"No," the chief muttered. "No, I'm not," he walked away. Griffin, defeated and humiliated on national television, got back in his SUV and sped off, spraying gravel. The day wore on. The line never got shorter.
As one biker voted and left, another took his place, keeping the line at a steady thousand strong. It became a strange peaceful festival. Local supporters from Maple Ridge, seeing the news, started showing up with coffee and sandwiches for the bikers. The bikers, in turn, were quietly polite. They said, "Please and thank you, ma'am." They made space for elderly voters.
They let mothers with young children go ahead of them. Daniel sat on the steps watching it all. Mark came over and sat down heavily next to him, taking a break from the line. "That was a brave thing you did, kid," Mark said, his voice softer now. "I was scared," Daniel admitted.
"Brave doesn't mean you're not scared," Mark said. "It means you do it anyway. you started all this? He gestured to the incredible scene around them. Are you really going to stay all day?" Daniel asked. "Until every last one of my brothers and sisters has voted, and until every person from Maple Ridge has voted, and until the polls close." Mark looked out at the line.
People see the patches, the bikes, the tattoos, they think they know what we are. Today isn't about changing that. Today is about showing that what we are includes this, our community, our vote. There was a charged moment near the snack table. A biker named James Mercy's son was getting a coffee.
The woman handing them out was Rita, a teacher from the next town over. She was beautiful with kind eyes and a smart mouth. She'd been watching him all afternoon. "You take it black?" Rita asked, holding out a cup. James nodded.
"Thanks. You've been here 6 hours, she said. Got a few more to go. Their fingers brushed as she handed him the cup. A spark.
He held her gaze for a second too long. She smiled a little flustered. It's a hell of a thing you're all doing. It's the right thing, James said simply. He didn't move away.
The world around them, the cameras, the crowd, the bikes seemed to fade for a second. It was just them, a simple electric connection in the middle of the madness. He finally nodded and walked back to his place in line, feeling her eyes on his back. As afternoon turned to evening, the tension shifted. Griffin wasn't done.
He couldn't fight the Angels directly, so he tried to cheat the system. He sent county workers to check the voting machines. A transparent attempt to slow everything down. The line inside the halls stalled. Mark saw it from outside.
He made a phone call. 15 minutes later, three black SUVs pulled up, outstepped a man in an impeccable suit. David, he wasn't a biker. He was a lawyer. The club's lawyer.
He walked into the polling place, followed by two serious-looking associates. I am counsel for the Hell's Angels motorcycle club, David announced, his voice smooth and cutting. My clients have reason to believe you are intentionally impeding the voting process. I am here to observe. Any further machine checks will be met with an immediate federal lawsuit for voter suppression.
Do I make myself clear? The county workers looked at David, then at the wall of bikers visible through the window. They packed up their tools and left without a word. The lines started moving again. The romance between subplots continued.
Rita brought James a fresh coffee as the sun set. You're still here. Told you I would be, James said. He sipped the coffee. You make good coffee.
It's just coffee, she laughed. Not when you make it, he said. It was a cheesy line, but from him with his serious eyes, it felt real. She blushed. He scribbled something on a napkin and handed it to her. It was his phone number.
When this is over, maybe I could take you for a ride. The quiet kind. In a car. She took the napkin, her heart beating fast. I'd like that.
Polls closed at 8:00 p.m. The last voter in line was a young biker named Leo. He cast his ballot at 8:02 under the strict observation of the lawyers. As he walked out, a cheer went up, not a raucous biker yell, but a deep, respectful rumble of approval from the thousand brothers and sisters who had stayed until the end. The job was done. They had voted.