Dominick was now a lean 180 pounds of mostly muscle; could bench-press two hundred and fifty pounds and run several miles with ease. He was tanned and tattooed and his dark hair and beard were both cut short. Even his bike was leaner and more powerful than when it first rolled into Monk’s shop.
This was all a far cry from the weak, flabby Beverly Hills attorney of just ninety days ago, but in the back of his mind Dominick was still not sure that he could survive what was to be three long years in the state prison system.
Dominick had been living and training with Monk for almost three months but still didn’t know him well. The only reason that Monk had agreed to take Dominick under his wing and train him in the first place was as a favor to Dom’s attorney Danica, whom he affectionately called Danny. The weight lifting and fight training had been a daily ritual, brutal at times, but always effective. Between workouts they had worked on the bikes together and hit several bars in the evenings, but rarely talked about anything accept Dom’s training.
It was Dom’s last evening at Monk’s and they sat with a cold six pack watching the sun set over the Channel Islands. Monk seemed more friendly than usual which prompted Dom to finally worked up the courage to ask, “So what’s your story? How did you end up doing time? Danica wouldn’t tell me.”
A little uncomfortable with the suddenness of the question, but thinking back to those dark days, Monk began, “I was riding back from Daytona, passing down through Louisiana when some redneck state troopers decided to have a little fun at my expense. They didn’t try to look past the sled and the clothes so all they saw was another white trash biker in “their god damn parish”. To make a long story short, they pushed too hard and when the dust settled, two of them were bruised and bleeding, a third had a cracked rib and a punctured lung and the forth had shot me in the stomach. I did 28 days in hospital, they planted dope on my bike, fabricated evidence and got their stories straight. Or as least as straight as four bent redneck cops were capable.”
“Danica said you wouldn’t testify and that she thought you were protecting someone,” Dom pushed.
“Smart lady. There was another biker involved. An old Vietnam vet buddy riding with me. He had done two years as a POW and the whole experience shook him up pretty bad.”
“Didn’t he jump in to help you?” Dom asked.
“Yea, but with his old injuries and a bum leg he couldn’t do much. When a couple of cops came to visit me in hospital they made it clear that if I didn’t keep my mouth shut they would implicate him in the charges as well and he would end up doing time with me. After what he had gone through in ‘Nam and the psych therapy stateside, I knew that any confinement would kill him, or he would kill himself rather than be locked up again. So I did the time. The rest is history.”
After a long pull on his beer, Monk said, “While we are getting all personal here, tell me about these goons that you got sideways with. The ones who set you up.”
“Not much you don’t already know,” Dom began. “I was retained as an attorney for a Central American import company headed by Dolgos – you may have heard of him. Because of the big money, I kidded myself that everything was legal and above board, but I had my suspicions. When these were confirmed and I found irregularities in the banking procedures, and worse, found that our messenger service was actually being used to move dope, I bailed. They didn’t like that so Dolgos had his goons plant incriminating evidence at my home and office, and, well, here I am. No more appeals and one night of freedom left.”
Monk reached across and put his arm around Dom’s shoulders, “Good luck. You have done good in the training – and I consider you a friend. I mean that, and I don’t give up on my friends. Danny and I will keep plugging away at the system out here – you just gotta hang tough.”
Dom was choked up by Monk’s display of friendship and concern, so didn’t trust his voice to answer. He just sat watching the last of the orange sun drop below the horizon.
The following morning Dom had an appointment to see Danica. He arrived on his bike looking very different from the well dressed attorney of just three months ago. The valet parking attendant didn’t know how to deal with bike parking, especially Dom’s rowdy chopper, and the receptionist all but called security. Only Danica seemed unaffected by Dom’s tough appearance since she had seen his gradual transformation each time she had visited Monk’s place.
“Are you ready?” Danica asked, but without waiting for an answer, “I have your suit here, you can change in my bathroom.”
Dom changed from his worn jeans and boots but he found that the expensive tailored suit that he had once worn to the office on a daily basis, now felt alien and uncomfortable.
