Intemperance IX - the Inner Circle
Copyright© 2025 by Al Steiner
Chapter 17: Any Given Sunday
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 17: Any Given Sunday - The ninth book in the long-running Intemperance series finds Jake Kingsley balancing family, music, and media chaos as his world grows stranger—and more fiercely loyal—by the day. With fame fading and life deepening, the Kingsleys and their inner circle face new challenges in love, trust, and the price of peace.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa BiSexual Fiction
San Francisco Chronicle
Tuesday, July 11, 2004
Front Page
The Gospel According to Judge Olson
Leaked Video Raises Alarming Questions About Judicial Fitness in Central Coast Sex Scandal
By Jen Collins, Staff Writer
San Luis Obispo — A scandal involving the teenage son of a prominent Central Coast judge and a Jake Kingsley-affiliated backup singer took a dramatic turn Monday night, when video footage surfaced showing Superior Court Judge Michael Olson delivering a religiously charged tirade that legal experts are calling “deeply troubling.”
The videos—obtained exclusively by the Chronicle—capture two separate confrontations in which Judge Olson invokes scripture, curses at law enforcement, and refers to a 31-year-old woman as the “Whore of Babylon” for engaging in consensual sex with his 19-year-old son, Owen.
“You inserted your sacred vassal into the whore’s demonic chasm!” Olson screams in one video, confronting his son on the front porch of their San Luis Obispo, California home. “You’re not a man—you’re a vessel of corruption!”
At another point, Olson can be heard shouting at uniformed officers:
“She likely just irreparably damaged my boy for life—and you’re letting her walk out of my house without handcuffs?! She is the Whore of Babylon and you’re all going to burn for siding with her!”
The incidents stem from a now-confirmed sexual relationship between Owen Olson and Tiffany Moreland, a professional backup singer currently living with William Archer and his family, longtime collaborators of Jake Kingsley and KVA Records.
According to San Luis Obispo Police reports, the sexual encounter was consensual. No charges were filed.
Yet Olson, known in legal circles for his outspoken conservative rulings and biblical rhetoric from the bench, called police twice in two days and allegedly attempted to bar his son from re-entering the family home. In the second video, he rages:
“You are banned! You will not be coming in! I will change the locks and throw all of your belongings away!”
Police were ultimately forced to intervene to allow Owen to retrieve his personal property, citing his legal right to access the residence. Officers also confirmed that the judge referred to the city of Fresno as “modern-day Gomorrah” during the exchange.
When contacted Monday afternoon, the San Luis Obispo Superior Court declined to comment, stating only that Judge Olson is “a sitting judge with an ongoing caseload.”
Legal analysts warn that the footage—particularly the references to religious doctrine and judgment—could trigger ethics investigations.
“The concern here is judicial temperament,” said Stanford law professor Dr. Leslie Woon. “When a sitting judge cannot separate personal outrage from the law—and is filmed berating police officers for upholding that law—it raises serious questions about impartiality.”
The Kingsley camp has declined formal comment, but a source close to the family tells the Chronicle that “the videos speak for themselves.”
Readers can view both unedited videos exclusively at www.sfgate.com/judgeolson.
Viewer discretion is strongly advised.
And, if one went to the SF Chronicle’s website to see the video for one’s self, this was the webpage:
EXCLUSIVE VIDEO: Judge Michael Olson’s Outburst Captured on Camera
Superior Court judge calls woman “Whore of Babylon,” threatens police over son’s consensual relationship
By Jen Collins, Chronicle Staff
CONTENT WARNING:
The following videos contain strong language, religious extremism, and emotionally disturbing material. Viewer discretion is strongly advised.
Two separate cell phone videos obtained by the Chronicle show San Luis Obispo Superior Court Judge Michael Olson engaging in an intense, scripture-laced tirade following the discovery of a consensual sexual encounter between his 19-year-old son and a 31-year-old woman affiliated with musician Jake Kingsley’s production label.
The footage—filmed by William Archer, personal friend of Jake Kingsley and pianist for the band Intemperance, which Kingsley fronts—includes references to Revelation, accusations of demonic possession, and threats directed at uniformed law enforcement officers who refused to arrest the woman involved.
In the first clip, Judge Olson can be seen shouting at police:
“You’re making a mockery of the law! That girl is the Whore of Babylon and you’re all going to burn for siding with her!”
