Otis (6 page)

“Up for a beer, Toad?” I asked as I slapped Toad on the shoulder.

“I’m up for whatever. I’m just fucking tired, brother. Haven’t been sleeping for shit, been worried about Syd’s brother and all,” Toad nodded.

We hadn’t been in the hallway ten or fifteen minutes, and Kurt stepped into the corridor, holding his phone in his hand.

“Jury’s reached a verdict,” Kurt said.

“What?” Avery snapped as she spun around.

Kurt nodded his head, “They’ll be bringing them back in.”

“Holy shit,” Avery said under her breath.

Sydney covered her mouth with her hands and spoke between her fingers, “Avery, what’s this mean?”

“Well, they say a verdict like this means only one thing. The jury decided the case long before they trial was over. Just take a deep breath, either way, it’ll be fine, Syd,” Avery said as she leaned over and hugged Sydney.

The few of us who remained in the hallway walked back into the courtroom and sat down while we waited for the judge to enter the room. After about a ten minute wait, the judge entered, and we stood and after he was seated, we all sat down. Instead of sixty Sinners, there was maybe fifteen or so seated. The ATF agents watching the trial, however, remained in full force. As I glanced down the row of Sinners, I watched as Axton gave one bearded ATF agent the shittiest stink eye I’ve ever witnessed. Only after the ATF agent broke the stare did Axton lean into the back of his seat and exhale.

“Counsel, please stand,” the judge instructed.

The prosecution and defense attorneys stood.

“I want it understood there will be no outbursts in the courtroom, regardless of the verdict,” the judge said firmly as he studied the group.

I nodded my head.

The judge turned toward the jury.

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

“Yes, your honor, we have,” the foreman responded.

I reached to my left and right, and after a moment of fumbling, grabbed both Sydney’s and Avery’s hands and held them firmly.

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

“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.

Holy fucking shit.

Kurt reached down and patted Jackson on the shoulder. As the judge questioned each juror regarding their finding, Sydney leaned forward. Tears streamed from her face as she made a few attempts to speak. After collecting herself, she began to whisper to Avery, who was bouncing her right leg a hundred miles an hour.

“What now?” Sydney blubbered, “How long…uhhm…how long does he….uhhm…go back to prison for?”

“He doesn’t go back to prison,” Avery responded, “He goes home. He’s free.”

“He doesn’t have…” Sydney sobbed, “He doesn’t…uhhm, he doesn’t
have
a home.”

“The hell he doesn’t. We’ve got two extra rooms. He’s got a home,” Toad said.

And he’s got a family.

Most of them are out in the street, and the rest are right here.

OTIS

Feeling somewhat frustrated Axton and Toad had women in their lives, and Biscuit was arguably close behind with Kat - while I continued to live a life of solitude - I sat at my kitchen table sipping a cup of coffee.

Wondering if my way of living life and the precautions I took regarding outsiders was possibly a little stricter than it should be, I stared blankly through window and into my back yard. Attempted to count the possibilities I had over the years of women I felt
comfortable
allowing into my life - but didn’t - I searched my mind for those who had escaped me. After an entire cup of coffee worth of consideration, I came up with one woman in fifteen years.

Avery.

Avery’s participation during our botched gun deal with the MS-13, along with her quick thinking, reacting, and accuracy with a handgun not only saved my life, but provided me with all the reassurance I needed to understand she was a woman who I could trust. Looking at Avery with a broader field of vision provided a view of a woman who was confident, intelligent, brave, beautiful, and responsible. Prior to Axton’s acceptance of her into his life, I considered inviting her into mine. After Axton’s claimed her as his Ol’ Lady, she became off limits, and now remained nothing more than a close friend.

Realizing there was one woman through the course of fifteen years who provided me with a level of comfort great enough to allow me to let my guard down was nowhere near reassuring. In fact, the more I thought about it, the clearer it became.

My life was one I was living not for me, but for the betterment and the security of the Selected Sinners MC.