Danica drove and Dom sat in silence as they made the short drive over to the court house – both deep in thought about what the future held in store.
Standing before the judge, Dominick felt numb and detached. His past experience as an attorney gave him a strong feeling of foreboding for which way this was going to go.
“Dominick Lunt, your appeal has been reviewed and denied and you are here today for final sentencing,” the judge began. “You have been found guilty of a number of crimes, not the least of which is possession and trafficking in narcotics. In view of the seriousness of these and the fact that you were once an officer of the court you could be sentenced to ten years, but since this is your first time before the bench, I have shown some leniency in sentencing you to three years.” This is what they had expected. “You will surrender to the bailiff and be taken into custody at this time….,” the rest was all just a blur to Dominick as he was led from the court, handcuffed and transported to county jail – his first stop on the way to state prison.
“Out of the van, line-up and move directly to the door,” the deputy’s voice snapped Dominick out of his dazed state. The beginning of his worst nightmare. He flashed back to when he was first arrested and the night he had spent in jail, a helpless victim of the six gang-bangers.
He was led into the processing area where he immediately gave up his clothes and all his possessions were sealed into a large brown envelop. Next came the dehumanizing body cavity search after which he was given county issue orange overalls, and a thin blanket. He had missed the evening meal so was led directly to a holding area. It seemed to be an old gym filled with iron bunks stacked three high and grossly over-crowded.
Dom walked up and down the rows looking for an unoccupied bunk until he found one in the very back. At least this time, as a result of the training, he felt a little more confident. The other cons studied him but seemed to accept him as one of their own. Never the less, Dom had no intention of sleeping that night. He wasn’t that comfortable.
Before dawn the next morning, after a sleepless night and a breakfast of watery scrambled eggs and soggy toast, Dominick’s name was called and along with several other inmates in orange coveralls, was strapped into chain restraints and marched out to a waiting black and white bus. There seemed to be a chill in the air but Dom was not sure if it was real or just his imagination. LOS ANGELES SHERIFFS DEPARTMENT was painted down the side in large black letters, the windows were all barred and there was a heavy wire grill gate separating them from the driver and guard.
They were leaving early to avoid the grid-lock of LA’s morning rush-hour traffic and the sullen group had been told they were being transported to Tehachapi – but Dom thought little of his final destination. He didn’t even know where Tehachapi was. The long bus ride gave him a chance to catch a few needed zees and think back to his time with Monk – wishing that he was here now.
At the same time that Dom was boarding the bus, the morning light was filtering into Monk’s bedroom. Monk swung his legs out of bed, and still naked headed by instinct to the bathroom to relieve the pressure in his bladder.
As he sat back on the bed to pull on his jeans an arm snaked out from under the covers and slid over his thigh and down between his legs.
“So she is awake,” he said quietly.
“And she wants to play came the response,” as Danica pulled the covers back with her other hand to reveal her naked and willing body curled in the center of the bed.
Monk needed no more encouragement. He dropped his jeans and turned so that she could take his now hardening penis, which she was already holding, into her mouth. He lay back and submitted to her delightful early morning torture.
After they had all but exhausted themselves, and Danica lay curled in his arms, she asked, “Do you think he will be ok?”
“Dom? I don’t know. I just don’t know,” was Monk’s only response as he pushed her long hair away from her angelic face.After a moment of thought she persisted, “So what’s state prison really like?”
Monk took a moment to let his mind wander back to those days and then began, “It’s not like Club Fed, the federal prisons, and there is none of the freedom that you have at a minimum security housing facility for white collar criminals. State prisons suck. They are overcrowded and often violent places. You work, you eat, you sleep, and you try to survive. All with a uniquely unforgiving, racially segregated structure. Everyone is paranoid and it is jungle rules – survival of the fittest. The old hands try to take advantage of the new arrivals and the strong prey on the weak or those who show weakness.”
“Don’t the guards protect the prisoners?” Danica asked hopefully.
