by Bella Knight
They brought him a lawyer, a female with short, choppy black hair in a dark blue suit.
“My name is Gina Von, and I’m your lawyer. So, Mr. Braud. You’re going to be charged with four counts of assault here in Las Vegas. New Orleans will have charges for you for breaking a certain Callie Laurent’s arm.”
“Didn’t do it,” said Benji. “When you gettin’ me out o’ here?”
“Let’s see what the police have,” she said. She called them in.
The cop with the short hair sat down again. A tall black man with wiry hair in a black suit sat down next to her.
“My name is Detective Vargas. This is Detective Archer. We’re on the Domestic Violence Squad. Now, I witnessed three assaults tonight, and we have you on camera assaulting your ex-girlfriend in the bar. You put your hands on her repeatedly. The tape clearly shows her telling you to leave her alone. You grabbed her and refused to let go. That’s assault. We also have a large number of witnesses, many of them ex-military or off-duty cops, such as myself. You were taken off into the parking lot and asked repeatedly to leave. I witnessed that myself. You repeatedly tried to assault the owner of the bar.”
“She hit me!” Benji said, petulance in his voice.
“I must advise you to be quiet, Mr. Braud,” said his attorney.
“You attempted to assault her. And, I might add, long after you’d already gotten your ass kicked. She used a single strike, each time. No wasted movement. If she had beaten you, it would be assault. But, she didn’t throw the first punch. She asked you to leave repeatedly. You could have gotten a brain and walked off at any time. Please, feel free to file assault charges against Ivy. She’ll win, and she can sue you in civil court as well.”
Detective Archer spoke. “How did you find Callie, Mr. Braud? Last you saw, she got on a bike and disappeared.”
Benji sat up straight. “Got eyes, don’t I? License plate. On the bike.”
“Interesting,” he said. “So, you found Ivy and tracked her down. Did it occur to you that the owner of the bike might be part of a motorcycle club?”
Benji stared off into a corner of the room.
“Are we boring you, Mr. Braud?” asked Archer. “You are really, really stupid, Mr. Braud. First, you broke your girlfriend’s arm in front of a little girl. Juries will hear her testimony, and the testimony of her daughter. The jury will be so busy crying and hating you, that you’ll get convicted in half a second after they go to deliberate. Then, there’s tonight. Did you know that you did your assaults in front of members of four separate motorcycle clubs?”
“Are you threatening my client?” asked Von.
“I was there, and I’m part of one of those clubs,” said Detective Vargas. “The Iron Knights are protectors. Some of the other ones aren’t as nice. And Ivy and her girlfriend are members of the Nighthawks.”
“What you talkin’ about?” asked Benji.
“Good God,” said Vargas. “You kicked a nest of cobras and you act like you’ve done nothing wrong.” She sighed. “Want to watch the videos?”
They sat and watched the videos of his varied assaults.
Vargas put out a pen and paper. “Why don’t you write down what you did?” she said.
“Fuck you,” said Benji. “You got that woman assaultin’ me on tape. Why ain’t you fucken arresting her?”
Vargas and Archer stood up. “Please confer with your client,” said Archer. They left.
“I ain’t goin’ to jail,” Benji said. “Get me out.”
Attorney Gina Von tried to talk sense to her pigheaded client. “They’ve got you on tape. I may be able to get something thrown out, but you broke a woman’s arm in front of a little girl. I can’t possibly win anything. You are going to be charged with assault, domestic violence, and child abuse.”
Benjj got mulish. “I didn’t hit no child.”
“You assaulted a mother in front of her child. That’s domestic violence, and child abuse because you did it in front of a child. You should plead guilty, immediately, and say how very, very sorry you feel, and that you were addicted to something. We may be able to get you into a rehab.”
“Ain’t addicted to nothing.”
“Well,” she said, standing up. “You will be charged and brought to prison now. I’ll see you at your arraignment.” She put away her paperwork, grabbed her briefcase, and walked out.
The cops came in, booked and fingerprinted him, and put him in with six other guys, including drunks, and stoners. He flopped down in a corner and tried to breathe. He hurt in places he didn’t want to think about. At least the cuffs were off.
