Page 24 of Desert Loyalties
MANDRAKE
They bring me in through the same side door. Same orange jumpsuit. Same cuffs. Same chain digging into my waist like they think I’m about to sprout wings and fly out the damn window.
It’s a different courtroom, same layout but smaller, smellier.
LaGuerta’s at the defence table, papers in order, pen in hand, cool as a freezer door. Doesn’t even glance my way as the marshal sits me down and loosens the chain so that I can sit and stand.
Before the hearing, she’d told me straight:
"What I told the club was this: if you wanna come, you come as normal people. No cuts, no ink, no piercings. I only want white-collar-looking guys in the gallery. Buttoned up. Clean. Like they do taxes, not murder. Optics, Drake. Everything in federal court is optics."
So, I scan the gallery.
There they are.
Skye’s here, just like I asked. Sitting in the second row, stiff in a blazer that makes her look adorable.
She’s got a few of the brothers with her, clean shaven, no tatts visible.
What surprises me is that Lehi is here, with his old lady, man’s a brother sure but he doesn’t exactly do support.
Knuckles is here too with a pregnant chick by his side, last I checked he didn’t have a woman.
Maybe he rented one just for this occasion.
I hope she doesn’t stand up mid- hearing and announce it’s mine.
Everyone is wearing a costume, a lie to show the judge I’m not an animal. That I matter to someone.
LaGuerta slides a notepad toward me, real slow.
On it, in block letters: “STONE FACE. DON’T REACT. TRUST ME.”
Then the judge comes in.
Gray hair, black robe, lady judge, who’s already looking at me like I’m scum. Great.
She begins “We’re here for the detention hearing in United States v.
Drake Lloyd . Mr. Lloyd is charged under Title 18 with four serious federal crimes, including murder, witness tampering, conspiracy to commit a federal offense, and obstruction of justice.
Government’s motion for detention is under consideration. ”
Prosecutor stands. Same guy. Probably proud of himself for putting ‘federal prosecutor’ in his Tinder bio.
Douchebag even talks like a douche “Your Honor, the government moves for continued detention. The defendant is accused of premeditated murder of a cooperating federal witness, a crime punishable by life imprisonment. The witness tampering charge reflects a clear intent to interfere with the integrity of the justice system. These are not crimes of passion or opportunity. They show planning. Organization.”
He looks toward the gallery, then back at the judge.
“Mr. Lloyd is associated with a structured criminal network. He has access to funds, to personnel, to means. The risk of flight is significant. And the risk to public safety is extreme.”
He settles into his chair, full of himself and certain the judge’s on his side.
LaGuerta doesn’t get up right away. She flips a page in her folder, taps her pen against the table once, then rises slowly. Calm. Grounded. She adjusts her glasses, then starts.
“Your Honor, Mr. Lloyd has been charged, not convicted. He’s entitled to the presumption of innocence.
He was arrested at his place of work, without incident.
He did not run. He did not resist. He has deep community ties in Nevada, is a business owner with no prior convictions, and no history of violence outside what the government now alleges. ”
She turns slightly, gesturing subtly toward the gallery.
“Several of Mr. Lloyd’s business associates and employees are present in the gallery today.
These are not criminals. They are professionals who work for Mr. Lloyd, some as partners, others as staff.
Yes, many of them belong to the same motorcycle club, but that is not a crime.
What matters is that they rely on the legitimate businesses Mr. Lloyd manages; logistics, warehousing, transport.
Their presence today speaks to the role he plays in their lives as an employer and colleague. ”
She lets that breathe for a second.
“He owns and operates three legal entities, warehousing, transport, and service contracts. The employees behind me depend on him. If he disappears, they don’t just lose a job. Some of them lose housing, food security. That is community connection.”
She walks the line carefully, never defensive, just rational.
“The defence proposes strict release conditions. Home confinement. GPS monitoring. No internet access. No unapproved visitors. Weekly check-ins. We are even willing to offer a third-party custodian who will ensure Mr. Lloyd remains compliant.”
The Judge doesn’t say anything right away. Just flips through some paperwork, then speaks without looking up, voice even but pointed as she addresses the room. “Does the defence contest the strength of the indictment?”
LaGuerta answers, never breaking her stride.
“Yes, Your Honor. We believe the indictment is largely circumstantial. There is no forensic evidence tying Mr. Lloyd to the crime. The murder charge is based on a theory, not hard proof. The police haven’t even proved that the informant is dead, nor have they disclosed the identity of this person. ”
Another pause, the judge tapping his pen once against the binder. “Is there direct evidence? Surveillance, recordings, anything implicating the defendant personally?”
The prosecutor speaks before LaGuerta can. “There are recordings, Your Honor, but many remain sealed due to their connection with ongoing operations and cooperating witnesses.”
LaGuerta doesn’t blink. “So, we’re being asked to keep a man in custody based on evidence the defence isn’t even allowed to examine.”
A silence stretches.
Then the judge lifts her gaze and fixes it directly on me. Her voice carries weight now, it’s calm, firm, with a kind of finality that echoes in the entire room.
“Mr. Lloyd, the charges against you are among the most serious under federal law. But the government has not, at this stage, presented sufficient evidence to justify pretrial detention.”
There’s a stir at the prosecution’s table, douche stands up, “Your Hono—," she holds up a hand not letting him finish, eyes locking on the Assistant U.S. Attorney.
“I suggest next time, counsellor, you come better prepared that just putting defendant in chains.”
The words land sharp and cold.
She continues, measured.
“This court recognizes the defendant’s business interests, his employees present here, and the absence of any prior federal convictions.
That said, the allegations remain serious.
Mr. Lloyd, you are released under the following conditions: home confinement with GPS monitoring.
You will surrender your passport. No access to the internet, no contact with any known felons or co-defendants, and absolutely no involvement with your motorcycle club, in any capacity.
Weekly in-person check-ins with Pretrial Services will be mandatory.
Bail is set at five hundred thousand dollars, with a Nebbia hearing required.
All funds must be verified as coming from lawful sources. ”
She closes the file in front of her, voice tightening just slightly.
“Consider this a narrow window of trust, Mr. Lloyd. If it is abused, the court will not hesitate to revoke these conditions.”
Before the gavel comes down, LaGuerta speaks up again.
“Your Honor,” she says smoothly, “we would like to request a preliminary hearing under Rule 5.1. If the government cannot present probable cause or identify the alleged overt acts, we believe the indictment may not survive past the initial phase.”
The judge nods, already gathering her papers.
“That hearing will be scheduled. The government will have its chance to support its indictment with more than sealed innuendo. Court is adjourned.”
Then with a bang of the gavel, she’s gone. No glance back, no unnecessary words. Just a door swinging shut behind black robes and steel authority.
LaGuerta finally breathes, brushing her blazer smooth. “It’s not over,” she mutters without looking at me. “We have a long battle ahead.”
I’m staring at Skye again as they lead me out of the courtroom. Only this time, her tears aren’t of sadness, they’re tears of relief, of hope. I’m coming home soon, darlin’.