Page 4 of Thick

“Ten years, three months, and fourteen days.”

“In that time, how many officers have been shanked? Here in the federal holding center?”

“None,” he said. “Because we don’t fraternize with them.”

Officer Perry may have had more experience than me, but I knew people. And what I knew about people told me that Tate Reynolds wasn’t going to shove a spoon handle in my gut.

During the few moments we shared each day, I felt appreciated. I realized he was incarcerated, and that talking to him may have been risky, but it was a risk I was willing to take.

I wasn’t a twenty-something one-hundred-pound twig of a girl with a thigh gap someone could watch television through. I was a thirty-something with thighs that chafed from rubbing against each other when I walked. I ate salads and did two hours of cardio a day so I could refrain from abandoning my status of seriously overweight and morphing into obesity.

I found society’s labels ridiculous, and often wondered why if I was comfortable with myself, society couldn’t become comfortable with me?

“As long as he treats me with respect, I’ll do the same with him,” I said. “If he shanks me with a spoon handle, then you can say I told you so.”

“Believe me, I’ll say it,” he said with a crisp nod. “While I’m mopping up the blood.”

Chapter Two

Tate

He checked his watch and then reached for his briefcase. “I’ll need a response. I can’t proceed without your direction.”

Being handcuffed to a steel table while I met with my attorney did little to support the innocent until proven guilty facet of the law. I tugged against my restraints and then met his curious gaze.

His bronze skin resembled leather, and it went hand-in-hand with his sun-bleached blonde hair that he wore carefully combed into a ducktail.

I held his gaze and slowly cocked an eyebrow. “Your best advice is for me to plead guilty?”

He looked me over as if I were filth. “You are guilty.”

“You’re supposed to provide me with a defense.” I tried to remain calm, but it didn’t come easily. “That’s what I paid you for. It’s your job.”

He adjusted his tie, and then gave me a smug look. “It’s my job to give recommendations based on the facts of each case.” He looked away. “It’s difficult to defend someone who was caught red-handed.”

I was ready to fire the condescending asshole. Being patronized was high on my list of pet peeves, and having a man who I would expect to have a little diversity do so made matters that much worse. I clenched my jaw, inhaled a long breath through my nose, and then exhaled.

“If I plead guilty, I go to prison for five years. If I go to trial and they find me guilty, I go to prison for the same five fucking years,” I explained. “There’s no risk in going to trial, only the possibility of reward.”

He gave me a confused look. “I don’t follow your logic.”

“You know, I’m really not surprised,” I said with a dry laugh. “If I take this case to trial, some juror might side with me and hold out on a verdict. Then, the case ends up in a hung jury. The judge thanks everyone for their service and declares a mistrial. In the end, I go free. I’m not pleading guilty. I’m going to trial. Maybe you’ll get a sympathetic biker on the jury.”

“Trials cost the taxpayers money,” he said flatly. “A guilty man going to trial is frowned upon by the system.”

I tried to keep from laughing. “Frowned upon?”

He gave a pompous nod. “Looked down upon.”

“I know what it means, asshole. You act like taxpayers are a separate entity of people. I’m a fucking taxpayer. It’s rare that I get anything for all the money I pay, so I’m going to spend some of my tax dollars on a God damned trial.”

“I suggest the contrary.”

“I made note of that,” I said, stone-faced. “Earlier. When you recommended that I plead guilty.”

He clutched his briefcase against his chest. “I’m not prepared to take this case to trial.”

I looked him up and down. “You better get prepared, motherfucker. If you don’t, I’ll file a motion for Ineffective Assistance of Counsel.”