the backing necessary to ensure he at least felt he had sufficient support. The fact none of his club, Hell’s Fury, attended the trial caused me to lose what little respect I had for the MC he represented when he was arrested.
Jury selection began, and took very little time. After each attorney throwing a few potential jurors out for cause or peremptory challenges, the jury was selected. Much to my surprise, the twelve men and w
omen of the jury included three men who rode motorcycles. Hopefully, even if they weren’t in a club, they’d have a better understanding of what was being discussed.
After several hours of questioning several ATF agents and Sydney’s brother Jackson, the prosecutor seemed to run out of gas. His tone of voice changed, and he became far less aggressive. Not sure if it was a tactic or a dose of reality, I sat back in my seat and watched the show continue.
“During your time as a member of Hell’s Fury MC, were you known by any other names than your God given name?” the prosecutor asked.
Kurt, Jackson’s attorney and Avery’s employer, immediately stood from his seat.
“Your honor, I object,” he barked in a very matter of fact tone.
The judge raised his finger in the air, attempting to silence the witness before he responded.
“Grounds?” the judge asked.
Still standing behind the table, Kurt spread his arms apart and tilted his head slightly to the side. He was a very large man, standing almost 6’-5” and weighing probably 250 pounds. His military style haircut, well-defined features, and the tone of his voice made him rather intimidating in the courtroom.
“Your honor, it asks the jury to prejudice the evidence. You, your honor, me, the prosecutor, and the witness know what the defendant’s club name was during his tenure with the club in question. Other than using the name to prejudice the jury, I see no value in providing it in testimony,” Kurt argued.
The judge raised his hand to his chin and clenched his fist as he considered ruling on the objection.
“Your honor, the former President of the United States, Lyndon Johnson, was nicknamed Bullshit Johnson. The boxer, Thomas Hearns, was nicknamed The Hitman. Richard Hill, the English Rugby player, was nicknamed The Silent Assassin. And Pete Sampras, the tennis player, was nicknamed Pistol Pete. I doubt any of the nicknames provided an accurate depiction of who the people were or what they represented,” Kurt explained as he continued to stand behind the large ornate table where Jackson was seated.
“Granted. I’ll instruct you not to answer the question,” the judge said as he gazed toward Jackson.
Wow, Kurt came prepared. Hell, he even had a list of names mentally prepared.
The prosecuting attorney turned away from the lectern, stared at the floor for a moment, and eventually turned to face the witness.
“The club you were a fully patched in member of, Hell’s Fury, would it suffice to say this was an Outlaw Motorcycle Gang, or OMG as the Justice Department labels them?” the prosecutor asked.
Kurt stood from his seat.
“I object your honor; on the same grounds. The club in mention is not on trial, and now that the ever so gracious prosecutor has opened the gate, I’ll step through it,” he growled.
“The witness is not on trial your honor, as a matter of law, the prosecution’s team of ATF agents are. This trial was awarded on the grounds of potential entrapment by ATF agents. As a matter of law, the witness sits before us a guilty man not an innocent one. His guilt is not in question. What is in question is whether or not the ATF entrapped him to commit the crime he was charged with in the indictment. And, with all due respect, as a matter of law, when the issue of entrapment is raised, the burden of proof switches to the prosecution to prove the defendant was not entrapped,” Kurt explained in a very clearly spoken tone.
“And, as a matter of law, he is to be considered entrapped until the prosecution proves otherwise. In Sorrells versus the United States the entrapment doctrine was covered in detail, and the Supreme Court responded to the issue of entrapment more recently - and quite clearly - in Jacobson versus the United States, your honor,” he continued.
The prosecutor threw his hands into the air comically.
“Your honor, now that entrapment seems to be the subject in question, and certainly defense counsel’s only hope at winning this case, I will ask that the court reconsider allowing me to question the witness in regard to his club name. Predisposition is required to prove the defendant was not entrapped, and his club name, in itself, is proof of predisposition,” the prosecutor bellowed.
“Your honor, a name is proof of very little, and a predisposition to commit murder coming from a name is a line that cannot be drawn, no matter who draws it,” Kurt said sternly.
“Counsel,” the judge said with a tone of authority while facing the prosecutor.
“And counsel,” he said as he turned his head to face Kurt.
“I ask you both to approach. I will not allow a battle of wits in my courtroom,” he said firmly.
“What the fuck’s going on?” I whispered to Avery.