“The guards aren’t there to protect the inmates. They are there to protect society from the inmates. That is evident by the number of killings that occur on the inside each year. The guards are as much prisoners of the system as the cons. They just want an easy life and their shift to go smoothly – so there is a kind of tense working relationship and understanding of the rules by both sides. Sure, the guards hold the keys and man the towers, but actually inside the walls, the inmates run the show. Its a whole different world. The smallest things become important, and men often die over them.”
“How do the weak survive?” Danica asked with a little shiver.
“Some don’t. Some serve the strong. If Dom had been an informant or a child molester he would go into a PC unit -protective custody, segregation. But he is not, so after processing he will probably go straight into the main population. That can be scary at first. You lose all possessions, rights and privileges. The only thing you can try to hang onto is your self-respect – and that you must fight to maintain.” Monk explained.
“But being an attorney. Won’t that make him valuable to the other prisoners who want to file appeals?”
“If he survives the first few months, maybe. Everyone needs a scam, a money maker, something to barter with. For some it is access to cigarettes, dope, sex, doing tattoos, or making shanks. Even working in the kitchen or clerical duty can be a plus. But you gotta remember, everyone inside is there because their lawyer failed them. Either they had no money and couldn’t get a good one, or the good ones bled them dry. They have families still trying to pay the bills on the outside. Most have a reason to hate attorneys. They represent a part of the system that put them inside.”
“What more can we do?” Danica asked.
“Do you have access to Dom’s office files?” Monk asked.
“Not all of them. The police seized most of that stuff – but I did get the tape-drive back-ups for his computer without anyone noticing.”
“Let’s start by checking his records and correspondence, maybe there is something there,” Monk said as he rolled out of bed for the second time that morning.
Dom was snapped back to reality by the doors on the bus hissing open. The bus had pulled into a secure double gated sally-port with only one door leading into the facility. A guard with a scoped rifle looked down from the tower. There was a sign – California Correctional Institution – Tehachapi.
They were led off the bus in shackles and line-up in a processing hall. “Gentlemen, welcome to the Grey Bars Hotel. You can expect to be in this reception facility for anything from twelve to sixty days. During that time you will be processed, medically examined and evaluated for your current educational levels. After all that you will classified and be moved to your final destination.”
Dominick was then issued bedding and taken to a cell already occupied by another inmate. The cell was about eight feet by ten feet with one set of bunks, a toilet bowl and a wash basin. It was painted with pale green government issue paint and the only color came from a few pictures the current resident had torn from magazines and put on the walls.
Dom’s new cell mate seemed almost relieved to have company but also a little intimidated by Dom’s appearance. He could only guess that he looked like a returning guest.
Charlie Grimms,” chirped his cell mate as he swung down off of the top bunk.
“Dominick,” was all Dom answered without shaking hands. It had been another long day and another missed dinner, so Dom just lay down on his bunk and tried to relax. Within minutes he discovered the true torture of imprisonment. Boredom. The sheer monumental boredom of confinement. Nothing to do, no where you can go, nothing to read, no TV to watch and nothing to eat or drink. Just four walls and a shitter. This was it.
The first night was the worst. When the doors slammed shut and the lights went out, it all hit home like a sledge hammer. He was in prison. He had lost his freedom. He had hit an all time low, but at least he didn’t cry like those others who kept him awake most of the that night.
Over the next two weeks Dom came to feel like a slab of meat being passed from one department to the other: finger prints, photos, full medical, blood screening, testing for TB and AIDS; followed by educational testing, interviews and file checks for any gang affiliations. Only broken up by those long boring hours sitting in his cell with nothing to do.
He learned from the other returning inmates that he would be assigned a points score of one through six, based on his criminal history and propensity for violence,and this would dictate his final destination. Level 01 was minimum security while Level 06 housed the real hard-core killers and rapists.