In the second clip, Olson attempts to block his son from retrieving personal belongings, yelling: “You inserted your sacred vassal into the whore’s demonic chasm! You are a vessel of corruption!”
Officers on the scene determined that the relationship was consensual and within legal bounds. No charges have been filed.
The Chronicle is releasing the unedited videos in the public interest. We believe it raises serious questions about judicial fitness, the intersection of personal morality and public duty, and the way religious extremism can manifest in positions of legal power.
🎥 WATCH THE VIDEOS (UNCUT)
🔗 Video 1 – The Porch Confrontation (0:58)
🔗 Video 2 – Denial of Entry & Threats (0:59)
📁 Download Police Summary Report (PDF)
📰 Related coverage:
· “The Gospel According to Judge Olson” – Full Chronicle Article
· Profile: Judge Michael Olson’s Bench History
· Timeline: Events Leading Up to the July 9 Confrontation
📣 Discussion boards:
🗨️ What do YOU think? Join the discussion on the Metro Community Forum.
💬 Comments (1247) | Posted by readers across CA, OR, NV, and AZ
“I’m not even liberal and this guy scares the hell out of me.” —RedwoodCityDad42
“Demonic chasm?? What even IS that?!” —MetalheadMartha
“Sacred Vassal? You can’t just say ‘his dick’?” —lawstudent88
And then there was the American Watcher. They put out a special edition of their weekly tabloid, most of it dedicated to the story of Tiffany Moreland and Judge Olson. They had managed to get a series of pictures of Tif, and what pictures they were. They had been snapped by none other than Drew Conners, the cliff-crawling paparazzo who had caused such a stir at Kingsley Manor back in June.
The shots had apparently been taken from atop the south-facing hill above the Campus—just beyond the vineyard that KVA and Heliodorus Development operated to make snooty wine for people willing to pay a hundred dollars a bottle. The photographer had climbed past the property line between KVA Records and the County of San Luis Obispo, which owned the top of the hill.
It would have been quite a hike to get up there. He would have had to access a fire road on the north side of the hill and then climb to the summit on foot in a place where no trail existed. Apparently, however, the ascent had been easier than climbing the Kingsley’s cliff because he succeeded.
And it paid off.
Once up there, he had managed to get reasonably good shots of Tif getting out of her car and walking into the rehearsal warehouse. He also got a few shots of Jake, Laura, and Celia as well—he was in the neighborhood, after all, and they were there.
The images that ran in the Watcher were crystal clear—digital, yes, but shot with a professional’s hand and an obsessive’s eye. Tif was photographed exiting her car at the rear of the Campus studio, a battered shoulder bag slung over one side, her hair up in a casual high ponytail that left her neck exposed in a way that seemed almost too intimate for public consumption. She wore a skintight lime-green tank top with a scoop so low it showed the edges of her areolae depending on the angle of her bend, and a pair of tiger-striped stretch shorts that were technically clothing but left almost nothing to the imagination. Her footwear was absurd—high white go-go boots with thick platform soles and rainbow laces. She was actually licking a red Otter Pop as she walked, mid-step, mid-suck, mid-smirk. Fuckin’ gold!
And in one of the shots—mid-twist as she reached for her bag in the back seat—her shorts rode up just enough to expose the faintest suggestion of lower cheek. Not quite obscene. But close. Right up to the edge. Just how she liked to live.
The Watcher ran that shot on the front page, framed in bright yellow with a caption that read:
“THE WHORE OF BABYLON? Judge Olson Says His Son Did Not Consent. Really? This Is What She Wore to Work.”
Inside, a two-page spread featured the full series, including one where she smiled directly at someone out of frame—unaware of the lens a football field away and two hundred feet above—and showed the devil’s horn gesture playfully as she walked toward the studio door.
And beneath the images, the rhetorical dagger:
“Does this look like someone who would not be granted consent for sexual activity by a nineteen-year-old boy?”
It was tabloid logic, ugly and obvious and effective. The photos weren’t pornographic, but they were loaded. They didn’t prove anything legally. But they spoke—to the same people who’d been on the fence. The ones who hadn’t known what to believe. The ones now tipping the other way.
And then there was the other picture. The one that landed on page six.
It had been taken not by Drew, but by Paul Peterson himself. Old school. Canon AE-1 on a tripod, long exposure, manual focus from down the street after sunset, after all the other pap had gone home for the day. He hadn’t meant to shoot Owen. He’d been hoping to get a rare late-night shot of Tif on the porch or in the kitchen window.