“Kurt’s pissed. This case is about entrapment,” she whispered. “When the entrapment defense is raised, it changes the case completely. The burden of proof shifts to the prosecution to prove the defendant wasn’t entrapped; it’s no longer a requirement for the defendant to do anything to prove his innocence, or to try and prove he was entrapped. It’s assumed as soon as the subject is raised on the record that he was entrapped.”
“I think I understand,” I said through my teeth.
She placed her hand on my shoulder and leaned closer to my ear as she whispered. “It’s simple. The appeals court saw enough evidence to believe the possibility existed that the government entrapped Syd’s brother to commit the crime. If it’s possible that he was entrapped, and the judge agrees, all of a sudden he’s guilty of the crime. But, his guilt is a result of the government coercing, inducing, or enticing him to commit the crime. So now, the government must prove they didn’t coerce, induce, or entice him. If they can’t prove they didn’t, then the jury must see it as they did. And, if they see it that way, he’s not guilty.”
“Okay, that makes a little more sense. What’s the judge doing?” I asked as I leaned toward her.
“He’s chewing their asses out for going at each other in his courtroom. Federal court is a far more formal approach than state or city court. Federal judges don’t take shit, and they don’t allow any disrespect in their courtroom. He probably saw their little tirade as disrespectful. He’ll set them straight and they’ll loosen up a little bit. I’m going to guess the prosecutor is about done. He’s frustrated,” she said.
I nodded my head and sat up straight in the seat. As Kurt walked away from the judge and toward his seat, the prosecutor walked to the lectern, gripped the sides in his hands, and sighed.
“On the date of the instant offense, did you state your willingness to kill a member or members of a rival club, namely the Shovelheads MC?” the prosecutor asked.
“Yes, but…” Jackson began.
“Yes or no?” the prosecutor interrupted.
“Yes, I did. But…” Jackson continued.
The judge turned toward Jackson and spoke quietly.
Jackson lowered his head shamefully. After a short pause, he looked up and answered.
“Yes I did,” Jackson responded.
“No further questions,” the prosecutor hissed as he released his grip on the lectern.
The prosecutor crossed his arms, studied Jackson for a moment, and sighed.
“Your witness,” the judge said as he turned toward Kurt.
Kurt stood, walked to the lectern, and sighed loudly as he shook his head.
“On the day of the instant offense, had you been drinking?” he asked.
“Yes Sir,” Jackson responded.
“Prior to your taking the first drink, did ATF agent Blackburn, acting in the capacity as one of your MC brethren, ask you what you’d do if the Shovelheads tried to claim your territory?” he asked.
“Yes Sir,” Jackson responded.
“And your response was what?” he asked.
“I said I didn’t know,” he responded.
Kurt nodded his head.
“And did he then ask you if you’d kill them?” he asked.
“He did, yes. I don’t know, maybe thirty minutes later,” Jackson responded.
“And your
response?” Kurt asked.
“I said no,” he responded.
“Did he continue to ask you the same question or types of questions?” Kurt asked.
Jackson nodded his head, “Yes he did.”
“So, you testified a moment ago that you’d been drinking. How many drinks would you say you consumed over the course of the night?” Kurt asked.
“I don’t know, maybe six shots of whiskey and ten or twelve beers,” Jackson responded.
“Wow, quite a night,” Kurt chuckled.
Jackson nodded his head.
“Were you intoxicated?” Kurt asked.
The prosecutor stood from his seat and tossed his hands in the air. “I object your honor. The witness is not a specialist on intoxication, nor was he able at the time to perform a blood alcohol level test or a breathalyzer test. To testify as to his toxicity level would be nothing more than a sheer guess at best.”
“Rephrase the question or change your line of questioning,” the judge warned.
Kurt nodded his head.
“How many times would you say the undercover ATF agent, who you believed to be a brother in your MC, asked you if you’d kill a member of the Shovelheads?” Kurt asked.
“Six or eight,” Jackson responded.
“No less than six?” Kurt asked.
Jackson shook his head.
“You know, I’ve had several years to think about this. It’s really bothered me. I can count six times in my head for sure. For absolute sure. And I know there were others, but the more I drank, the drunker I became. So for me to testify under oath to an exact number would be a lie. He asked no less than six times,” Jackson said.
“Did you know agent Blackburn was an ATF agent at this time?” Kurt asked.
“No Sir.”
“Did you view the members of your club as brothers?” Kurt asked.
Jackson nodded his head. “Yes Sir. I sure did.”
“Family?” Kurt asked.
“Yes Sir, I did. They were my family,” Jackson responded.
“Mr. Shephard, where is your mother today?” Kurt asked.
Jackson shook his head. “She’s dead, Sir. She passed away when I was a very young boy.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. And your father?” Kurt asked.