by Kim Jones
“Where the hell you goin’?” I ask, a little more panicked than I’d planned.
“That was Luke. He said Punkin is demanding she see you before you go to court. I’ll try to get court pushed to Friday. She’ll be here in the morning. Good luck.” He bangs on the door, waiting for the guard to open it.
“Wait…” I yell, pulling against the restraints that have me bolted to the floor. “So that’s it?”
“Talk to Punkin. Apparently she’s the expert. I mean, it’s not like I have a law degree or anything.” He storms out, clearly pissed that he’s been dismissed. I’m not pissed, and now that I think about it, I’m not worried either. Nobody knew the system better than Punkin. And I don’t care how good of a lawyer Alan is, he’ll never be as loyal as family.
The deputies on night shift don’t have the same stick up their asses the ones on day shift do. Barnes is a massive man with dark skin, a bald head and a death glare that I’m sure will soon replace lethal injection. But for some reason, he likes me. It’s probably because I’m the only person in here besides him.
“We don’t usually get a lot of inmates during the week,” he told me when I asked where the hell everyone was. I’m lying on the bed in my cell, looking up at the ceiling, and he sits in a chair on the other side of the bars. “It’s Tuesday—the day with the lowest crime rate.”
“Good thing I committed my crime on Monday,” I smirk, finding the easy conversation a welcome distraction from my thoughts.
“What you do?”
I roll my eyes at his question. Like I’d tell him. “I’m innocent.”
He laughs. “Seriously, man. I do this shit part time. I ain’t looking for a confession, I’m just trying not to fall asleep.”
Bored, I give him the situation, but leave out anything that could potentially be used against me. “You ever worked hard for something? Something that meant the world to you? Gave you purpose and a reason to live?”
“Not really,” he says and it makes me smile. Few people have.
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I sit up to face him. “Well, let’s say you did. Let’s say you busted your ass at your job for years and finally made it to the top. Then a year later, some prick comes in with nothing more than a uniform he got off the internet and takes it from you. How would that make you feel?”
“I’d be pissed.”
“And what would you do?”
“Probably nothing,” he laughs.
“You got any balls beneath that belt?” I ask, pointing in the general direction of his waist.
He shakes his head. “I don’t know what you did. I’m tryin’ to pick up what you puttin’ down, and I think I get it. If you here for standing up for something you love, then you should be proud of that.” He leans closer, resting his elbows on his knees and hitting me with that glare of his. “But was it worth it?”
I think about that a minute. I burnt down my enemy’s clubhouse. The feeling was pure fucking elation. I’d let Madness know that the Devil’s Renegades weren’t going to tolerate their shit. They didn’t deserve to wear a patch. They hadn’t earned the right to claim territory. And even though I would pay the price, they might think twice before they invade us again.
My actions weren’t unusual. But this wasn’t any other MC. These were the motherfuckers that didn’t have cops on their payroll—they had them in their club. And just like the snitching bitches they were, they’d turned us in.
Because of their cowardly methods, my club was now at risk. If I were convicted, our MC would be slandered all over the news. We’d fought hard to earn the community’s trust, and we would potentially lose that too. I’d started a war, and now I wouldn’t be there to fight it—leaving my brothers a soldier short.
“You’re thinking too hard, kid. I’ll take that as a no.”
I stand, shoving my hands in my pockets as I pace the room. “It’s not a no, but it’s not a yes either. There are pros and cons to my actions.”
“There’s always a right answer, but maybe I’m askin’ the wrong question.” I hear the rattle of keys and look over to find him unlocking my cell. “I think the real question is would you do it again?”
Without hesitation, I answer. “You fuckin’ right I would.”
Sliding back the door, he motions with his hand for me to follow him. “I figured you’d say that. The only thing that can break that stubbornness is time, and looks like you’re in for a lot of it.” I fall in behind him as he leads us down the hall towards the yard. “I reckon we better have a cigarette. Might be the last one you get for a while.”