What he got instead was Owen taking out the trash.
The photo was grainier. More voyeuristic. But effective in its own way.
Owen, barefoot, in gym shorts and a Cal Poly t-shirt, dragging two bins down the driveway. His face slack with fatigue. His expression thoughtful. Human.
The caption:
“The Boy at the Center of the Storm. Now Sleeping at the House of the Woman Who Undressed His Soul.”
It was garbage. It was brilliant. It sold.
The storm went on in the Kingsley orbit, but the nature of the storm had shifted. It was now Tif’s and Owen’s and Jake’s divine wind, slamming into the enemy’s flanks.
The Piaggio Avanti hummed like a luxury blender, all turbine whir and aerodynamic smugness. The overhead sun lit the cockpit in soft, clinical brilliance as the aircraft sliced north-northeast at FL310—Jake’s sweet spot for fast, smooth hops under two hours.
He and Nerdly were en route to Cypress Municipal Airport to pick up their children from the visit to their respective grandparents. They were high above the boundary between the San Joaquin and Sacramento valleys. The Sierra Nevada Mountains off to the right, their snowcaps all melted now that it was mid-summer. Though the air temperature up here was reading at twenty-one degrees below zero, Jake knew that on the ground it was already in the mid-eighties and would climb into the low 100s by 3:00 PM.
Jake scanned the sky for air traffic in his vicinity. Nothing but clean air and contrails above.
“We’ll be starting descent in about five,” he said. “Should be over Lodi now. Or Stockton, depending on who you ask.”
“I have always favored Lodi,” Nerdly replied from the right seat, where he sat cross-legged with a clipboard full of printouts and a battered pair of Sony earbuds hanging around his neck. “The word itself has a certain lyrical despair to it. Appropriate, given its economic trajectory.”
Jake snorted. “You’re the only person alive who uses ‘economic trajectory’ and ‘Lodi’ in the same sentence.”
“I strive for linguistic excellence,” Nerdly replied evenly. “Unlike His Honor.”
Jake chuckled without mirth. “You read the Times piece?”
“This morning,” Nerdly confirmed. “Twice. The SLO Register followed with a companion article, citing three prior cases where Olson invoked religious doctrine while passing sentence.”
“Right,” Jake said. “There was the teen girl who had her case dismissed because she was carrying a Bible when she shoplifted. The DUI he let go because the guy claimed he was driving home from a ‘men’s accountability group.’ And the one that really got me—he ordered some domestic abuser to attend church as a condition of probation.”
“Which, as the article correctly points out, is not legal,” Nerdly said. “Even in this judicial backwater.”
Jake scanned his instruments and waited for the instruction from ATC to start his descent. It would come any time now.
“So ... you think the judge can survive this?” he asked.
“No,” Nerdly said flatly. “The court may not remove him immediately, but his docket will be lightened, his colleagues will distance themselves, and the oversight board will begin poking at his ruling history like an anthropologist pokes a mummified corpse. The question is not if he will fall. The question is whether he’ll combust before they push him.”
Jake reached for his travel coffee flask. “You’re poetic when you’re vindictive.”
“I’m always poetic,” Nerdly said. “But yes. I despise theocratic logic disguised as law.”
Jake took a long sip and glanced down at the landscape crawling beneath them. Almond orchards, irrigation lines, brown rivers snaking west.
“What about the American Watcher?” he asked. “Still can’t believe that kid got the shot.”
Nerdly nodded. “Pauline was delighted. She believes it did far more good than harm.”
Jake cracked a smile. “Hard to argue. Tif looked like a living wet dream. If you can’t picture a nineteen-year-old boy consenting to that, you’re either lying or dead.”
“Or Judge Olson,” Nerdly added.
“Exactly.”
They sat in silence for a few seconds—just the noise of turbines, the occasional beeps of altitude checks, and the hum of a well-built machine doing its job.
Then Jake glanced over.
“How are Tif and Owen holding up?”
“They do not mind remaining under siege in the house,” Nerdly said. “They have an age-old way to pass the time.”
“They’re fucking each other’s brains out?”
“In a figurative manner, yes. Sometimes I wonder if I should bring the hose inside and use water therapy to separate them for dinner.”
