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Barking out a laugh, he lights another cigarette and says, “Why the fuck would I know?”
“Because you gossip as much as the old ladies.”
“I love ya, but fuck you, brother.”
For a split second, it feels good to fuck about and have a genuine reason to smile. It soon drops when I remember the shit we’re in, and I settle for biding my time until my meet with Pope.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Pope
I’ve been sitting in this interview room for the last hour. Small town cops have no fucking idea what they’re doing, but I suppose it helps the club the longer this plays out.
“This is ridiculous. They’re trying to make you sweat, which if they knew you, they’d know they’re wasting their time, and mine.”
I’m in full Pope mode now, and I won’t be saying another word until I wish to speak, until it benefits the club.
I focus on the clock up on the wall, watching the hands sweep around until the door opens forty minutes later.
Two suits walk in, and I smell feds immediately.
They introduce themselves as Agent Avery and Agent Grey, but all I hear is Agent Cuntface and Agent Fuckhead.
They’re a different breed compared to our cops, but it still doesn’t mean I’ll open up and help them do their jobs.
“Pope, a member of the Lost Souls Motorcycle Club. Your file is surprisingly thin considering your way of life, yet here we are. You’re what, feeling like your days are up and you’d go out taking a federal agent with you?”
Opening a file, Agent Fuckhead spreads numerous photographs out on the table. Images of the one and only Preston Knowles, beaten in a bathtub, fucked up, and in a hospital, hooked up to numerous machines.
“He was beaten so severely, they couldn’t find his pulse. The local cops started a murder investigation, hence why we have these photos. But then he came around and gave them all a scare.”
He speaks like I give a shit.
“He came around four times, and each time, he choked out two words: Lost Souls,”
Agent Cuntface chimes in, adding, “And then, you give yourself up, but you’ve yet to confess. Why?”
I move my eyes from Cuntface to Fuckhead, both sitting there, expecting me to answer, thinking they’ll have an open and closed case because, like they said, I gave myself up. Oh, they’re going to learn how I roll.
When I don’t speak, they turn their attention to Banksy.
“Does your client intend to give his statement?”
“My client…”
I tune them out, picturing Sal sitting on the lone chair in the corner of the room, and she’s shaking her head.
She’s smiling, like she knows how this is going to go down, pitying the agents for wasting their time.
People say life is unpredictable, but they’re wrong. You’re born, you grow—everyone on a different path—yet all do what needs to be done every day to survive. Nothing is unpredictable, because you wake up every day expecting to do anything you must to survive.
Question after question, pleas for my statement, I keep my mouth shut, and my face unwavering of any emotion.
“You’ll be lucky if you get life in prison. You’re looking at the death penalty.”
Their last card is to try and scare me.
What’s there to be scared of? A death sentence isn’t a sentence for me. It’s a pathway to my girl—to my Sally.