He started to realize that something was wrong when two cops stood outside his cage and talked.
“That the idiot?” the male one asked.
“Yep,” the female one said. “Attacked a woman in front of the Nighthawks, the Iron Knights, and a couple others.”
“Stupid,” said the first one. Then, they walked off.
The drunks moved away, helping the stoner move over. The shaking one they let lay there on the floor. The big guy with the scraggly beard moved closer.
“It true? You hit some woman?”
“Naw,” said Benji. “Just grabbed her.”
“In the Nighthawks bar? Dirty Vegas?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Followed them.”
“That’s stalking,” said the big guy. “They'll add that to your charges. What they chargin’ you with?”
“Assault,” he said. He decided not to talk about how Ivy had assaulted him.
“Who you assault?”
“My girlfriend, I just got her arm. Didn’t hit her or nothing.” He thought back, through memories of pain, and his time with the cops. “Think my girl done gone lesbo.”
“Yeah?” asked the man. “Who she with?”
“Some owner of Dirty Rock.”
“Ivy?” asked the man.
“Yeah,” he said. “Think so.”
“Boy,” said the big man, “you eight kinds of stupid. She is the female head of the Nighthawks. You not gonna live long ‘cept you say you sorry.” He looked sorrowfully at Benji. “Good luck, man. You gonna need it.” He moved away, moving a drunk around.
Benji sat alone, and stared at a wall, and felt his groin hurt. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
The junkie got out, then the big guy, then the junkie came back. It was a long night, of noise and the occasional retching of the drunks.
Morning came. He was taken to the court. He sat on a bench. Every time someone sat down, everyone moved over, away from him. He smelled himself. It wasn’t that bad. Two of the guys smelled eye-wateringly bad.
He saw people come in to the room. Moms. A pimp. A brother. And people in leather. One, two, three. More. They started taking up whole rows. The moms and the brother and the pimp ended up on the same row. They all wore leather and motorcycle boots. There were both men and women, with different backs. Many of them had a scary skull on the back. Some had a knight with an iron bar in one hand, a gun in the other. One had a skeletal woman, with roses in her eyes, grinning sightlessly. The really scary one was the one of a screaming soul. He noticed the patches when they turned to talk to each other, grasp shoulders, or flash some sign. The reason he noticed them more and more is that they all stared at him. Every. Single. One.
His lawyer came in, looked around, and gasped. She asked for a conference and dragged him off to the side while the judge was listening to a prostitute cry.
“What plead do you want to enter?” asked Von.
“You can’t get me off?” he asked.
“You saw the video, and they don’t want a deal. They are willing to go to trial, and they’ll win.”
“How long?” he asked.
“Six months each, four counts, so two years. I’m not licensed to practice in New Orleans, but that’s second-degree battery, probably aggravated because of the domestic violence. Hmm, so, five years, and you can’t own a gun for ten years.”
“Well, fuck,
” he said. His skull itched. He looked behind him. All of those eyes were on him. “What if she drops the charges?”
“She can’t,” said Von. “Once the charges are filed, they must prosecute. I’ve seen the x-rays. You can’t get out of it.”
“Can I plead guilty here?”
“Sort of. You’ll do your time here, then there.”
“Sounds good,” he said. “I think I’ll be needing to get out.”
He was sent back to sit down. The bailiff finally called him in front of the judge.
“I see you have four counts of assault, and that you have charges in New Orleans from a domestic battery case. How do you plead?” asked the judge.
“My client is remorseful and wants to plead guilty to all charges, including the ones in New Orleans.”
“Smart move,” said the judge. “Let’s get you remanded, Mr. Braud. You’ll serve here first, and a judge there will determine how long you serve there.” The gavel pounded, and he was led out.
The motorcycle club members shook hands, pounded backs, and filed out, very quietly. Just outside the door, they were more vocal. They all went toward the elevator, with steel-toed boots clomping on the floor.
The defense attorney said, “Hold the elevator!” She got in. “How are you all doing this fine day?” she asked.