And I’m pretty sure, he’s probably right.
At ten the next morning, I’m sitting in a chair, bolted to the floor, waiting for my visitor. There’s something about being out of the cage that makes me feel human. I’m imagining I’m anywhere other than here when the door swings open and a deputy steps in, checks my restraints, motions to my visitor to have a seat, then leaves us.
“Did you forget I spent twelve years in this motherfucker?”
“It’s good to see you too, Punkin.” I watch her with amusement as she eyes the two-way mirror with caution and takes a seat. I’m guessing her being here was all Luke’s idea.
“Can we smoke in here?” she asks, sniffing the air. I nod. “Well I’m gonna get my cigarettes.” Banging on the door, she yells for someone to let her out and I laugh.
Punkin is the ol’ lady of Marshal, the VP of our Lake Charles Chapter. They’d known each other prior to her conviction, and after her release, they’d rekindled the old flame. She’d served twelve years upstate for murdering her abusive husband. Because there was no record of his abuse she couldn’t claim self-defense. And it didn’t help that she sent him to his death in a very brutal manner—stabbing him forty-seven times in his sleep.
The judge was sympathetic to her case and she’d received a surprisingly light sentencing for such a gruesome crime. She’d been released early for good behavior and was now completely reformed—although from time to time she did weird and crazy shit that could only be explained by her being institutionalized for so long.
Barreling back through the door, she stops to light a cigarette before taking a seat. “In here, these are like gold,” she says, handing it to me then lighting another for herself. “I once had a girl trade me a whole box of Debbie Cakes for one drag. Best damn Oatmeal Crème Pies I ever had.”
“I need some help Punkin,” I say, cutting her off.
She shakes her hair. It’s blonde today, but will likely be a different color tomorrow. “You’re right. I just ramble when I’m nervous. I don’t like this place. What you need?”
Giving me her undivided attention, she props her chin in her hand, leaning on the table. There’s a lot of painful memories in her green eyes, and worry lines on her face. I can’t help but wonder if prison will do the same thing to me.
“So you gonna talk or you taking a mental picture of me to beat off to tonight? I can take my shirt off if you want,” she winks and my dark mood lightens.
“They got stills in five second intervals of everything I did. My charges are arson, trespassing and assault.”
“Can you see your face in the pictures?”
I nod.
“They got a timeline printed on the pictures of when you arrived and left?”
I nod.
“Did you look at the pictures?”
“Yes.”
“Were they accurate?”
“Very.”
“You’re fucked,” she says nonchalantly, with a wave of her hand.
I let out an exasperated breath. “That’s not the news I was hoping for, Punkin.” Leave it to her to not cut corners. “Alan says I could get forty years.”
She pulls her head back and gives me an incredulous look. “Ain’t you a first time felon?” I nod and she shakes her head in disbelief. “You’ll never get the max.” For the first time since I’ve been here, I feel hope. It’s weak, but I feel it.
&
nbsp; “I don’t know what to do. I’ve spent a couple days in jail but always bonded out. This shit is a first for me.”
Pushing her hand in my face, she shuts me up. “Listen to me.” She pauses, and I wait anxiously for her to continue. Several moments pass and we just stare at each other. “You listening?” Are you fucking kidding me?
“Yes, Punkin. I’m listenin’,” I snap.
“Okay, okay. Just makin’ sure.” Pulling another cigarette from her pack, she lights it with the fire of her first one. I’m moments away from throwing the table across the room when she finally gets her shit together. “Where was I?”
“Dammit, Punkin…” I swear the woman has the attention span of a two-year-old at a photo shoot in the middle of Disney World.
“Right. Okay. When’s court?”
“Friday,” I say through my teeth. But she’s unaffected by my anger.
Her cigarette hangs out the side of her mouth as she rubs her hands together—a nervous tick she’s had since I’ve known her. “You’ll be charged with a felony. The judge will set your bond on Friday and the jury will have a year to indict you.”