The only thing Dom had in processing was time, time to reflect on the past. Dom thought back to the months of training knowing that physically he had risen to a new level. He had learned to fight but was not sure that he hadfound the trigger that released the survival instinct and primal violence that Monk had talked about. He was getting some respect from the other inmates cause he looked tough – but he did not know how he would react when tested. And they would test him. Fear lurked just below the surface and became his unwanted constant companion.
Dom had gone the distance in the training and beneath the tattoos and muscles had found someone he could face in the mirror, very different from the fast talking attorney that he had once been and now despised. He had attacked the iron pile in the mornings and in the afternoons gone after Monk with a vengeance in fight training. He had learned to use mechanics tools and had torn his bike down several times to make changes and to get it just the way he wanted it. When he went to Frog’s bar he was accepted as an equal by all, even the outlaw bikers who had earlier wanted to kill him and later not even recognizing him as the same yuppie who had disrespected their colors just a couple of months before. Some he even considered friends.
He had also scoring with the ladies who frequented the bar. One hard-body in particular had dropped by quite frequently to stay the night with him at Monk’s. She didn’t seem to mind the old mattress in the corner of workshop or even Monk’s dog Tyson watching either. Now the thought of that hard naked body riding him for all he was worth made his confinement even more real and painful. Three years of no sex except in his mind’s eye – and no way was he going to fall victim to the violence of prison rape.That was enough to make him role off of his bunk and start his daily work-out routine of push-ups and sit-ups in an effort to sweat that horrible image from his consciousness.
Would all that training help? He was soon to find out since he was to be transferred to main line the next day.
At the end of his second week he was moved to a Level 3 module. The organized crime and drug association of his charges put him well above minimum security, but since he did not have a prior history of violence he was not sent to the PC unit – requiring total segregation. He was glad to be away from his cell mate who had turned out to be a real twitchy mother fucker. He never stopped talking about the women he had fucked and the scams he had pulled and was always trying to bum cigarettes.
Upon arrival at main line, Dom was issued bedding and handed in his orange coveralls for prison blues – dark blue denims and coat with a lighter blue work shirt. Anything was better than those orange coveralls and any change broke up the monotony of serving time.
Now that he had reached his final destination he was informed that he could get quarterly packages from the outside, could have $25 per month in canteen allowance and would ultimately be eligible for a number of vocational work programs. In the beginning though he was to have culinary duties – working in the kitchens.
He was assigned a cell on the second level of the module. His cell mate, Hank, was an old goat, a three time loser who was supposed to show him the ropes and keep him out of trouble while he adjusted. But all he seemed interested in was how he could sponge off of Dom’s canteen allowance.
When Dom stepped out into the yard for the first time, he immediately noticed the distinct yet invisible lines drawn between racial groups – black in one area, hispanics in another and whites, the smallest of the three groups, in yet another.
Dom knew by now to associate with his own kind so headed for the iron pile being used by some of the biggest men he had ever seen. Their sweating muscles glistened in the late morning sun and the dark glasses and distinctive prison tattoos made them look quite ominous.
As Dominick stepped into the pit with the rusting bar-bells and dumb-bells, he was startled by a loud voice from behind, “You haven’t earned the right to work-out on this pile, shit bird.”
Dom turned to see who had spoken. He found himself looking across the pile at a very tough looking character. He looked to be a little under six feet but made up for it with a huge chest, and massive arms and shoulders. He had jeans and a weight-lifter wide leather belt. He wore dark wrap-around glasses and his head was not only shaved, it was tattooed.
“Hey Deacon, let the new guy come play,” one of the other weight lifters called.
“Fuck him, and fuck you,” Deacon spat back at the other con.
“Listen, this is my first day outside for weeks. All I want is to pump some iron,” Dom said, trying to keep the strain out of his voice. He hadn’t expected such a hostile reception from the white population.
“If you want to work out it will cost ya,” Deacon declared.
Dom knew it would be a mistake to just give in and he couldn’t just walk away now. Everyone was watching and he was being tested.
“Hey buddy, I can wait until you have finished your work-out. No rush,” Dom compromised.