“Give them a break, Nerdly,” Jake said. “Tif probably hasn’t been laid since she got to SLO for the workups. Sure, she found a dick to suck once a week, but no one to plow her holy land until Owen quoted The Book of Promiscuous to her. And then there’s Owen. He’s living a nineteen-year-old nerd’s fuckin’ dream. Imagine getting to plow Tif whenever you want.”
“I have imagined it,” Nerdly admitted. “I would be committing a lie of omission if I claimed otherwise.”
“That was the kind of shit you used to hit back in the club days, remember? Chicks way out of your league but willing to bone you because you were Nerdly of Intemperance?”
“I have clear and concise memories of that portion of my life,” Nerdly said. “I consider them fond memories, though I don’t share details of the lifestyle with Sharon.”
“Understandable,” Jake said. “Wives don’t want to hear about that shit. Not even if they think they do.”
“November Seven Two Eight Juliet Kilo,” said the female controller from Oakland Center. “Descend and maintain flight level one-seven-zero.”
“November Seven Two Eight Juliet Kilo descending to one-seven-zero,” Jake replied.
He dialed his autopilot back to seventeen thousand feet, his rate of descent to 2500 feet per minute, and his speed to 275 knots indicated. The nose of the plane dipped down and the engine noise decreased. The altimeter began to scroll downward.
“What do you think the ultimate fate of the judge will be?” Jake asked.
“He will be removed from the bench eventually,” Nerdly said. “Likely in an unofficial manner unless he wants to follow the difficult path that will lead to the same place. He will resign and state he is in consideration for a position in the private sector. He may even get one too. Likely with some right wing family values type of firm.”
“Interesting,” Jake said, wondering if that was justice or not.
As it turned out, however, Nerdly was entirely wrong.
The Avanti was once again in level cruise, smooth as glass at 32,000 feet, this time going southwest. Caydee sat in the right seat, headset on, feet still a foot above the floor, scanning the instrument panel like it was a video game she’d already mastered. Behind her, Kelvin sat cross-legged with his tablet, while Nerdly quietly reviewed a printout of some kind of municipal water usage data, because of course he was.
“ ... and their pool is so much warmer, Daddy,” Caydee was saying into her headset, swinging her legs. “It’s huge. With a really deep end. Like I can’t even touch the bottom, and I tried. And they have a diving board and you can do gnarly fuckin’ cannonballs. It’s like a vacation pool.”
Jake grinned. “Yeah, it’s a great pool. Especially for inland. No ocean breeze chilling your eyebrows off.”
“Exactly,” Caydee said. “Ours is beautiful but it’s a cliff pool. It’s not warm unless it’s August or someone turns on the heater. Plus the wind makes it cold when you get out. Still, it’s our pool and it’s always there. I can swim in it whenever you or Mom or See-Ya, or Yami says I can.”
“I enjoy both pools for different reasons,” Kelvin chimed in from behind them, tablet resting on his knees. “The pool at our grandparental compound benefits from lower wind exposure due to its inland geography and three-sided fence structure. Combined with a darker tile finish that absorbs solar radiation and a reduced evaporative loss factor, the average water temperature is measurably higher.”
Jake raised an eyebrow and glanced at the mirror. “You just gonna ignore the Coriolis effect, K-Dude?”
Kelvin blinked. “It is negligible in this context, but I can do the calculations if you wish.”
“Maybe later,” Jake said, grinning.
“But still,” Caydee cut in, “there are like fifty rules at Grandma and Grandpa’s. No backward somersaults, no running, no feeding the birds, no peeing in the pool.”
“Even if you’re peeing in the corner?” Jake asked.
Caydee giggled. “Not even in the spa tonight,” she said.
“Those are not the lyrics to Losing My Religion!” Kelvin barked, not for the first time or the last.
“In Kingsley-Land they are,” Caydee said proudly. “I still sing it that way.”
“R.E.M. is not open to lyrical interpretation,” Kelvin said. “And I agree. There are many outdated swimming pool mandates at the grandparental compound. We are full grown children now. We are responsible enough to run on the deck if we feel the need. And I often do. Caydee likes to chase me.”
“No chasing,” Caydee said. “That’s another grandma rule that should be repealed.”
“I kind of like that one,” Kelvin said.
Jake smirked. “It’s not like it’s a rule free zone at home,” Jake said.