I had been in the club since the beginning, and although I wasn’t close friends with
every
member, I viewed each and every one of the Sinners as a brother. After moving me from Sergeant-At-Arms to Vice President, I fully understood I was no longer responsible for their protection as far as the
club
was concerned, but releasing me from the responsibility completely was impossible.

The club was family to me no differently than my father and mother were, and I was naturally a protector of what I loved and cherished. Living the life of a Sinner allowed me to understand the camaraderie shared by military members who had spent time in combat together. Being a member of the club was not much different. Knowing a brother had my back was reassuring, comforting, and provided an odd sense of balance to an otherwise askew life I seemed to live.

I gazed down into the empty cup of coffee and began to wonder if forfeiting a conventional way of life was something I was willing to do. The answer was as clear as the blue sky outside - I had already done it. Consciously or not, I had cast aside anything conventional to protect the lives and preserve the rights of my beloved brothers. The Sinners were my family, and more than likely the only love I would ever know.

I stood from my seat and walked to the kitchen sink. After rinsing the cup of coffee and placing it in the dishwasher, I walked to my bedroom and grabbed my cut. My thoughts of Sam and the untimely death of her mother had begun to fade, but the event opened my eyes and allowed me to have a better understanding of myself, my life, and my true love.

The Selected Sinners.

I opened the door to the garage and pressed the button on the wall to open the door leading to the driveway. I stood on the steps and glanced around. An obvious extension of me and my beliefs, the garage was filled with tools and equipment for working on bikes, my two motorcycles, and my 1969 Z-28 Camaro. No second car, no flower pots or planters, and no indication of any interests other than the car and bikes. Satisfied my life was what it was meant to be, I grinned and fired up the bike. As the motor warmed up to operating temp, the low rumble of the exhaust filled me with pleasure. Riding a motorcycle wasn’t something I merely enjoyed, it was part of my being. Each time I rode was as exciting as the first, and for that I was extremely grateful. If riding a motorcycle ever became boring, I suspected my life would become the same.

I rode to the clubhouse, enjoying the sunset against the few clouds that had developed along the western sky. With the warm summer air against my face, I gazed ahead at the slight curve in the highway leading into town. The empty highway invited me to twist back the throttle, and I did so without reservation. Now heading into the curve at eighty miles per hour, I leaned the bike to my left, dragging the toe of my boot against the passing pavement as I did so. The tips of my boots acted as a measuring stick of sorts for how far to lean my bike, and doing so until my boots drug against the road provided me a sense of worth. As the curve straightened into open road, I leaned right, bringing the bike back to upright.

In the distance, a tractor crossing the highway reminded me of the summer soon coming to a close, a farmer obviously spending as many daylight hours as possible harvesting his crops, he attempted to cross the road before I arrived at the intersection. I downshifted, released the clutch and grinned at the sound bellowing from the exhaust. As the distance between me and the tractor quickly decreased, I downshifted again, then again, almost coming to a stop before the tractor completely crossed the road. As my bike slowed to an almost stop, the farmer reached out the side window of the tractor and waved, obviously realizing his poor judgement in crossing the road in front of me.

I lifted my left hand, waved, and twisted the throttle. As the bike quickly accelerated, I shifted through the gears until once again reaching the eighty mile per hour mark. A quick glance in my rearview mirror revealed a dust cloud following the farmer’s tractor down the county road he traveled along.

As I considered that he was probably going home to a late dinner, thoughts of having a woman in my life began to run through my head and filled my mind until I rode into town. Struggling with whether or not I’d ever be able to come home to a prepared dinner, under another person’s expectation of doing so, I slowed down for the first traffic light.

I sat at the light, gazing blankly into the road ahead, as an old school Harley approached the light in the oncoming lane. A late 1960’s Shovelhead Springer with a face I recognized as being one of the local Patriot Guard came to a stop in the lane immediately to my left. Bill was a Vietnam Vet, rode with the Guard, and often attended the funerals of veterans who were being protested by Pastor Fred Phelps’ Westboro Baptist Church; providing a line of separation between the protestors and the families of the vet.

