In a tense courtroom packed with spectators, he suddenly hurled his biker vest onto the floor. Within moments, the shocking gesture shifted the mood of the trial, sending the entire hearing into a far darker and more unsettling direction.
In a tense courtroom packed with spectators, he suddenly hurled his biker vest onto the floor. Within moments, the shocking gesture shifted the mood of the trial, sending the entire hearing into a far darker and more unsettling direction.
My name is Caleb Harker, and by the time that trial began I was forty-six years old, which is old enough to know that the truth rarely walks into a courtroom wearing clean shoes. Most days it limps in, late and bruised, carrying baggage nobody wants to open in public. I knew that better than most people sitting inside the county courthouse that rainy April morning in Franklin County, Missouri, partly because of the work I used to do and partly because of the kind of people I had spent half my life riding beside.
