“Yes, Sir,” I said.
“Be it known the penalty for these charges is a maximum of five years imprisonment, a $250,000 fine, or both. How do you wish to plead?” he asked flatly.
Five years for fuckin’ speeding?
I swallowed heavily, even though I knew he was doing nothing more than trying to scare me. I decided trying to explain myself by using my wit and charm to the best of my ability - while trying to be respectful during the process - would be my best bet.
“How do I wish to plead, your honor? I wish to plead not guilty, but I’m well aware that ain’t…I mean that isn’t going to do me much good. I guess I’d like to plead guilty to the speeding, and speak my peace on the rest of the charges. Can I do that?” I asked as I did my best to shrug my shoulders.
He placed the paper on the desk, removed his glasses, and tilted his head to the side. “Absolutely.”
As he clasped his hands together and provided what I was certain to be a sarcastic grin, I began to recite my best recollection of the events on Friday night.
“Well, I was headed to a meeting, and I was runnin’ a little late. Kind of lost track of my speed, I guess. Next thing I knew, a cop was pulling me over. He uhhm. He had a little bit of an attitude; you know he seemed kind of mad about the whole speeding thing. Next thing I knew, there was about fifty cops screaming at me, and I was shot with a Taser. Unnecessarily, I might add, your honor…”
As I spoke, the judge appeared to be sorting through the paperwork on his desk. Before I had a chance to explain myself further, he raised his hand and interrupted me from continuing.
“Officer Obie was unable to attend this hearing, and if his testimony proves necessary, we will reschedule. Are you aware, Mr. Biskette, the officer makes notes on his copy of the citation, providing his best explanation of the arrest and the events that led up to it?” he asked as he raised a beige piece of paper from the desk.
“I guess not,” I said.
He peered at the sheet of paper he held.
“I have the officer’s report, and I quote,” he said. “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.”
I cleared my throat and responded truthfully.
“I was late for a meeting,” I said.
He chuckled lightly and met my gaze. “A meeting?”
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?” he asked.
“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?”
“Yes, Sir.”
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 said.
“Resisting arrest?” he asked.
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.
Motherfucker…
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?” he asked as he raised a white piece of paper from the desk.
I gazed past the legs of my orange jumpsuit and focused on the little black jailhouse issued slipper shoes. 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,” he said.
“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 strike him?”
“My head, my elbows, and maybe a knee or two,” I responded.
“Over a cookie?” he snapped back as he dropped the paperwork onto the desk.
“That ain’t what this is about, no, Sir. It wasn’t about the cookie. It was about principle. The cookie wasn’t his, it was mine. And, while we’re here, I’d like to press charges on him for theft and the second fella I whipped for trespassing. He came in my cell without permission,” I responded.
The judge shook his head. “Historically, we don’t charge inmates for battery, Mr. Biskette. Jailhouse fighting is a daily occurrence as is jailhouse theft. In this particular case, Mr. Biskette, I have no alternative but to charge you with battery, considering the degree of assault as well as the severity of the beatings you administered…”
He narrowed his eyes and gazed at me as if frustrated. “I will not even address your ludicrous claims of self-defense or trespass. I had hopes you would be compliant, forthright, and willing to accept responsibility for your actions.”
“I’ll plead guilty to everything except whippin’ them two fellas, your honor. I’ll fight those charges till the day I die. They needed a lesson in respect,
and all I was doin’ was…”
The judge raised his hand in the air. “Stop speaking, Mr. Biskette. Please. It isn’t your responsibility to teach anyone a lesson in anything, nor is there an allowance in the law for such acts. The laws are in place to protect people - even inmates in jail - from being assaulted. There are no such laws, however, allowing the administration of punishment to teach someone a lesson in respect. Consider yourself bound over for trial, and I’ll set the bond at $50,000. If you’re fortunate enough to have the means and methods to assemble $5,000, a bail bondsman may bail you out of jail under certain conditions and restrictions. And I will warn you, if there’s another incident of violence during your incarceration, or during your period of probation, I will see to it that charges are pressed. And you will be on probation until the hearing.”