As the light turned green, Bill lowered his left hand to his side as he rode by. I did the same. Something as simple as lowering one’s left hand had become the universal biker wave over the years; and as easy as it was to do, not
everyone
did it. The few who did stood for one thing and one thing only, realizing it was as big a part of being a biker as anything else. In recognizing this, I felt I had my answer to my ability to come home to dinner on a nightly basis.

The answer was
no
.

And the wave stood for freedom.

OTIS

Axton held his hands in the air as he studied the group of men assembled in the office. An uneducated glance at my brothers led me to believe if not all of the men were in attendance, almost all of them were. As the crowd quieted down from a dull roar to complete silence, Axton lowered his hands and sighed.

“As you know from the announcement, we’re going to have a special vote. Those in attendance tonight will be considered the
entire
club, regardless of whether or not all patched members are in attendance. Be it known that any member not in attendance will forfeit their vote in said matter. I cannot vote, nor will I attempt to prejudice your thoughts on this, but we need to decide on something that’s been brought to my attention as a motion by a member of the Executive Committee, and was seconded by another member of the committee. All records of said conversation and motion were recorded by yours truly,” Axton extended his arm toward Fancy, who grinned and raised his hand as Axton pointed at him.

“Here’s what we’ve got, fellas,” Axton said as he turned and surveyed the group.

“Jackson Shephard, your Sergeant-At-Arms future brother-in-law, and the man we all supported in trial the other day, has been released from his former club at his request. He now is a local resident, and lives with Toad. The bylaws allow for the transfer of a fully patched member of another club into our club without prospecting, but it requires a vote of one hundred percent in agreement. Personally, I can’t vouch for this man, but I can say I’ve spoken to the President of Hell’s Fury. According to him, Jackson was not only a patched in member, but was solid as a rock throughout his legal battle and incarceration. When many men would have dropped a dime on their brothers, he kept his mouth shut. The vote tonight will be whether or not to allow him to come into the Sinners as a fully patched member. This will be a private vote, and as I said earlier, this will require a one hundred percent vote, fellas. Any questions?”

“I ain’t saying I agree or disagree, and I know it’s in the bylaws, but just out of curiosity, why wouldn’t we have him be a Prospect?” Pete asked.

“Respect,” Axton responded, “Toad and I discussed this at the meeting when the motion was made to allow the vote. Let me have Toad explain the analogy we discussed.”

Axton turned to face Toad and nodded his head.

After clearing his throat, Toad began, “If a man’s in the Army, Navy, or Air Force, and he wants to transfer to be a Marine, he must go through basic training all over again. It’s humbling, and although he may be a Sergeant or whatever in the Army, the Marine Corps won’t allow him to come in until he completes
their
basic training. But, if a Marine wants to transfer into any other branch, he can do so without any restrictions or going through the basic training of the branch he’s transferring into again. Basic training, for those who don’t understand, is basically being a Prospect for the military. The Marines are viewed by the other branches of the military as being trained in a superior fashion, and once a Marine has completed his Prospecting, and received his patch so to speak, he can transfer to any other military branch. Our bylaws are no different than any other 1% clubs bylaws in this regard. We view anyone as being in a 1% club as being trained in a superior fashion, and asking him to complete the process again is not only disrespectful to him, but disrespectful to the club he originally prospected for. And this bylaw only applies to members who were released in good standing.”

Pete, as well as many other men in attendance, nodded their heads. Gunner, a former Army machine gunner, pointed at Toad and nodded his head as Toad finished his speech.

“He’s right,” Gunner nodded, “A Marine can walk in wherever he wants, but no one can walk into the Corps.”