“I ain’t your fuck’n buddy, but I tell ya what punk, if you can knock me out of the pit you can work-out,” Deacon challenged. The other inmates gathered around and smiled. This was the best entertainment all week.
“First, I am not a punk and second, I don’t want to fight you,” Dom tried to stand up for himself.
“That’s what I thought. You are just a punk and a coward to boot.” With that, Deacon reached for Dom, but out of sheer reflex and driven by fear, Dom blocked his arm and hit Deacon in the face. Not real hard but hard enough to bloody his nose.
Before Deacon or his cronies could react, the guards whistles were blowing and everyone began walking away trying to distance themselves from the confrontation. No one wanted to be a witness or lose privileges over some prison yard scuffle.
“You’re dead meat faggot. You just bought into more than you can handle,” Deacon threatened, barely controlling his temper, but smart enough not to make a move with the guards watching.
By the time the guards arrived everyone had dispersed into the yard.
“Lunt, what’s happening here?” one of the guards asked.
“Nothing,” was all Dominick dared to answer.
“Well just watch it. The last thing we need is another dead inmate,” the guard added. “Oh, and stay away from that Deacon – you don’t need that trouble. He is a psycho and should be in the PC unit but we just haven’t caught him at his shit. So just watch your ass.” The guard turned and headed back to the base of the tower.
For the rest of the day everyone avoided Dom like the plague. He was a marked man, and even at dinner that night he sat alone. Deacon and his mob glared at him from the other side of the food hall.
That night as he lay on his bunk, he found it strange that he now appreciated the locked cell door. At least he would be safe while he slept that night. The only distraction was the voices in the night saying: “You are dead, Lunt.” “Kiss your ass good-bye, punk.” “You are stuffed, turkey.” “See you in the yard, lawyer.” this went on until Dom finally feel into an exhausted but troubled sleep.
When Dom stepped into the yard the next day he sensed the tension immediately. Too many faces were looking his way. He could see Deacon and his goons huddled over by the iron pile. Dom’s first instinct was to turn and go back inside – maybe fake an illness and go to the infirmary. But that would show he was a punk and only delay the inevitable. At best he would just have to stay alert and hope that the guards intervened before it got too bad.
It was his cell mate, Hank, who finally came over to talk to him. A small nervous man with wrinkles deeper than the cracks in the granite walls. “Hey Lunt, I hear you are a lawyer on the outside?”
“Was,” said Dominick.
“Whatever. Look, some of the guys would like you to become a MAC rep. If you survive the next few days that is,” the old con chuckled.
“What’s a mac rep?” Dom asked, but not really interested.
“Mens Advisory Council. You help with filing 602 appeal forms – what the guards call snivel sheets. You would represent the inmates in their complaints with the institution and that kinda stuff. Interested?”
“No.” Dom was trying to keep an eye on Deacon.
“You get to use the library. You get other privileges too. It can only show your willingness to be a model prisoner. Might get you out earlier,” the old con was trying to make his case.
“Talk to me tomorrow,” Dom said, more worried that this old goat was just trying to distracted him from the problem at hand.
He was so busy keeping an eye on Deacon that he never saw the actual attack coming, but he did feel the steel rip into his side as one of Deacon’s lackeys slid up behind him. Luckily he had been turning at the time of the thrust and the blade skidded on his ribs, but it still bit deep and the pain made Dom’s knees go weak.
The attacker had already disappeared into the crowd by the time Dom straightened up. It had happened so fast, but he seemed ok, apart from a lot of blood running down his side. The guards hadn’t even seen it but the inmates watched discretely as the scene played out.
Dom headed over to the toilet block to clean himself up. As he washed away some of the blood and tried to hold the wound shut, he felt another presence behind him. He turned to find Deacon and one of his bigger, uglier cohorts with him, the one they called Beast. Six four and two hundred and eighty pounds of muscles and ignorance.
“Like I said, you are dead meat, punk,” Deacon said.
