Then he looked up at me with something I’d never seen on a judge’s face before. He looked sick.
“Sir,” he said quietly. “Your son has been riding for BACA for the last three years. Bikers Against Child Abuse. Did you know that?”
I just stared at him. My throat closed up.
I’d heard the name before. Some of the old boys at the shop had patched in years back. I knew what they did.
I knew bikers who’d ridden three states to sit outside the bedroom window of a little girl who couldn’t sleep because her stepfather had hurt her so bad. I knew bikers who’d lost work and savings to escort kids into courtrooms full of monsters.
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