Page 34 of Desert Loyalties

MANDRAKE

There’s a weight to District Courtroom that Magistrate Courtroom never had.

It’s in the marble floors, the federal seal glaring down from behind the bench.

I’m sitting beside Christina LaGuerta, my lawyer, at the defence table.

She looks calm, composed, tailored navy suit, sleek ponytail, hands folded neatly over a legal pad.

Me? I'm dressed like I give a damn, but it’s surface-deep.

Inside, I’m coiled tight, half-ready to bolt and half-ready to grin like the devil.

The bailiff stands; voice flat but loud: “All rise. The United States District Court for the District of Nevada is now in session, the Honourable Judge Marianne Keller presiding.”

Everyone scrapes their chairs back as Judge Keller enters, her robe flowing behind her like a dark shadow. She’s a Black woman, sharp-featured, with smooth black hair pulled tightly into a neat knot at the nape of her neck. Her eyes cut through the room, before landing on me.

We sit again when she does.

The clerk reads it off, voice clipped and clinical: “Case number CR-25978. United States vs. Drake Lloyd. Counts Two and Four: Witness Tampering and Obstruction of Justice.”

My name sounds like someone else’s when it’s said like that. Just a case file, a problem to solve or dispose of.

Judge Keller glances at both sides. “Counsel, state your appearances.”

Henry Cheng stands. Government dog with a leash hidden somewhere. “Henry Cheng for the United States, Your Honor.”

Christina rises beside me. “Christina LaGuerta for the defence, on behalf of Mr. Lloyd.”

I give a nod. Slight. Measured. Don’t show too much. Don’t show too little. That’s the trick when you’re in federal court: look just human enough to be worth saving, not so human they think you're faking it.

Judge Keller speaks again. “As this matter has been moved from magistrate to district court following the defence’s request for a speedy trial, we will proceed directly. No further continuances will be entertained unless absolutely necessary.”

She peers over her glasses. “Understood, counsel?”

Cheng gives a stiff nod. Christina mirrors it, smoother.

The judge turns to me for the first time. “Mr. Lloyd, you’ve been advised of the charges against you- Count Two, Witness Tampering. Count Four, Obstruction of Justice. Do you understand what you’re charged with?”

My voice sounds low and steady, almost too steady, even to me. “Yes, Your Honor.”

She leans back, steepling her fingers. “Then let’s begin.”

Cheng stands and strides to the podium, paper in hand, eyes on me like I already belong behind bars. “Your Honor, the government will show that Mr. Lloyd deliberately interfered with a federal witness tied to an ongoing criminal investigation, and obstructed justice by—”

I tune out a little after that. Not because I’m not listening, but because I’ve heard this song before. Different courtroom, different hearing, same dance. The difference this time? It matters.

Christina scribbles a note on a yellow legal pad and slides it toward me without looking: Let him talk. Let me work.

I flick my eyes toward her. She doesn’t glance back. Just waits, composed and lethal in her quiet way.

I lean back in my chair, keeping my breathing even. Judge Keller watches everything, the way Cheng moves, the way I blink. She’s the kind who builds her ruling out of silences and micro-expressions. A bench trial means no jury. No twelve people to sway. Just her.

Just one person I have to convince I’m not the monster they’ve painted me to be.

And maybe I am. But even monsters deserve a defence.

Christina rises, adjusts her notes, and looks directly at Judge Keller.

“Your Honor, today the government asks this court to convict my client, Mr. Drake Lloyd, on serious charges, witness tampering and obstruction of justice, despite a glaring absence of evidence. There is no physical evidence linking Mr. Lloyd to any wrongdoing. No witness who can directly testify to the alleged acts. The prosecution’s case rests largely on hearsay and speculation.

You will hear from one witness, an ex-girlfriend, who claims Mr. Lloyd threatened her. But even her testimony lacks corroboration. There are no independent witnesses to support her account. And the government offers nothing more concrete.

This isn’t just a case. It’s a witch hunt.

When the authorities first investigated, they tried to charge Mr. Lloyd with murder, without a body.

They want you to believe that a man named Mr. Donahue is dead.

Yet, as far as anyone knows, Mr. Donahue could be out there, alive and well, hiding from the investigation.

Mr. Lloyd is a married man, a business owner, a member of the community who runs several legitimate enterprises. His involvement in a peaceful club, which the prosecution seems eager to emphasize, is irrelevant to these charges and should not be used to cloud this court’s judgment.

The government must meet its burden beyond a reasonable doubt. Based on what you will hear or more accurately, what you will not hear, the evidence simply isn’t there. And for that reason, we ask the court to find Mr. Lloyd not guilty of all charges.”

Judge Keller looks up from her notes, her tone measured but firm. “Thank you, counsel. The court will now hear the government’s case.”

She glances toward Prosecutor Cheng. “Mr. Cheng, you may call your first witness.”

Cheng nods and rises smoothly. He steps toward the well and turns to the courtroom. “The United States calls Agent Munez to the stand.”

The same DEA agent, Munez, takes the stand. He looks different this time; sharper, better prepared. No more fumbling answers or hesitant stares. Cheng wastes no time, running through the same questions as before, with a few extra details thrown in, as if polishing a rough stone.

When Cheng finishes, Christina stands and steps forward. She begins her cross-examination like she’s been waiting for this moment. After asking a few questions as last time, this time she does for the kill.

“SA Munez,” she says smoothly, “were you aware that Mr. Donahue’s wife overdosed?”

Munez nods. “Yes, ma’am. That’s why he was cooperating with us, trying to help find the drug dealer in the Horsemen.”

Christina leans in slightly, voice measured. “Did you ever consider the possibility that it was Mr. Donahue himself from whom his wife got the drugs?”

