…And I wasn’t going to fight it alone.
The moment I was released on bail—thanks to a lawyer friend from the club—I sent out one message to the Veterans MC group chat: “They took my bike.”
Within hours, engines thundered into town. Vets from three states rolled in, patched and proud. We didn’t come to start trouble—we came to witness. To stand beside me at the hearing, to remind the system that we don’t fade quietly into the background just because we age.
Court day came. Officer Collins strutted in, confident, smirking again like he had all the power. Until the judge looked up and saw the courtroom packed with silver-haired bikers in clean cuts and solemn faces, filling every seat.
My lawyer shredded Collins on the stand. Dashcam footage showed I never resisted. My breathalyzer test came back clean. His bias was obvious. The judge dismissed the charges and ordered my bike returned—immediately, with an apology.
But the real justice came after.
Word got out. Bodycam clips hit the internet. Veterans’ groups, news stations, and even active-duty officers called for Collins’ suspension. A week later, he was under internal investigation.
As for me?
I rode my Harley home that day, wind in my face, the patch on my back visible for every driver to see.
Old?
Sure.
But forgotten?
Never.
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