No one in the courtroom could ignore Richard “Tank” Peterson.
He was built like a wall, tattoos climbing from his collar to his knuckles, leather vest worn and scarred from years on the road. He didn’t look like the kind of man courts describe as “stable.” He looked like the kind of man they warn children about.
Beside him sat little Maya, her legs dangling far above the floor, fingers wrapped tightly around his pinky. She wasn’t afraid of him. She was afraid of the man in the black robe.
Judge Harrison had already formed his opinion.
He spoke about “proper households” and “appropriate guardians.” He referred to Tank as a thug. He questioned whether a biker had any business raising a child. The decision felt prewritten.
Tank didn’t argue. He didn’t explode. He kept his head lowered, swallowing the anger and the hurt, knowing how these things usually ended.
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