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My office is where I’m staging this battle from. It’s all hands on deck, though our numbers are thin, there’s Serena who insisted upon coming to help, my mom, Talon, Gordon, and Evan. Evan is here more for moral support than anything else. He’s doing a good job of keeping us supplied with coffee.
It’s been twenty-four hours and I’ve come at this from every angle I can think of and still can’t figure a way out of it.
After hours of calling in favors. I somehow manage to get the prosecuting attorney to understand the futility of trying to hold eighteen men on one weapons charge. Since none of the brothers are talking, the prosecutor is reluctant to pursue charges until law enforcement comes up with any more evidence. I thank my lucky stars that we cleaned up Stan’s cabin, and the bodies are long gone. Unless something else turns up, they don’t have anything on us other than the rifle.
Evan walks in and sits a coffee from the local coffee shop on my desk. “Two expresso shots, right?” He asks.
“Yeah, that’s what it’s going to take to keep me alert after staying up all night. “Thanks, Evan. You’re a good kid.”
He just gives me a tired smile.
Serena comes running into my office. “I think I’ve found a way to get everyone out of this mess.”
I pull her down into my lap. “That would be amazing. Please tell me what you’re thinking.”
“Should I leave?” Evan asks.
Serena grins at him. “Heck no, you’re part of the team. Grab a seat and listen up.” Glancing over her shoulder at me, she says excitedly, “You’re going to love this.” She places a sheet of paper down on the desk. “Do you know it’s not illegal to own a firearm with the serial number filed off.”
“I’m afraid you’re wrong about that, sweetness. Every weapon bought or sold in the United States must have a serial number. That’s both state and federal law. People have tried to overturn it as unconstitutional, but so far, no go.”
“Except for the firearms you make yourself,” she states triumphantly.
“That doesn’t help, because the rifle in question was not custom built.”
“We don’t know that,” she responds mildly. “All we know is there is a rifle that appears to be standard stock but could have been pieced together from several standard stock rifles. I have reason to believe this rifle was created from scrap rifles, and the onus is on the prosecutor to prove otherwise. Normally, the sale of weapons requires proof of the transaction but that’s specifically for handguns and assault weapons. The rules are much laxer for regular hunting rifles. As all the other weapons on the premises were fully licensed with proof of purchase, why would a law-abiding MC intentionally hold an illegal weapon?”
Trying to figure out where she’s going with this, I say, “So one of our club brothers decided to build himself a rifle from junk. Why would he file the serial number off?”
“Because it would be disingenuous to leave the serial number on a rifle when only the barrel bearing the serial number was part of the new gun. Or perhaps when he obtained the parts, the serial number had already been filed off. In this scenario, according to federal law the creator would not have been legally required to apply for a new serial number unless he sold the finished product.”
I’m slowly coming round to her thinking on this issue. It’s like she’s developed legal justification that maneuvers through all the legal loopholes. “That’s really smart.”
She pauses, “There’s a slight issue with California state law, here you have ten days to affix an obtained registration number once the gun is manufactured. In theory you’re supposed to make an application prior to manufacturing the gun, but we can argue the Supremacy Clause.”
I ponder this for a moment. Where there is conflict between state law and federal law, federal law takes precedence. “Refresh my memory, what’s the jail time for this under California state law?”
“For a hunting rifle it’s a maximum sentence of six months, or a thousand dollar fine. But given the loophole, and the fact that federal law usually trumps state law, even if the charge isn’t dropped, I think we could push for a non-custodial sentence.”
This looks possible.
“Do you think it might work?” she asks breathlessly.
“I think it’s our best and only move. That, combined with the fact our other weapons are legal might be enough. The problem is, we would need someone to claim the weapon, and explain the way it came into being. I hate to put that onto any brother, especially as it could lead to jail time if we aren’t successful.”
A deep raspy voice comes from the doorway. “I’ll do it.”
“No, Talon. It’s too risky. You might wind up with a six-month stretch.”
He shrugs carelessly, “I’ll consider it vacation from my old lady.”
“Be serious, Talon,” I admonish him.
“Fucking hell, I am being serious. Have you met my freakin’ wife. It’s just been one crazy thing after another with her lately. I’d relish a break from her chaos.”
I frown, not entirely certain he understands what he’s getting himself into.
That’s when Evan speaks up. “It should be my dad who claims the weapon.”
