“You know what you did today?” Morrison asked me as we sat on his back porch. “You exposed the biggest police corruption case this county has seen in decades. Dale was the tip of the iceberg. We’ve already arrested three more officers. You saved those kids. You probably saved others we don’t even know about yet.”
“I just held a sign,” I said.
The next few months were a blur. Court cases. Testimony. Foster care hearings. But through it all, we five kids stayed together at the Morrisons’ house. They eventually adopted little Marcus and Sofia. The twins went to live with their aunt, who’d been searching for them for years.
And me? At eighteen, I aged out of the system. But Morrison offered me something else.
“Ever think about becoming a cop?” he asked.
I’d spent my whole life hating cops because of Dale. But Morrison and his club showed me what law enforcement could be. Should be.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think I’d like that.”
I’m twenty-five now. Graduated from the academy three years ago. I ride with Morrison’s club on weekends – the Iron Justice MC, all current and former law enforcement who believe in actually protecting people.
I keep that cardboard sign in my locker at the station. “HELP: Foster parents sell drugs, keep five kids locked in basement, police won’t believe us.”
It reminds me why I do this job. Because sometimes the system fails. Sometimes the people meant to protect you become the predators. And sometimes, a kid with nothing but a sign and fifty bikers with everything to prove can change everything.
And every year on the anniversary of that day, the Iron Justice MC does a ride. They go to foster care facilities. They talk to kids about speaking up, about asking for help, about not giving up even when nobody seems to be listening.
Because sometimes the scariest-looking people – the ones in leather with loud motorcycles and intimidating patches – are the ones who’ll drop everything to help a desperate kid on a highway exit ramp.
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