‘That Law Office Down There Belongs To You’ Motorcycle Clubs and Independent Bikers need to take a stand- The Boozefighters MC has, Will you?

BY: Legendary Jim

Six Shooter – Barry Johnson wants the job. It shows. He sneers when he mentions the name, the one he wants to defeat in the DA’s primary race.

A hundred black leather-clad, patched bikers listen intently, men who once served the nation in military regalia, in war.

Johnson, a seasoned courtroom trial litigator, back from the wars at Dallas and elsewhere can’t keep the sneer from his face when he points in the general direction of downtown, somewhere down the freeway from Elm Mott, and says, “That law office down there belongs to you.”

For a moment, the room is in shocked silence, and then there is applause. These men and women are in trouble deep. The state is after them – has been for nearly three years since a pistol riot at a local restaurant on May 17, 2015, ended in rifle fire that left 9 dead, 20 wounded. The relentless legal attack is led by a lawyer named Abel Reyna, who was elected to prosecute criminals. Instead he has taken on the role of a secret police commissar, someone who commands the investigators just how to charge, what facts to use, how to word them in an affidavit, and then how to conduct the investigation. That makes him a witness, the lawyers say, but the courts do not acknowledge their words.

Johnson wants the job. He is willing to call the spots on the leopard for what they are. The worm has turned. The jig is up, The game is on.

As the meeting started, Sandra Lynch announced the beginning. She is the wife of Mike Lynch, and as the COC & I representative in the area, she reserved the patio at the Twin Peaks Restaurant. When she tried to explain to Cossacks who took up the parking places and occupied all the seating, she recalls she was cursed, spit on, her foot run over by a motorcycle, and called a “cunt.” She is surprisingly reasonable today. All things considered.

When it’s time for questions, a member of one of America’s most venerable motorcycle clubs, Boozefighters, est. 1946, steps into the middle of the room and asks what can be done about police infiltrators who come into their ranks and advocate actions that will put them in courts and prisons for the rest of their lives.

The candidate responds, saying he will not take a charge to court unless he is sure it is based on fact, the complaint secure as one grounded in reality.

When all is said and done, a co-founder of the sponsoring club, Sons Of Liberty Riders MC out of the DFW Metro area takes the stage.

Mel Robins is Vice President, and he has something to say based on his personal experience. He speaks of people who have been convicted of other offenses, sprung from their cages and let loose in the community to be handled by detectives who demand to know what’s going on, and if there is not enough action, they demand their charges make something happen.

“That’s what happened here,” he intones after a meaningful silence. The room erupts in agreement. Many respond with remarks, some applaud, few disagree.

Boozefighter Jedi, George Horsley, is a huge man dressed in black, his goatee massive and spear-pointed like Mingus’, head shaved clean.

He explains how they are being ripped off by a good old boy system that controls the real estate game and the assessed valuation of real property by formula designed to line their pockets, and not to create an equitable and systematic way of administering the tax rolls.

When the assessment district lost many lawsuits over complaints as to their shoddy work, he recalls, the County Commissioners Court, led by ex-banker Scott Felton, bestowed $650,000 upon the appointed authority – for purposes unexplained, but defined by common sense as means to make up the shortfall.

An ex-employee, a professional assessor by training, he moved his employment to Travis County, and commutes daily from Waco. If elected, he promises to take up his duties as County Judge on a full-time basis.

George “Scooter” Bergman is a beat character from the great American road, a truck-driving man out of Big D who got popped for being at Twin Peaks. He gives The Legendary that way out look reserved for situations beyond explication, says, “I can finally come back to Waco – McLennan County – for something besides Court.” He is at long last freed from his bond restrictions. His crime? He drove into the parking lot at the Twin Peaks “melee” and surrendered to cops who wanted to be sure of his safety. When the DA changed his mind and ordered everyone arrested who was wearing a patch, he spent three weeks in the jail for the fact he was wearing the colors of Los Desgraciados. He has been under indictment for the first degree felony of engaging in organized criminal activity since then, an offense that carries a penalty of 15 to 99 years in the penitentiary.

The brothers and sisters of the road stand with caps doffed, heads bowed, as their chaplain prays for the beneficence of a merciful God, and they adjourn.

So mote it be.

• The Legendary

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