I Rode 900 Miles to Murder the Man Who Adopted My Daughter
I rode 900 miles with a loaded .45 under my seat and my daughter’s name tattooed on my chest.
Her name is Lily. She was three years old when they took her from me. CPS showed up on a Tuesday while I was at work. My ex told them things that weren’t true. By Friday, Lily was gone.
I fought it. Hired a lawyer I couldn’t afford. Showed up to every hearing in a clean shirt with my hands shaking. But I was a biker with a record from when I was nineteen. A bar fight. One stupid night.
The judge looked at me like I was already guilty of something.