With that they both rushed at Dom slamming him into the wall. Pain shot up from his already injured side and he felt the blood flow increase. Both his attackers stepped back to get another shot at him.
Beast came in fast, faster than a big man should move, and grabbed Dominick by the throat in a vice-like grip. Dom had seen it coming but was too slow reacting. At the same time he felt Deacon land a solid body punch right into his injured side. The pain was enough to blur his vision and almost make him pass out.
But then his months of training clicked in. Dom brought his right up in a cupped-hand strike that landed squarely on Beast’s left ear. Dom felt the satisfying slap as his cupped hand compressed the brute’s ear-drum bursting inward and extracting an short scream of pain.
The grip immediately loosened on his throat so he followed up with a kick to the base of Beast’s knee cap. With this he heard the knee cap tear and felt it slide upwards. Beast’s leg buckled and he dropped to his now damaged knee. That made enough room for Dom to slip out of his grip and get some space to maneuver.
Deacon had seen what happened and was now stalking Dom, looking for an opening. Deacon moved in with his left arm extended and his right down by his side – then Dom realized why. In his right hand, Deacon held a wicked looking shank made from ten inches of plexi-glass honed to a sharp point and a razors edge.
As Deacon made his first thrust, Dom side-stepped out of the way and tried to kick for Deacon’s knee, but was not quick enough. Deacon just made an evil face and came in again. This time Dom was luckier and as the blade grazed his stomach, he managed to land a solid ridge-hand strike to the bridge of Deacon’s nose. This got a grunt but did not slow Deacon’s next thrust which Dom only just avoided.
Now the beast was up and trying to get back into the fight but there was barely enough room for two to move, let alone three in the smelly wash room. Deacon stepped back to let the big bone cruncher swing a huge right fist at Dom’s head. Dom ducked under it, stepped in and fired a palm-heel strike to the base of his nose. As Beast grabbed his damaged nose, Dom stepped back and executed a rising kick to the con’s groin. As Beast went down, now clasping his crushed balls, Dom stepped in again, fired a vertical punch into the back of his head, and as he hit the ground executed a perfect axe kick to the base of his spine.
Dom found himself wondering how many other violent little tableaus had been played out in this toilet block. Had others screamed, bled and died here? Deacon’s scream snapped him back to the moment and Dom realized that he needed to concentrate, to focus as Monk had taught him.
Even though Deacon seemed a little shocked by the violent and efficient way that his partner had been dispatched – he wasn’t deterred. He now came at Dom with a vengeance – and that was his error. Even Dom knew that any loss of control would mean mistakes and openings.
As Deacon charged in, Dom side stepped and redirected Deacon’s momentum into one of the stainless steel mirrors above the wash basins. Deacon hit the wall hard and before he could turn, Dom delivered a forearm smash into the back of Deacon’s head, bouncing it off of the wall again like a basketball.
If Deacon was mad before, now he was in a blind rage. Before Dom could hit him again, Deacon turned and grabbed Dom in a bear hug, lifting him clear of the ground. Immediately Dom felt the impending peril of his position as Deacon began to squeeze the life out of him. He felt his back arch and ribs creak under the strain. He couldn’t breathe.
Dom drove two short vertical punches into Deacon’s face, trying to break his grip, but to no effect. As he began to get dizzy and see red spots before his eyes, Dom grabbed both sides of Deacon’s head, and with his fingers anchored under Deacon’s jaw, drove his thumbs down into his eye sockets. Dom felt the gelatinous orbs of the eye-balls roll and compress under his thumbs – then Deacon bellowed and threw him across the room.
Before Deacon could clear his damaged vision, Dom was up and moving. As he closed on Deacon, Dom hit him as hard as he could in the solar-plexus. This did not get the desired result but it did make Deacon pull his hands down from his face and give Dom a clear shot at Deacon’s throat. Dom drove a webbed-hand strike into Deacon’s exposed throat, then closed it into an iron-claw and pulled back. Before Deacon even began choking, Dom fired two solid kicks into Deacon’s groin then grabbed his head and ran it into one of the wash basins. As Deacon slid to the ground, now choking on his own juices as his shattered wind-pipe began to spasm, Dom delivered a stamping kick to Deacon’s knee. Dom heard the satisfying sound of the knee breaking.