“Great, Stonegirl,” said Gregory, smiling. “Great work in there.”
She smiled.
“He’ll be fine,” said Gregory. “He looks good, not going lower.”
“You know the son-of-a-bitch will be out in eight months,” she said.
“Yeah, but then he’ll be a New Orleans problem,” said Henry. They patted her shoulder, and she smiled back, rushing off to get to jail to take on her next case.
Ivy received the text but was far too tired to read it.
When her own phone buzzed, Callie looked at it. “Pled guilty to all charges. 2 years here, 5-10 in New Orleans. You are safe. Henry.”
Callie laid there in bed, in her girlfriend’s arms, letting the tears fall. Then she fell back to sleep.
“A time for everything.”
7
Wedding Bells
Wedding Planning
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder…”
On Sunday, Ivy and Lily chatted at a picnic bench at the club. Callie was inside, showing several people how to make the lunches, including Grizzly and Henry. The girls were at the grandmother’s house.
“Heavy week,” said Lily. “I thought you were gonna kill that guy, just pop his head clean off.”
“Thought about it. But, they would have had to arrest me, it being on camera and all.” She sighed. “Besides, I wanna get married.”
“Has Pavel picked out your wedding outfit yet?” asked Lily.
“A tux. He sent me some pictures. Black with a silver shirt. Very classy. Or, I can go the other way, silver, and black. Callie’s dress is silver and flowy, with a little cami-top. Pavel is having it shipped from a dressmaker in Russia.” She raised her eyebrows. “Can’t wait to get it off her.”
Lily slapped her hand. “Bad girl. And go with the silver tux and black silk shirt.”
“What about you?” asked Ivy.
“I am wearing the sexiest strapless thing. All smooth on top, fluff on the bottom. It moves like a dream. It got it in yesterday from Russia, and the tailor here took it in exactly the way I like it. It makes me look like sex on a stick.” Ivy laughed. They sipped their Coke slushies.
“Pavel can make one hell of a lot of money designing weddings,” said Ivy. “He got the minister booked for all of us, right?”
“That one’s a little weird. You know about Gregory and Katya, right? How they want to get married, and have Gregory adopt Elena?”
“Yes,” said Ivy. “Of course.”
“Well, Pavel did the whole Russian Orthodox thing for them, and they love it. Pavel says he’s using the money to feed and house two more dogs. They want to clean out the local animal shelter, and get the breeder runts, too.”
“Um, okay,” said Ivy.
“Well, they want to have it in two weeks, then our wedding two weeks later. I think that’s awfully close to our wedding.”
“Make it three weeks,” said Ivy. “We’ll push back ours a week. She called across the lot. “Hey, Ghost!”
Ghost popped her head out of the bike bay. “Yeah?”
“You wanna have the wedding a week later?”
“Lemme see,” yelled Ghost. She popped her head back out. “That’s good,” she said. Ivy waved, and Ghost disappeared again.
“Well, that was romantic,” said Lily. Ivy laughed.
Ivy texted Pavel that she wanted a silver tux with a black silk shirt, lightweight because of the desert heat, and pushed the date back a week. Pavel sent back a picture, and Ivy showed it to Lily. Lily approved, and Ivy told Pavel to get it ordered. He sent back a lovely photo of white roses with silver accents. Lily jumped up and down and texted back that she wanted the same thing.
Ghost yelled across the bay again. “Order me dem flowers! I got too much grease on my fingers be textin’ dat boy.”
Lily texted the order for three. The cakes showed up.
“Boring,” said Ivy.
He sent back a cupcake tree, a silver cake on top with teal icing. Lily exclaimed, bouncing on the picnic bench.
“Make mine a deep pink, almost a lavender. Fucking perfect.” Ivy texted back Lily’s request.
Pavel sent Ivy the same tree, but with half the cupcakes silver and the other half ingenious flowers with silver centers. Ivy approved that one.
“What’s next?” asked Ivy.
“Oh, the invitations,” said Lily.
She held up her phone. One invitation was black with silver script. One was black script on silver, clasped shut by a brooch.
“Too dark, and the brooch one will get broken in the mail.”