Toad glanced at Gunner and stared for a moment before nodding his head. For some reason, there always seemed to be a little military tension between the two, and I always dismissed it to being the difference between being a Marine and being an Army soldier. That, and the fact Toad didn’t particularly open up to just everyone.

I patted Toad on the back and grinned.

“Good fucking speech,” I chuckled.

“Appreciate it, Toad. So,” Axton sighed, “Fancy will pass around slips of paper. There’s about ten pens on the table to share, and to save any confusion, a
yes
vote means you agree to allow him in, and a
no
vote means you don’t agree. If there’s one no vote, the answer is
no
. If the answer is yes, it was agreed by the entire club, and I won’t allow any future bitching or complaining about him being a fully patched member. He’s paid his dues and then some, he just didn’t pay ‘em
here
.”

Fancy began to pass slips of paper through the crowd. After everyone had a slip of paper, the pens began to float through the room. After roughly five minutes it was over, and the slips of folded paper were provided to Fancy.

“Official count for the attendance?” Axton asked.

Fancy glanced down at his notepad, “Thirty-four, including you.”

“Count the slips as you read ‘em off, we’ll need thirty-three for a
yes
decision. You can stop counting as soon as you read off a
no
,” Axton explained, “And hand the slips to the V.P. for confirmation after you read them if you will.”

Fancy nodded his head in my direction.

“One yes. Two yes. Three yes. Four yes. Five yes…” Fancy said as he unfolded and read each vote individually.

After reading each slip, he handed them to Toad, who in turn handed them to me. I confirmed each slip was marked as Fancy indicated, and then placed them on the table in a helmet sitting in the center of the table.

“Thirty-two yes, and the last. Thirty three,” Fancy grinned as he unfolded the last piece of paper.

“Thirty-three’s a yes,” he said as he handed the slip to Toad.

I nodded in agreement as Toad handed the slip to me.

“Well fellas, it’s unanimous. Toad, send him a text or call him and have him get his ass up here,” Axton paused and glanced around the group.

“Now, all we’ve got to do is name this poor fucker. His former club name was
Killer
, and that damned near got him life in prison. He doesn’t have any recommendations from what Brother Toad has said, so I’m open for suggestions,” Axton shrugged.

“I say we call him
Meathead
. He looks like one of those meat-headed fuckers from the gym. He’s all swole up,” Pete said as he raised his arms and flexed his biceps.

“We already got a
Jack
and a
Government Jack
,” Knucklelhead hollered, “I say we either call him
Meathead
or
Big Jack
. He’s a big fucker for sure.”

“Anyone else?” Axton asked.

“Meathead reminds me of that dumb fucker on the Archie Bunker T.V. show, I don’t like it. Big Jack sounds good, but Meathead just reminds me of that bald-headed fucker on the show,” Tater said.

“Well, not everyone’s as old as you, Tater,” Axton chuckled, “Anyone else?”

“Second Chance,” Gunner chuckled, “Let’s call him
Second Chance
.”

Axton shook his head and grinned, “Anyone else?”

“Big Jack is a good one,” Mike nodded.

“Well, when he gets here, we’ll see,” Axton nodded, “Anyone else?”

After a few seconds of silence, Axton raised his hands, “Feel free to wander your asses around until he gets here. You don’t have to stay, but if you do, feel free to drink your beers or whatever. And remember, don’t toss your empties in
my
shit can. Toss ‘em in the shop.”

As the crowd diminished and members either left or wandered into the shop, Toad and I were left in the office with a few other lingering members.

“You’re looking good. Look like you’ve slept since I saw you last,” I said.

Toad sighed, “I tell you what, I don’t think I slept good on even one night for the two weeks before the trial. Bet I lost ten pounds. It’s all good now, and other than Jack being a little skittish just coming out of prison and all, he’s a damned good guy. I thought Corn Dog was bad when he got out, but Jack’s pretty damned nervous about people getting up close to him or walking behind him.”