Munez frowns. “No. Why would he come to us if he was involved?”

She lets that hang for a beat, then continues. “Could it have been guilt? Mr. Donahue was cheating on his wife, according to the statement of a Ms Albright. Could it be that his wife took the drugs belonging to her husband to punish him?”

Cheng jumps up. “Objection, Your Honor. Speculation and irrelevant.”

Judge Keller sighs, but her tone stays firm. “Sustained. Counsel, stick to facts and direct evidence.”

Christina nods politely, masking the slight smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. She’s planted a seed, one Munez can’t easily uproot.

Christina pulls a folder from the evidence table, flipping through to a marked exhibit. “Special Agent Munez, I’m showing you what’s been marked as Exhibit 7. Can you tell the court what this is?”

Munez takes the document, scanning it quickly. “It’s a receipt for rehab treatment.”

Christina nods. “And can you read the patient’s name for the record?”

Munez clears his throat and reads, “Kyle Donahue.”

Cheng’s hand shoots up, like a petulant child. “Your Honor, I object to the admission of this document.”

Judge Keller glances at him, her tone measured. “Your objection is noted for the record. The document is admitted.”

Christina lets the moment breathe, then leans in. “Were you aware Mr. Donahue went to rehab for addiction?”

Munez shakes his head. “No, ma’am.”

I nearly snort under my breath. Of course he didn’t know. I’d paid for Locke’s rehab out of my own pocket, kept it on the down low. Motherfucker.

Christina presses on, eyes locked on Munez. “Did you investigate anyone else in the Horsemen club for these charges?”

Munez looks uncomfortable. “No, we did not.”

Christina tilts her head, voice steady but sharp. “Why not?”

Cheng stands abruptly. “Objection, Your Honor. Counsel is badgering the witness.”

Judge Keller cuts him off. “Overruled, but answer the question briefly, Agent.”

Munez exhales. “We focused on Mr. Lloyd because the CI pointed that way.”

Christina’s smile is thin, almost cutting.

“So, in other words, Mr. Donahue, whom my client threatened to kick out of the club unless he got sober, pointed the finger at Mr. Lloyd, and you simply took his word for it. You focused your entire investigation on one man and ignored everyone else who might have been involved.”

The courtroom feels the weight of that accusation, even if no one says it outright.

The courtroom shifts when Mason “Knuckles” Hernandez is called. Six-foot-seven, former bruiser, known for leather and brass, not blush tones. Today, he struts up in a pink button-down shirt, looking like an ad for vaginal rejuvenation.

Even Judge Keller’s brow lifts.

Cheng stands. “Knuckles… sorry, Mr. Hernandez. What do you do for a living?”

Knuckles adjust his like he’s getting ready to make a sale. “I work at the warehouse the club owns.”

It takes everything in me not to laugh like a damn hyena.

Cheng, “Why are you called Knuckles?”

Knuckles grins. “I can crack walnuts with ‘em.” He shrugs. “Seemed to stick.”

Cheng, “Have you ever been convicted of a crime?”

Knuckles, “Yeah. I was a dumbass as a kid. Got three strikes. One stuck.”

Cheng, “Felony conviction, then?”

Knuckles, “Yes, sir.”

Cheng, “Have you ever seen Mr. Lloyd threaten Mr. Donahue?”

Knuckles, “No. I mean, none of us even knew Locke- uh, Mr. Donahue, was the rat. How could Drake threaten him if he didn’t know?”

Cheng, looking like a priss, complains to the teacher, “Your Honor, move to strike everything after ‘no’ as non-responsive.”

Judge Keller, “Sustained. Mr. Hernandez, just answer the question asked.”

Cheng, “Has Mr. Lloyd ever threatened you?”

Knuckles: “No. I mean, apart from telling me to stop forgetting to flush. He never did.”

Pause.

Knuckles, “I did flush, it was just a really big log.”

A few snickers echo from the gallery. Judge Keller’s gavel taps, once.

Judge Keller looks like she’s holding back a smile “Let’s keep this dignified.”

Cheng’s face is a mask of discomfort.

“No further questions.”

Christina stands, at her seat, “Mr. Hernandez, did you or anyone in the club know Mr. Donahue was talking to the police?”

Knuckles, “Absolutely not.”

Christina, “In your experience, would Mr. Lloyd have threatened someone like Mr. Donahue, on club business, without informing anyone else in the club?”

Prick raises his hand again “Objection. Speculative.”

Christina, “Goes to pattern of conduct, Your Honor.”

Judge Keller, “Overruled. Answer if you can.”

Knuckles, “No. That’s not how it works. Drake don’t move without the table knowing.”

Christina, “No further questions.”

Knuckles gives her a respectful nod, then shuffles his way off the stand, looking like a walking contradiction: pink shirt, calloused hands, and unshakable loyalty.

One after another, the witnesses paint the same picture, no threats, no secret moves, no surprises. Knuckles says it, Ice says it, then Mason’s cousin, Rico. It’s the same story every time.

After the third round, Judge Keller’s patience thins.

She looks up from her bench, gaze sharp as a razor. “Counsel,” she says, voice calm but firm, “this testimony is becoming repetitive and cumulative. Unless there’s new material to add, I’m going to ask you to move on.”

The courtroom exhales, tension snapping like a wire.

Cheng nods, closing his notebook. Christina smirks, knowing the tide has turned.

Cheng clears his throat and rises, flipping through his notes. “Your Honor, the government calls Serena Albright to the stand. She’s available to testify tomorrow morning.”

Judge Keller nods, “Very well. We will adjourn for the day and reconvene tomorrow with Ms. Albright’s testimony.”

She glances at both tables, “Counsel, be prepared to proceed promptly at 9 a.m.”

The gavel strikes, and we’re done for today.