Fuck. Probation. Under the cop’s radar again.
“Have you any further questions?” he asked.
“If I pay the five grand, I forfeit it to the bondsman, is that correct?” I asked.
“That is my understanding, yes,” he responded.
“And if I pay the entire fifty grand, all I got to do is show up to court, and they give all of it back?” I asked.
“That is correct,” he responded.
“Well, if you’d let me make a couple calls, I’ll just pay the fifty grand, save us a lot of trouble, and be on my merry little way,” I said with a grin.
He stood from his seat and glared at me. “Nothing, Mr. Biskette, would make me happier. I’ll see to it the officers allow you a phone call. This hearing is adjourned.”
After the judge disappeared through the door behind him, officer bad cop tugged against my right arm and turned me toward the door.
“You’ve got fifty grand?” he said.
“Got a lot more than that, but what I got ain’t any of your fuckin’ business, Boss,” I snapped back.
“Being a 1%er must pay well. What are you guys into, running dope?” he asked in a gruff tone.
I glanced over my right shoulder and studied his name tag.
Kopic.
After turning away and taking a few shuffled steps toward the door, I grinned.
“Nope, we’re into pimping bitches. One little gal makes us a ton of money. Got a weird last name, lemme think…” I hesitated and glanced up at the ceiling as if trying to recall her name. “Hell, I can’t remember it right now, but she can suck the skin right off a fuckin’ apple. Crowd favorite, she is. She sucks off all the fellas at the clubhouse, and all she wants in return is a gut full of cum. Got a puss on her a mile deep, too. She can take a cock for hours on end. Hell, sometimes she takes ‘em two at a time – one in the twat and one in her tight little ass. What’s her fuckin’ name?”
I paused and stared down at my feet for a minute.
“Kopic. That’s it,” I said as I glanced upward and toward the officer.
“Oh shit, that’s your last name. Any relation?” I asked as I widened my eyes in false surprise.
As officer bad cop began to yank on my arm and threaten me with bodily harm, officer good cop attempted to settle him down.
I just grinned, feeling completely satisfied I’d got under his skin.
It seemed most people were afraid to be true to who they truly were, always cautious of what others might think.
Me?
I’m Dalton Biskette, known as Biscuit to my friends and brothers, and I never change.
Never have.
Never will.
Chapter One Hundred Thirteen
BISCUIT
After Otis brought the bail money, we got my bagger out of impound and headed to the bar. Luckily, there were no scratches or scuffs on the bike, and I was able to ride away without having to beat someone’s ass for scratching my Harley. In much need of a drink, but in more need of a little pussy, I fixed my focus on the waitress at the shitty little bar Otis picked for our afternoon drink.
“So if it ain’t purple, what the fuck do you call it?” I asked as I stared at her purple fingernails.
“It’s gray,” she said as she spread her fingers apart and pressed them onto the table.
“Looks purple to me,” I said. “I fuckin’ like it. It makes your eyes look deep blue. Well, almost deep blue. God damn, I like lookin’ at you.”
“Thank you,” she said with a grin.
“Hell, thank you. I just got out of jail, and seein’ you is the best thing to happen to me today, so far that is. That fine fingernail polish just adds to it,” I said with a nod as I raised my glass of vodka.
“Oh my god. Jail? What for?” she asked.
“Ridin’ my bike about a hundred and fifty miles an hour down Kellogg, beatin’ the fuck out of a couple dozen cops, and kickin’ the shit out of a skinhead gang while they had me locked up. Huge misunderstanding if you ask me. I’m a lover, not a fighter,” I said as I reached up and pulled against my beard.
“So you’re a bad boy. We get a lot of bikers in here, and most of them are just phonies. You’re the real deal, huh?” she asked as she twisted her hips back and forth.
I took a swallow of vodka, chased it with a drink of Red Bull, and grinned as I lowered the can onto the table.
“As real as it gets,” I said.
