Page 23 of Desert Loyalties

MANDRAKE

I’m being brought into the Llloyd D. George United States Courthouse in full chains, ankles, wrists, even a fucking belly chain like I’m Hannibal Lecter.

The fucking jumpsuit is scratching my balls.

I’m led in through the back, through security.

The marshals escorting me keep touching their guns, all bark no bite. Pussies.

Yesterday, I finally got my call.

Didn’t call Ranger. Didn’t call a lawyer.

I called Skye.

“Hey, darlin’,” I say into the phone, voice low, eyes locked on the door of the holding cell. My reflection looks like shit.

I’d told the fed I was calling my attorney. He glared, but left the room. Asshole.

“Drake? Oh my god, are you okay?”

Her voice nearly breaks me. Just hearing it, I feel my chest tighten.

“Hanging in there,” I say. “Did the club—?”

“They did,” she cuts in. “We’re getting you a ringer. The club, everyone—we’re here. You hear me? I’m here.”

I close my eyes. Let her words sink in.

“Hearing your voice, darlin’… it’s the only thing that makes sense right now.”

The door creaks open behind me. The fed leans in, smug as hell. “Time’s up, asshole.”

I glare at him, then soften my voice for her. “Well, counsellor... I’ll see you soon.”

“I love you,” she says fast, just before the pig rips the phone from my hand.

I hadn’t said everything will be okay, cause I don’t know if it will be. And I’m not about to start lying to my lady.

Now I’m sitting on a hard-ass bench outside the courtroom, chains clinking every time I shift. No one’s telling me anything. Just that my lawyer’s on her way.

Don’t know her name, never met her, but if the club hired her, she’s good.

Then I see her. This lady strutting down the hallway like she’s late to a PTA meeting, not a federal court.

Tight pantsuit, frilly cream top, glasses perched low.

She looks more like a soccer mom than a ringer, and for a second, I wonder if someone got their files crossed.

Then she stops in front of the marshal and flashes something, probably a bar card or her middle finger, hard to tell from this angle.

Next thing I know, the marshal grunts and nudges me forward. Leads me into a small interview room. Four walls, no windows, two chairs, table bolted to the floor. He mutters something about “I’ll be right outside” and rests his hand on that oversized Glock, trying to intimidate me.

Tiny-dicked motherfucker.

Then it’s just me and her. She closes the door, drops into the chair across from me, and lays her folder on the table.

“I’m Christina LaGuerta,” she says, cool and clipped. “I’ll be representing you in this case, which, given the charges, will most likely go to trial.”

She doesn’t blink. Just keeps talking like we’ve already known each other.

“Now, today is your initial appearance. The magistrate judge will inform you of the charges, confirm you understand your rights, and decide whether you stay in custody or go home.”

She glances at my chains, then back to me.

“Spoiler alert. You’re not going home today.”

She flips open her folder. I see words like conspiracy , murder, obstruction , and intimidation . I see dates. Codes. And my name at the top.

“You’ve been indicted by a federal grand jury. Four charges. It’s sealed until the judge reads it. You’ll hear the details in court. I’ll be standing next to you.”

She leans in just slightly, voice dropping.

“Keep your mouth shut unless the judge speaks to you directly. No outbursts, no wisecracks. If you don’t understand something, nod. I’ll explain after. Got it?”

I nod.

“This isn’t state court. Feds don’t charge unless they’ve got something. That means actual physical evidence, informants, surveillance. They’ve been watching you for a while. You should’ve lawyered up the second they started talking. Nothing I can do about that now.”

Her tone softens just a touch, like maybe she’s human after all.

“We’ll get discovery soon. That’s when I’ll see their evidence. I’ll break it down for you, and then we’ll decide. Fight or deal.”

She stands, smooths her top, and gives me a look that says I don’t lose sleep over cases like yours, but I don’t half-ass them either.

“Now sit tight. We’re up in ten. And remember, stone face in there. Let me do the talking.”

I nod my head, cause what else can I do?

It’s cold in the courtroom. Sterile. Even the walls feel like they’re judging me.

I’m led in through a side door, shackles still clinking, the chain tight around my waist like a leash. The marshal grips my elbow. I scan the courtroom, it’s all wood, marble, flags, pews.

At the front sits the judge, robes stiff, face unreadable. The United States flag hangs just behind him, shadowed by the seal of the court. No jury. Not yet. Just a few people in the gallery. There’s my girl, sitting next to Ranger. Motherfucker is in civilian clothes.

LaGuerta’s already at the defence table. She nods as I’m walked over and unchained just enough to sit. She doesn’t say anything, just flicks her eyes forward. I follow her lead.

The prosecutor stands. Young. Clean-cut. Looks like a frat boy.

“Your Honor, this is the case of United States v. Drake Lloyd. The defendant was arrested on a sealed indictment issued by a grand jury in the District of Nevada.”

The judge nods once. “Proceed.”

The prosecutor’s voice is sharp. Clipped.

“The defendant is charged with four violations of Title 18 of the United States Code. Count One: Murder , under Section 1111. Count Two: Witness tampering , under Section 1512. Count Three: Conspiracy to commit a federal offense, under Section 371. Count Four: Obstruction of justice , under Section 1505.”

I don’t move. I don’t flinch. But inside, my stomach knots like barbed wire.

The judge turns to me.

“Mr. Lloyd do you understand the charges that have been brought against you?”

Christina speaks before I can.

“Your Honor, the defence acknowledges receipt of the indictment. My client understands the nature of the charges.”

The judge continues.

“You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to be represented by counsel. You have the right to a detention hearing and a preliminary hearing, unless waived. Do you understand these rights?”

Christina nudges my arm under the table.

“Yes, Your Honor,” I say.

The judge looks to the prosecutor. “Government’s position on detention?”

The prosecutor doesn’t even blink.

“We move for detention under 18 U.S.C. § 3142. The defendant is a clear danger to the community and a flight risk. The charges involve violence, conspiracy, and obstruction. The government is seeking pretrial detention without bond.”

LaGuerta stands confidently.

“Your Honor, we request a detention hearing to challenge that. My client is a long-time resident, has no prior federal convictions, and is willing to comply with all pretrial conditions.”

The judge nods again, notes something.

“Very well. Detention hearing set in 3 days. Defendant will remain in federal custody until then. No plea will be entered today.”

He bangs the gavel. “We are adjourned.”

The marshal’s on me before I stand. LaGuerta doesn’t say anything as I’m cuffed again, but she meets my eyes.

“I’ll see you before the hearing,” she says, low. “You don’t talk to anyone but me. Understand?”

I nod. Looking back at the gallery I see Skye giving me a watery smile as I’m led back out, the heavy courtroom doors closing behind me like the lid on my coffin.