“Yeah, probably the difference between being in state prison and a maximum security fed joint. I’m gonna guess him being a 1%er and all, he probably had quite a few people who tried to challenge his willingness to stand up against them,” I shrugged.

Toad nodded his head, “So far, he hasn’t offered to talk about it much, and Sydney and I decided not to ask, so I’m not sure. He seems pretty quiet, really. Sydney’s sure happy to have him back, that’s for sure.”

I nodded my head, thinking about the day Sydney ran out to my bike at the bank. When she asked me to take her to Biscuit’s house, making the statement
devil looks after his own
, I knew something was up, I just didn’t know what. Later, when I found out the bank had been robbed, and Toad had single handedly apprehended the robber, I knew she was
somehow
involved with the robbery. Her reluctance to provide any information on the robbery, Toad, or anything to do with the person who robbed the bank caused me to immediately develop a feeling of appreciation for her and her ability to keep her mouth shut.

The explanation that followed of her brother and his involvement with Hell’s Fury explained a lot about her knowledge of clubs, club procedures, and the importance of
not
talking before thinking long and hard about whether or not it was necessary. Sydney, no different than Avery, was a great addition to my extended family.

“I’m glad he’s back. It’s good for her, that’s for sure. I’m sure he’ll make as good of a brother for us as he has for her,” I said.

The sound of a bike pulling into the lot echoed through the shop and into the office. I wondered as the tone of the exhaust increased if it might be Jack.

“Imagine so. Well, that sounds like my Softail, maybe we ought to walk out to the shop and greet him. He’s liable to smack the shit out of someone if they bump into him,” Toad said as he tilted his head to the side.

As we walked out into the shop, I immediately noticed Jack sitting on Toad’s Softail in the drive. In boots, jeans, and a wife beater, he sure looked the part. Roughly the size of Toad from the waist down, it was apparent he wasn’t
naturally
a big man, and all of his size came from hard work on the weight bench.

And size was something he did not lack. As he recognized Toad, he stood from the bike and stretched his back. His slim torso made his already massive upper body appear to be twice the size it already was. His short blonde hair and tan from all of the time he’d spent on the yard at prison made him look like the meathead Pete had joked about. If I didn’t know him, I’d certainly think twice about going one round in the ring with him, and I’d fight just about anyone.

“Well, Jackson. We voted,” Axton said as he stepped into the drive.

Jack stood stone faced and waited for Axton to finish his thought.

Axton spread his arms wide, “Welcome to the Sinners.”

Jack grinned as he embraced Axton. After a few slaps on the back, Axton and Jack separated, and Jack took a few steps in our direction, stopping a few feet from where Toad and I stood.

“Come into the office in a few and I’ll get you fitted for a cut. I make my own, so it’ll be tomorrow before it’s done. The fellas all spoke, and it looks like they want to call you
Big Jack
. We’ve got a few;
Jack
and
Government Jack
, but don’t have a Big Jack. Your thoughts?” Axton asked.

“Big Jack sounds good,” Jack nodded.

“Well, you’re a big fucker, that’s for sure. Now, when you get done mingling with the fellas, I’ll be in the office. One of these two can show you around,” Axton said as he turned toward the shop.

“Got a question, boss,” Jack said under his breath.

Axton turned around and crossed his arms over his chest. As he stood and studied Jack, he flexed his biceps. A small show of testosterone, and one of Axton’s signature poses, it was obvious Axton needed Jack to know regardless of his size, just who it was that was the bigger man.

“What might that be?” Axton asked flatly.

“Who put the money on my books?” Jack asked.

“The club,” Axton responded without any emotion.

As Axton turned around, Jack cleared his throat.

“
Who
put the money on my books?” Jack asked again, placing emphasis on the word
who
.

Axton turned around and shook his head.

“Semantics,” Axton sighed, “His name’s Biscuit. Big barrel-chested fucker with brown hair and a beard. He’ll be the one telling some bullshit story in the shop. Just listen for the loudest voice, and look for the crowd. Why?”