“I agree,” said Ivy, as Lily texted a negative.
Ivy got one with silver hearts, and one with a lot of embossing on the side.
“Too cutesie, and too stuffy,” said Ivy. Lily agreed.
The last one was silver, with a black ribbon, and a silver stamp holding it closed.
“That one?” asked Lily, holding up her phone.
“That one!” agreed Ivy.
The table decorations came up, the centerpieces the same white roses with silver accents. They both approved that one. Pavel suggested giving everyone disposable cameras as party favors. They both agreed, laughing.
“Someone’s gonna get drunk and take a picture of his butt,” said Ivy. Lily and Ivy broke into peals of laughter.
The tables either had a silver tablecloth or a silver one with a darker silk runner.
“Number two,” said Ivy. Lily agreed.
The plates could be silver or glass.
Lily shuddered at the glass ones. “Drunk people and glass don’t mix.”
They picked water and champagne glasses with a silver rim, and a white plate with a smaller silver plate on it, and silver napkins.
“Make it stop,” said Lily. “We have to go to work.”
“He’s your kid,” said Ivy. “Or little brother, or whatever. You make him stop.”
Lily sent a “halt” message. He texted back that he would work on the stuff they had decided on.
“Sonic?” asked Ivy.
“Yes, please,” said Lily.
Ivy went looking for her future wife to kiss her goodbye. Lily and Ivy had a giggly time at Sonic, munching on poppers and loaded fries and chicken strips, followed by sundaes.
Pavel sent them menus with weird things like salmon with a goat cheese truffle sauce or arugula salad with blue cheese dressing.
“Barbecue,” said Ivy.
“Hell, yes,” said Lily. “Chicken, ribs, cornbread with honey butter, salad… the ordinary kind, two or three kinds of beer, champagne, the medium kind, not the best-of-the-best shit. Sodas and juices.”
Ivy typed as fast as her thumbs
could type, then sent the menu. “No more wedding stuff. Let’s go.”
Sunday was Ivy’s favorite night. Word of the barbecue wedding spread.
“My God,” said Lily. “Do we need to rent the whole lake?”
Ivy laughed. “First of all, the lake is huge. Second, we have an entire campsite with a beach. Third, even with a wedding, someone will bring something. If worst comes to worst, we’ll order pizza.”
“Actually, that sounds good,” said Lily.
“No fucking kidding,” said Ivy.
The texts flowed. Ivy was determined to ignore them, and opened the bar and taught Callie’s slow-time full-drink-tray technique to the rest of the servers.
Bella started keeping trays ready to go under the bar near the sink, pouring shots of whiskey to go with them. They started making a lot of sales of whiskey shots; Bella explained the technique to Ace’s bar back Nina, and Ivy was stunned at the number of times she dropped money off at the safe.
There was a lot of talk about the weddings. Ivy had a light bulb moment she shared with Lily; a large invitation for the snack bar at the clubhouse, and one announcing the bar’s closing. She texted the idea to Pavel, who send back a “great idea” icon. Ivy closed down the bar, singing a duet with the lead singer of the band. She belched out Nickleback’s, If Everyone Cared.” Gregory got tears in his eyes, and he stood. She took the mic over and gave it to him.
“We lost a friend because he didn’t tell us he was hurting. His sister was sick, dying, and we didn’t know. I would have done anything, sold my bike, to help his sister. He did something horrible, betrayed the Nighthawks, betrayed the children we hold most dear. He thought no one would get hurt, but he himself paid the price... the day after his sister died.” He stopped to wipe away tears. “So, you fucken idiots, if something hurts, or is scary or stupid or makes you crazy, fucking say something. I’d rather listen to you than bury you.”
He took a shot glass from the whiskey tray, as opposed to the apple juice tray, and raised it.
“To the fallen,” he said. They all drank, not a dry eye in the house.
Ivy went home, her heart heavy. Callie was banging out a research paper, pulling up articles, cutting and pasting things, adding to the bibliography at the end. Ivy kissed her head and took a shower. When she came back into the room, Callie had her computer off and was wearing… nothing.