“There’s not no rules at home,” Caydee said, mildly offended. “But ours are better. And you made most of them, Daddy.”
“Damn right I did,” Jake muttered, adjusting a dial on the panel.
“We can swim anytime,” Caydee continued, “as long as Mommy or Daddy or See-Ya or Yami is watching. And we can be in the shallow part or the deep part, but if Cap is napping we can splash but not shout-splash. And if the sky is orange, that means it’s sunset, and it’s guitar time, and that’s Pa-Ho’s time.”
Kelvin gave a noncommittal grunt of agreement, still scrolling something hydrologic.
“And Pa-Ho likes to talk to me while I swim,” Caydee added casually.
Jake glanced at her. “Yeah?”
She nodded. “He hangs out on the railing or the tree and makes all his sounds. I don’t know what he’s saying, but he says a lot. Like, way more than other crows. He has things to tell me.”
Jake smiled. “Yeah ... about Pa-Ho.”
Caydee turned to him immediately, her smile slipping. “What? What happened to him?”
Jake held up a hand, voice calm. “Nothing bad. He’s fine. He’s totally fine. But there’s something weird—and kind of awesome—you should probably know before we get home.”
Caydee stared at him, silent now, waiting.
Jake focused forward, eyes on the sky.
Jake kept one hand on the yoke and took a long breath.
“You know how you said Pa-Ho talks to you while you swim?”
Caydee nodded, eyes still watching him.
“Well,” Jake said, voice softer now, “he misses you. A lot. He’s been showing up every day at feeding time, calling for you. But it’s not just about food. He comes at sunset, too. And his friends come with him—the other crows. They perch in the tree. They wait until the sun is gone.”
Caydee blinked. “They wait for me?”
“They do,” Jake said. “And he cries for you.”
Caydee tilted her head. “That’s sweet.”
Jake smiled faintly. “It is. But it’s more than that. He’s not just crying for you, Caydee. He’s crying for you personally.”
She gave him a curious look. “What do you mean?”
Jake glanced at her, and the tone in his voice shifted slightly—lower, reverent.
“He’s saying your name.”
Caydee blinked again.
“He’s singing it,” Jake said. “Exactly how you sing it. Like the Flipper song. Three times, in rhythm. Kay-Dee. Kay-Dee. Kay-Dee. Clear as day.”
She stared at him, stunned into silence.
Jake looked forward again. “It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard a wild bird do. You taught him that. You sang to him enough times that he learned your name, and he learned your song.”
Caydee still hadn’t said anything. Her eyes were wide.
Jake nodded slowly. “I’m really proud of you, Caydee. You stuck with something that took patience, and love, and trust—and you made it real. Not just the feeding. Not just the music. All of it. He’s part of your world now.”
Kelvin, without looking up from his tablet, said, “We should attempt to record a video of the crow vocalizing her name. It would be strong evidence of avian mimicry, possibly tied to tonal imprinting.”
Jake grinned. “Yeah, no.”
Kelvin looked up. “No?”
“No,” Jake said. “That’s just for us. Kingsley inner circle. Nobody gets that clip but the people who already believe it happened.”
Caydee looked over at him finally, and smiled.
“I can’t wait to see him,” she said softly.
Jake reached over and squeezed her knee.
“You’re his person,” he said. “He’s waiting.”
It was 1:30 PM when they got home, an hour and a half past Pa-Ho’s usual lunch window.
Caydee burst through the kitchen door like a firework. Her shoes were barely off before her backpack hit the hallway floor. She bolted down the corridor and flung her suitcase into her room without even looking.
Through the entertainment room she went—past Celia, Laura, and Cap, who were watching something on the couch. She didn’t greet them. Didn’t stop. Celia opened her mouth to say something, but Laura just smiled and shook her head.
Caydee was on a mission.
She grabbed the popcorn jar from the shelf—her jar, the one with her sticker on the lid—and yanked off the top.
Then she stepped out onto the back deck.
The door had barely shut behind her when she heard it.
Flap-flap-flap.
There he was—Pa-Ho—descending from the oak tree like he’d been watching the driveway all day. He landed on the railing, then immediately hopped up to the corner post, his wings puffed, his whole body vibrating.
“Kay-Dee! Kay-Dee! Kay-Dee!”
Caydee froze.
Her hand clutched the popcorn jar.
He called again, jumping side to side on the post like he couldn’t contain himself.
