50 Bikers Surrounded A Rookie Cop At A Gas Station Then Dropped To Their Knees

“But Briggs didn’t care about what was real. He cared about what looked good.”

One of the other bikers spoke up. Younger than Walt, maybe fifty. Stocky build. “They started pulling us over every week. Searching our bikes. Searching our homes. My house got raided twice. They tore up my floors looking for drugs that didn’t exist.”

Another man stepped forward. Thin, weathered, tattoos covering both arms. “They planted a bag of meth in my saddlebag during a traffic stop. Arrested me in front of my kids. My ten-year-old watched them put me in handcuffs.”

“It happened to eleven of us,” Walt said. “Over six months. Same pattern. Traffic stop. Search. Suddenly drugs appear. Arrest. Charges. Most of us couldn’t afford real lawyers. Public defenders told us to take plea deals.”

Ryan’s stomach was turning. “Eleven men?”

“Eleven men. Exposed to felony charges. Some lost their jobs. Some lost their houses posting bail. Three lost custody of their kids.”

“And my father?”

Walt’s expression softened. “Your father was the only cop in the entire department who said something was wrong.”

The parking lot was silent except for the hum of the gas station lights and the occasional car passing on Route 9.

“Your dad started noticing patterns,” Walt said. “Same unit making the arrests. Same type of evidence. Same small amounts that were just enough for felony charges. He pulled the reports. Compared them. Something didn’t add up.”

“He came to us first,” Walt continued. “Showed up at our clubhouse on a Thursday night. Alone. No backup. No vest. Just his badge and a folder full of paperwork.”

“I remember that night,” the stocky biker said. “We almost didn’t let him in. Thought it was another setup.”

“But he sat down at our table,” Walt said. “Looked me in the eye and said, ‘I think my department is framing your men. And I need your help to prove it.’”