My spouse arrived at the gates of the prison where our daughter’s attacker was being released, carrying a loaded firearm and bent on self-destruction. A assembly of eighty motorcyclists created a solid barrier separating his vehicle from the exit. Initially, I assumed they sought retribution. I was mistaken. Across eleven devastating minutes beside a dusty road, they determined who would carry this burden forward, and who would not… Continues…
Because the individual who assaulted our daughter received merely a half-year sentence, eighty motorcycle riders assembled outside the correctional facility on the morning of his liberation. Hoping to witness them accomplish what I lacked the courage to do myself, I drove out there at dawn.
Our daughter, Jenna, is fifteen years of age.
The perpetrator of her trauma served as the assistant coach for her softball squad.
He was sentenced to just six months in local custody because our girl grew physically ill during her deposition, leading the prosecutor to argue that a plea agreement was the most merciful route for her wellbeing.
My husband, Ray, has barely uttered a sentence containing more than ten words since that time.
On the morning of the release, I informed Ray that I needed to head to the school cafeteria earlier than usual.
Ray was already awake by the time I departed.
He was fully clothed with his boots on, seated at the kitchen table beside a cup of untouched coffee.
I neglected to question why he was dressed at five in the morning.
That oversight has played through my mind a hundred times since.
I steered my car past the fairgrounds toward the county detention facility and pulled over onto the shoulder to keep the entrance in view.
I was far from the earliest arrival.
Motorcycles flanked both edges of the roadway.
I counted forty before I stopped trying.
Large men wearing leather vests stood beside their iron horses with arms folded tightly.
A pair of sheriff’s deputies lingered behind the perimeter fence, thumbs tucked into their belts, observing the crowd.
I gripped my steering wheel tightly from inside my vehicle and allowed my imagination to run wild.
At twenty past seven, the heavy rolling gate slid open.
Travis emerged wearing a gray sweat suit and clutching a transparent plastic bag containing his personal effects.
His mother’s beige minivan sat idling near the security booth.
He spotted the motorcycles and froze in his tracks.
Instantly, the engines of all eighty machines thundered to life simultaneously.
Travis jerked backward with such force that his belongings slipped from his grip and hit the pavement.
The security guard near the entrance rested his hand against his holster.
Then the senior-most rider—a man boasting a chest-length white beard—raised a single hand into the air, and every last one of them began……….(Continue reading in the C0MMENT)