“So, if I make bond, I might get a year out before I have to go back?”
She looks at me like I’m stupid. “And give up all this?” She waves her hand around the room. “This place has AC. It’s new, small and you’ll make trustee in two weeks’ tops.”
“You know what else has AC? My fucking house. Get to the point, Punkin.”
“My point is you’re gonna do time. Hard time in Parchman.” There goes that hope. “And a year here is one less you’ll have to do in MAX.”
“How much time am I looking at?” I ask, no longer angry. She does the math in her head and with every second that passes, I feel like I’m taking one step closer to the gallows.
“You’ll get thirty for thirty, meaning for every thirty days you serve, thirty is knocked off your sentence, cutting your time in half. The DA will want to cut you a deal. Make them offer you ten years. You’ll serve a year here, four in MAX and five on paper. With an arson charge, that’s the best you’re gonna get.” Her words are bittersweet. I might not have to serve very long, but I’ve still got to go to prison.
Five years. I could do five years. But that’s if the DA gives me the offer. “You sure I’ll get the offer?” Leaning back in her seat, she pulls her cigarette from her mouth and gives me a confident smile and words that remind me why I love her.
“Is a pig’s pussy pork?”
A pig’s pussy is definitely pork. I served three hundred and sixty-two days in Yalobusha County Jail before I was indicted by the grand jury. The DA offered me a plea bargain of ten years for arson, and dropped the assault and trespassing charge.
I took the deal and this morning, the judge sentenced me to Parchman, the Mississippi state penitentiary, for ten years with time served—leaving me with nine. For every thirty days I’m in, thirty will be knocked off my sentence. That means I have four years left. Four long fucking years.
I fall in line with the other prisoners as we step off the bus into the middle of nowhere. The concrete building is surrounded by armed guards, razor wire and locked gates. For miles around there’s nothing but open field. It’s the most depressing shit I’ve ever seen.
The shackles on my ankles force me to drag my feet toward my new home. From the moment the first gate opens, I’m reminded of my reality. I’m not property of the Devil’s Renegades anymore. I’m now property of the state.
I hold my chin high as I walk in. I don’t let that sinking feeling in my gut show. No one knows the emptiness I feel inside. Everything I’ve worked so hard for is gone—my club, my life and my family. Today, I continue the count that marks the days I’ve been someone I don’t want to be--the same man I’ll be for the next four years.
Three hundred and sixty-two.
I’m not a biker.
I’m not a patch holder.
I’m not even Marty.
I’m Yates--inmate number 31807.
CHAPTER FIVE
Maddie
“Four years?” Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. “That long?” Maybe I heard her wrong. Maybe she said four months.
“Yep. four years.” Or not. “Well, actually five, but they gave him time served.”
Pulling the cigarette from her mouth, I ignore Red’s protest as I stay lost in my thoughts. Four years? How could I handle four years? The year in county just about killed me. I don’t think I’ll survive four more without him.
“You should get on his visitation list. I know he’d love to see you.” Red’s suggestion has me pulling my eyes from the bathroom floor and looking up at her. She’s doing her eyebrow wiggling shit and I’m sure it has nothing to do with the makeup she’s applying.
I let out a loud breath. When she doesn’t look at me, I do it again. With a loud sigh of her own, she quirks an eyebrow and turns those hazel eyes on me. “You’re stupid,” she says, throwing her hand on her hip.
“I’m not stupid, Red.” I can feel my anger rising. “Don’t call me that.” She dismisses my warning with a wave of her hand.
“Well, you’re acting stupid. I’m this far from saying a Forrest Gump quote.” Holding her fingers up and squinting her eyes, she shows me the tiny space between her index finger and thumb. “Don’t make me do it.”
“You’re real fucking mature. You know that?” My comeback is shitty and it pisses me off more. So, I do what I always do when I don’t have a decent comeback—I stomp out.
