Hung (Selected Sinners MC #4) - Scott Hildreth Page 0,1
“I have the officer’s report, and I quote,” he sighed.
“At approximately 1933 hours, while stationary at the 7000 block of Kellogg, observed motorcycle approaching at a high rate of speed. Removed LIDAR 001-00200 and directed toward oncoming motorcycle. Speed clocked initially at 133 MPH. After resetting device, clocked motorcycle at 128 MPH. Chase ensued, and motorcycle stopped without attempting to evade. DL, proof of insurance and registration were provided without incident. Identified suspect as Dalton Biskette. Upon stating arrest was mandatory, Biskette became belligerent and non-compliant. After backup officers arrived, repeated attempts to handcuff the suspect proved unsuccessful. Tasers were drawn, and suspect became more belligerent, screaming expletives while threatening officers with harm and anal intercourse. Eventually Biskette was brought down with Tasers from myself, officers Bryant and Moses; handcuffed, and transported to Sedgwick County Jail,” he paused and lowered the paper to his desk.
“First and foremost, explain to me the necessity to be traveling on an occupied highway, in the city, at speeds in excess of one hundred and thirty miles per hour,” the judge bellowed.
I cleared my throat and responded truthfully.
“I was late for a meeting,” I sighed.
“A meeting?” the judge chuckled.
I nodded my head, “Yes sir.”
“You were traveling to a meeting at 7:30 in the evening?” he asked.
“Yes sir,” I responded.
He rested his hand on his chin and widened his eyes, “A meeting with whom?”
“The President. Had it just been with one of the fellas, I wouldn’t have been goin’ so fast,” I explained.
“As I doubt you were late to a meeting with Barrack Obama, I’ll ask that you explain further. The president of…” he paused as he turned his palms upward.
“The club, your honor. The president of the club.”
“Evasive, Mr. Biskette. You’re being evasive. It is part of the reason you’re here. Specifically, who were you going to meet at 7:30 in the evening?” he asked.
“Slice. He’s the president of the motorcycle club,” I responded.
“Slice? Does Slice have a name,” the judge sighed.
“I’m sure he does, your honor. It’s just that I’m not aware of what it might be. Slice is all I know,” I lied.
The judge shook his head, exhaled, and eventually locked his eyes on mine.
He sighed heavily as he began to dig through the paperwork on his desk, “You’re going to plead guilty to the speeding?”
Without looking up, he continued, “And the reckless endangerment.”
“For the weaving in and out of traffic, I’m guessing?” I asked.
“That is correct,” he responded.
“Guilty,” I sighed.
“Resisting arrest?” he breathed.
I didn’t see much value in trying to explain how I had told officer Obie and Moses I was going to beat their asses and butt fuck them if they tried to cuff me. If the judge wasn’t going to bring it up, I figured it was in my best interest to just plead guilty and save a little embarrassment for us all.
“Cause I didn’t want ‘em to cuff me?” I asked.
“That is also correct,” he said as he glanced up from his desk.
“Guilty,” I responded.
This shit’s adding up quick.
“Which brings us to the two incidents over the course of the weekend. Saturday, at the mid-day meal, you were observed beating another inmate to the point of unconsciousness. Would you care to explain?” the judge asked as he raised a white piece of paper from the desk.
I gazed down past the legs of my orange jumpsuit and focused on the little black slipper shoes they made me wear. After thinking for a long minute and exhaling all the air from my lungs, I glanced toward the judge and began to explain.
“I was wore out from the whole Taser thing from the night before, and I was hungrier than hell. I missed breakfast ‘cause nobody bothered to wake me up, and I spent all mornin’ miserable. Later on they called us for lunch, and I followed everyone into the chow hall. I was minding my own business, just eatin’ my lunch, and some tatted up skinhead fella came and snatched the cookie off my tray and took a bite of it,” I explained.
“Continue,” the judge sighed.
“I smacked him, you honor.”
“Smacked him? With your fist?” he asked.
I shook my head, “No sir.”
“The inmate, Mr. Biskette, is still in the hospital,” he said as he shifted his eyes to the paper he held.
“A broken jaw, broken wrist, his skull is fractured, let’s see here,” he paused as he picked up another piece of paper and studied it.
“It seems he has a concussion, and he’s missing four teeth. With what did you