She glanced toward Otis, and then shifted her eyes to meet mine. After a short pause, she smiled. “I like your beard.”
“Appreciate it,” I said as I glanced toward Otis and winked.
The beard was a love or hate thing for women. There didn’t seem to be much in between. Since I let it grow out ten years prior, it had become my trademark. Now full, well-trimmed, and long, it was a magnet for some, and a means of repulsion for others. The ones who liked it loved it, and the ones who didn’t seemed to simply hate it. As the waitress stood and stared, I ran my fingers through the bottom of it, doing my best to fluff it up.
“Lemme guess,” I said as I twisted myself in the booth, turning my body to face her directly.
Now facing her, I gazed up and down her frame as if I was trying to memorize every inch of what I was seeing. Probably in her early twenties, she was every bit of ten years younger than me. Roughly five foot six with brown hair and an average build, her face made up for what her body lacked. She was cute as hell, and had an extremely long torso in comparison to her rather short legs, another huge plus in my book. After watching her nervously paying attention to my expressed interest, I fixed my eyes on hers and reached for my glass of vodka.
“Guys take advantage of you. They never really care what you want, or try to listen to what you even think. All they want you for is arm candy, or eye candy, and maybe to - excuse my French - but to fuck. And you like fuckin’, but you want more. You want someone who understands you and appreciates you,” I said flatly as I raised my glass.
“Oh my god, this is insane. It’s like your psychic,” she squealed.
“My boyfriend, well, he’s not really my boyfriend, we just hang out sometimes.” She paused and stared down at the floor for a moment.
She glanced upward with an almost expressionless face.
“All he cares about is, you know,” she said as she wagged her eyebrows.
I nodded my head and turned toward Otis. If I was able to measure his level of disgust on a scale of one to ten, he’d have tipped the scale at an eleven. Otis and I were about as close as any two men could be, but he didn’t totally agree with my constant efforts to hit on every woman I encountered. As far as I was concerned, it was me just having fun and being myself.
“Oh I know,” I said as I shook my head. “Probably what, in his early twenties?”
“Yeah, twenty-two,” she said.
“Hell, that’s part of the problem. You’re fuckin’ with a boy, and you need to do yourself a favor and see how a man treats you. Men are more appreciative,” I said as I turned toward the booth and reached for my Red Bull.
“Oh really? So what’s the big difference?” she asked.
I glanced over my left shoulder and stud
ied her until she seemed to become nervous. As she started to fidget, I grinned and released the can.
“The difference? The big difference? I tell you what; I’ll explain it to you. With a boy, you never know what you’re gonna get. It’s anybody’s fuckin’ guess – hell, half the time, he doesn’t even realize what he’s gonna do. With a man, a good man, you’ll know,” I said, hoping she’d ask for an explanation.
And, before I had a chance to wipe the moisture from my hand to the thigh of my jeans, she did just that.
“And how would I know?” she asked.
“Because a man would tell you what to expect, that’s how. You know, with me, there are four things I’ll never do. I’ll tell you two of ‘em now and the other two after you get on the back of my bike and go for a ride,” I responded.
Silence.
“One, I’ll never lie to you. And two, I won’t come in your mouth without askin’ permission,” I said as I kicked my legs over the edge of the booth and turned to face Otis.
“Oh wow, I wasn’t expecting that,” she said as she nervously glanced toward Otis.
As she shifted her eyes toward me, she continued. “Okay. I have two questions. Well, one question and I guess a statement.”
She paused and moved toward Otis’ side of the booth. Now standing on the opposite side of the booth, she rested her hands on the edge of the table, leaned forward, and peered up at me.
“What kind of bike is it?” she asked.
“Only kind there is as far as I’m concerned. It’s a Harley,” I responded as I reached for my vodka.
As I held the glass in my hand and waited for the statement, I gazed beyond her, toward Otis. Sitting in the booth with his arms crossed, he shook his head and grinned. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen me do the exact same thing I was doing now. For whatever reason, giving half the information now and the other half later seemed to work well for me; it catered to the curious side of women.
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