My living room greets me with a smile. The paneled brown walls are a seventies original, but the pictures that cover them always bring me joy. Well, almost always. Right now, I want to smash anything breakable.
Leaving him was the hardest thing I’d ever done. But I still don’t regret the decision, even though I can feel the guilt starting to eat away at me. I should have gone to see him. He spent fifty-two Sundays in county, and Red hadn’t missed one. I’d missed them all.
I throw myself down on my worn out, second-hand sofa. I breathe deep as I fight to remember my reason for not going to see him. I didn’t want to give him false hope. I didn’t want him to know how much I cared. Or how much I still resented him for fucking up what we once had. I deserved more than second place then, and I still do now. I want to be a first priority. And I’ll never be as long as I choose to be with someone who lives the MC life.
Before he went to jail, the struggle to stay away from him was nearly impossible. After he got locked up, it made being away from him easier. Out of sight. Out of mind. But four years is a long time. Now I’m regretting not giving us another shot. Or at least trying to be his friend. What if he forgets me? What if he stops loving me? What if four years from now, I’m nothing but a distant memory?
“Mama!” The piercing yell coming from the back of the house has me smiling. I more than welcome the distraction of my nine-year-old.
“Logan!”
“You have that meeting today!” I’ve never been more thankful for the walls between us as I mutter a string of curse words and roll off the couch. Leave it to my kid to remind me that I have shit to do other than lay here and feel sorry for myself.
I pass Red in the hall, rolling my eyes at her smug grin. Peeking inside Logan’s room, I find him playing a video game. “Ten minutes, okay?”
“I’ll see you in twenty,” he says, pulling his eyes from the screen long enough to look at me and give me his best impression of the Luke Carmical smirk. I shake my head, wondering how in the hell I ended up raising a kid smarter than me.
Logan is brilliant—and I’m not just saying that because he’s mine. He’s truly talented and more intelligent than any other nine-year-old kid I’ve ever met. But this isn’t just mother’s intuition. The tests he’d taken over the summer proved more than just how smart he really is.
His SAT and ACT scores along with his high IQ, make him a borderline genius. His intellectual gift has drawn the attention of the Superintendent of Education. She wants t
o meet Logan personally, which is the cause for the meeting I’m about to be late for.
Slipping on a black skirt and matching silk blouse, I dig through the bottom of my closet looking for heels that look less sexy and more professional. Frustrated and sweating, I yell for Red’s assistance while I fix my hair and put on some makeup.
“You’re late for everything,” Red mumbles, dropping to her knees to dig through my mountain of shoes. “This is ridiculous, Maddie. Nobody should have this much shit.” She continues to bitch, but I ignore her as I twist my hair up in a clip, coat my lashes in mascara, then apply some lip gloss. By the time I’m ready, Red has found my most appropriate pair of black heels.
I slip them on my feet as I put my earrings in, staring at her while she smirks back at me. “Logan!” I yell, knowing good and damn well he’s ready.
“We’re late, Mama,” he says, holding my purse in one hand and my keys in the other. I pause to smile and look down at him. He’s such a good kid. I’d be lost without him. If it wasn’t for him, I’d have long given in to Marty. But I needed to learn to be strong on my own. Learn to take care of myself without the help of the MC or a man. It was my responsibility to my kid.
Kissing Logan’s cheek, I ruffle his hair, causing him to take a step back and grimace at me. “You’re my favorite kid. You know that?”
“I’m your only kid,” he mumbles, leading me down the hall.
With a wave of my hand, I dismiss his comment as I turn off the lights on our way out. “That’s irrelevant. And besides, if I had a hundred you’d still be my favorite.”
I don’t have to see his face to know he’s rolling his eyes. Opening the front door, he turns to look at me. “If you had a hundred kids, you’d need to find a new hobby.”
As he walks out, I stand frozen in place. Surely my nine-year-old son didn’t know where babies came from. He’s too young for that. I look to Red for guidance. “Do you think he…” I trail off, unable to even say the words.
