“If I help you,” I said slowly, “I need something in return.”
“You’re facing seven murder charges. You’re not in a position to negotiate.”
“Not for me.” I met her eyes. “For Bobby’s widow. Eddie’s kids. Protection. And their names kept clean. Whatever you think happened in ’86, they weren’t involved.”
She studied me for a long moment. “Start talking, and I’ll see what I can do.”
I took a deep breath. The betrayal of breaking the code burned worse than the bullet wound. But my brothers deserved justice.
“1986 was different,” I began. “Motorcycle clubs were changing. Some went straight, some went deeper into crime. The Steel Eagles were divided.”
Kent nodded, recording.
“Victor Reyes showed up that summer. Cuban exile with cartel connections. Offered us a pipeline. Cocaine, guns, money. Half the club wanted in. Half didn’t.”
“Which half were you in?”
I ignored the question. “Things got tense. Arguments. Threats. Then one night, Victor came to a meeting with two guards. Started making demands. Said he owned us now.”