Without immediate medical attention Deacon would choke and die. Dom didn’t care as he turned for the door. He stepped over the beast who was conscious but barely moving – his spine probably permanently damaged from the earlier axe kick.
The inmates, including Deacon’s buddies, were crowded by the door to the toilet block and were now frozen in shock as Dom emerged into the glare of day. Even though he was battered and bleeding, they had never expected to see him come out alive. Especially from such a seemingly unmatched fight.
Grabbing Dom, the guards hustled him off to the infirmary. When the body of Deacon was discovered, along with his badly battered partner, Dom was immediately put under close guard and then transferred to a maximum security unit. Rumor had it he would be charged for the murder.
For days, Dom sat in his dull, confining cell, unable to even use his daily hour of yard time because of his injuries. The only break in the monotony came with the meals that were now delivered to his cell and the occasional visit by the male nurse who checked on his injuries and changed his dressings.
If the mind numbing solitude wasn’t bad enough, he began receiving threatening notes, delivered by the trustees who swept out the housing module. Deacon’s friends were promising all sorts of grievous bodily harm when he returned to main line.
Dom gave up any attempt at personal hygiene or shaving as he became more depressed with each passing day. The danger of returning to main line would almost be preferable to the terminal boredom of segregation.
“Someone from the DA’s office here to see you,” the guard announced one morning.
Dom said nothing and slowly walked with the guard to the interview rooms. A man in a suit was sitting at the table, a briefcase open beside him. He seemed shocked at Dom’s appearance.
“I’ll come right to the point,” the deputy DA began. “We know you were set-up on the original charges so have begun release formalities. You will have to appear in a few weeks before the judge, but you will be out of here by tomorrow afternoon.”
“How?” was all Dom said, surprised that this meeting didn’t relate to his recent battle.
“A local hood, a Columbian, walked into our office and confessed to framing you. Seems someone had convinced him that it would be safer for him to be in here than on the outside. He was pretty shaken up by the time I interviewed him. Kept mumbling something about protecting him from evil bikers,” the DA added.
“What about Deacon?” Dom asked.
“What about him? Seems no one saw what happened, and if they did, no one is talking. The report will probably show that he was fighting with the other inmate who is now paralyzed from the waist down, and you just happened to have gotten in the middle of it. You have a problem with that?” the deputy DA asked.
“No god damn way!” Dom answered with a pained smile. He still showed a lot of bruising.
The DA was true to his word. The following afternoon Dom signed for his clothes, possessions and meager pay and processed out.The first thing that he saw as he limped passed the guards and out the front gates was Monk and Danica standing by two bikes – his stripped down Evo chopper and Monk’s red and white Knuckle.
Dom hugged Danica, looked at Monk and asked, “You didn’t have a hand in this did you?” Monk just sat on his bike and smiled.
“Thought you may be more comfortable in these,” Danica said, holding up the clothes Dom had left at her office.
Without any hesitation, Dom pulled off the suit that he had been wearing when taken into custody and changed into his old jeans, boots and leather vest – leaving his twelve hundred dollar suit in a crumpled heap on the ground. Dom then asked, “So, what’s news in the big world?”
“You want to talk or do you want to ride?” Monk shot back.
“Where to?” Dom asked, grinning from ear to ear.
“Somewhere with no walls,” Danica said, climbing on behind Monk.
Dom then took great pleasure in giving the guard in the tower a final one finger salute and then laying rubber the length of the prison parking lot as they accelerated out to the highway.
The End
COPYRIGHTS:The author – Mark Lonsdale – holds all copyrights to this three part fiction and retains the rights to all books, screenplays, television projects or features derived from this work. By allowing one time magazine publication as a short story, the author gives up no rights to this property.
