Page 83 of Desert Loyalties
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?”