“Kay-Dee! Kay-Dee! Kay-Dee!”
She let out a breath that broke on its way out. Then she laughed. Then she sobbed.
She crouched, flung a handful of popcorn across the deck.
Pa-Ho didn’t move at first. He just kept calling.
“Kay-Dee! Kay-Dee! Kay-Dee!”
Then—finally—he dropped to the boards and began to eat, crunching the popcorn quickly but never turning his back. He kept her in view the whole time.
He was still at least six feet away. But that was so much closer than before. Before, he’d waited until she went inside.
Now, he was staying with her.
She sat on the deck, cross-legged, crying and smiling at the same time, one hand still curled around the popcorn jar.
“I missed you too,” she whispered.
Pa-Ho didn’t answer with words. But he kept calling her name between bites.
“Kay-Dee. Kay-Dee. Kay-Dee.”
That night, after the Ramirez family went home from their weekly dinner visit, Jake and Laura climbed into Jake’s BMW and left the property. They used the Red Herring Maneuver, sending Celia and Yami out in Celia’s Mercedes. They drove right past the Johanson Spot and picked up a line of vehicles, which they then led on a meandering, useless chase which took them through Oceano, up into the coastal hills for a bit, and then back down into Pismo Beach. While this was occurring, Jake and Laura made their departure. Some of the pap and media had caught onto the Red Herring, however. They held back and followed the real target when it emerged.
“Well ... that sucks,” Laura said as she spotted the three cars following them in the passenger side mirror.
“It’s okay,” Jake said. “We’re going to the Pine Cove. The boys and girls there will take care of it for us.”
The Pine Cove was the San Luis Obispo area’s local cop bar. Jake, as part of his goodwill toward the men and women who protected him and his family, was in the habit of showing up there and doing a little unplugged guitar and sing session for them. The cops were always appreciative of the performances.
They parked in a spot under the dim yellow wash of a sodium light and got out. Cameras were already coming up in the trailing vehicles. No one was yelling yet—it wasn’t that kind of crowd—but they were coming fast, walking with purpose.
Jake held the door open for Laura and they slipped inside a half-second before the first flash fired.
The air changed immediately.
Orange light. Country music low on the speakers. The sharp scent of bourbon, beer, and Pine-Sol. There were more than three dozen off-duty cops present. Deputies from SLOSD, police officers from SLOPD, and state cops from the CHP’s SLO division. This was their afterhours sanctuary and Jake Kingsley and his wife were more than welcome here. They were the reason for the large crowd. The word had been passed. Jake Kingsley “might” drop by tonight. That was word of mouth code for ‘Jake will be performing unplugged tonight while his hot old lady drinks wine and watches’.
In addition to the cops there were perhaps two dozen women between the ages of nineteen and thirty-five. All were attractive. They were the cop groupies, drawn by the same word of mouth that had attracted the cops themselves.
There were no casual visitors to the establishment. No civilians just stopping in for a drink or two because they saw this cool looking pub with the interesting name. The posters and displays of shoulder patches on the walls served as a good deterrent for such people. If that didn’t get through, the strong, overwhelming vibe of “you do not belong here” that radiated outward from the regular patrons generally did the trick.
The door was barely shut behind them when it swung open again. Not with force—just momentum and intent. Three photographers and two print reporters entered like they were Norm walking into Cheers. Cameras already up. Shutters clicking before the air even had time to shift.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
No one stood up. No one shouted. But the room tilted.
The conversation faded mid-sentence at the bar. A cue ball clacked off the table and rolled to a stop. Glasses were set down. Someone unplugged the juke box and it died mid-drawl. It was now very quiet in the bar, all eyes glaring at the intruders.
It was the kind of quiet that said: This is not the place for you.
A tall CHP officer in a denim jacket stood up and took one step forward. He didn’t say anything. Just crossed his arms and looked at the nearest photog with the same expression he probably used during traffic stops that ended in cuffs.
The reporter cleared his throat. “Just looking for a quick comment—”
“You’re looking in the wrong place,” said a voice near the jukebox. He was a sheriff’s deputy and he looked like someone who had kicked some serious ass in his days and was always looking for an excuse to kick some more.
The tension crackled like a worn speaker cable. A few seconds later, someone else—Jake didn’t even see who—said, ”I think you all should go now. We’re having a private gathering here.”
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