Page 1 of Grimm
Prologue
GRIMM
November20,2010
Trial of Angus “Chief” MacDaniel, President of Sin City MC
“When the verdict is read, there will be no outbursts,” the judge ordered, gazing over the top of the gray, wire-frame glasses propped on the tip of his large nose. “This includes clapping, cheering, screams, or insults of any kind. Emotional outbursts will not be tolerated in my courtroom. If you cannot abide by the rules of the Court, please leave immediately.”
The judge paused, looking at the gallery full of my father’s friends and family and the Richards, giving everyone who wanted to leave the chance.
“If you do not follow the rules laid out by the Court,” he continued after no one left, “you will be held in contempt, removed from my courtroom, jailed, and fined.” He looked at the bailiff, who stood next to a door near the jury box at the front of the courtroom. “Bailiff, please bring in the jury.”
The bailiff nodded and exited the room through a single wood-paneled door. In less than five minutes, he returned, leading the jury into the silent courtroom. My mother grabbed my hand, and I squeezed hers, giving her support as she watched the jury enter the jury box with hope in her eyes.
While I believed this wouldn’t end with my father coming home, my mother held onto hope, no matter how delusional it was to believe twelve people would come back with anot guiltyverdict after hearing the prosecution’s case. The evidence was overwhelming.
After two months of testimony from witnesses for the prosecution, a shit ton of evidence, and four days of deliberation, three men and nine women took their seats, ready to decide my father’s fate.
This being a high-profile trial, Angus’s defense attorneys tried to get the venue changed, arguing he’d never get a fair trial in Vegas. A sequestered jury didn’t matter. Everyone in Las Vegas had heard of Angus MacDaniel, and it wasn’t often the government indicted One-Percenters, and never in Las Vegas. My father was the first in a long time from any motorcycle club, and they were itching to make an example of him.
I looked on from the first row behind my father and his attorneys, trying to gauge the jury’s decision by their demeanor.
Guilty or not guilty?
It was hard to tell. They hid their expressions well and kept their eyes trained on everyone except us, like they’d done for most of the trial. Not once did they look to see how we endured this clown show they called justice. They kept their eyes on the grieving widow.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?” the judge asked.
An older white man in his mid-sixties, a scruffy white beard, and wearing a beige sweater and khakis stood, his stare never wavering from the judge.
“We have, your honor.”
The single slip of paper trembled in his hand as he handed it to the bailiff. The bailiff grabbed it, and the man clasped his wrinkly hands in front of his body. How crazy to think a single piece of paper had the power to change all our lives forever.
The bailiff walked the short distance to the judge, sparkling black patent-leather shoes squeaking off the ecru tile floor. He handed it to the judge, then returned to his place by the door.
I wondered how many men and women stood in my father’s place, innocent and waiting to find out if the truth even mattered.
The judge quickly scanned the paper, then looked at the jury. “Is this verdict correct?” the judge asked the older man.
The man slightly dipped his head. “It is, your honor.”
The judge handed the paper to the court clerk, a beautiful young strawberry blonde dressed in a blue pinstripe pantsuit with a white silk blouse clinging to her small breasts.
“Will the defendant please rise?” the judge ordered.
My father stood. His and his lawyer’s chairs scraping the tile floor echoed throughout the silent courtroom. Angus clasped his hands in front of him, flanked by Silas Martin and Raven Donahue, Silas’s assistant and daughter.
Martin, Martin, and Associateshad defended club members for nearly ten years on a range of civil and criminal charges. They were the best, but my father’s case was unwinnable. Everyone knew it.
Despite being in jail for almost a year awaiting his trial, Angus was still intimidating and unstressed by his situation. Other than a little weight loss, no one would believe he faced the death penalty. His face was serene, the usual pissed look he wore non-existent. Angus believed he’d be found guilty, while my mother had convinced herself he’d be a free man after today.
If love makes you delusional, I want no parts of the shit.
The beautiful prosecutor argued Angus’s danger to the community—he was—and that he shouldn’t be out on bond, especially since the crime was heinous. Bail had been denied, and they’d remanded him to custody until his trial.
I hadn’t seen him in months. Ma, my younger brother, Colin, and my sister, Amelia Grace, saw him at least twice a month. I’d only been by once since his arrest, mainly out of guilt. I was free, and he was behind bars, but I also had a club to run in his absence. Not what I wanted to do, but it was my duty as the oldest. My legacy, as he called it.
