Angels don’t always have wings, though. Sometimes they come with engines that roar.
Marcus “Tank” Williams, 64, is the president of the Iron Wolves Motorcycle Club. He never thought that the night patrol would transform his life. The Wolves had been going around the empty Riverside complexes looking for copper thieves who had been stealing cables from their community center. Tank noticed something faint when they got to the old Sullivan house. It sounded like a scrape or a cry, and it was too soft to ignore.
Tank told them to “kick it in.” The rotten timber was broken by six hefty boots.
What
A youngster, who looked to be no older than seven, was shackled to a radiator. His clothing was dirty, and the iron cuff had made his ankle sore and inflamed. There were empty bottles and crumbs all over the place. But the child didn’t even look up at first. With one finger, he drew designs in the dust, lost in his own world.
There was a message taped to his shirt. Tank ripped it off and read it out loud: “Please take care of my son.” I’m sorry. Tell him that Mama loved him more than the stars.
Hammer
Tank got down low. “Hey, friend. We’re here to help.
At last, the youngster looked up. His emerald eyes were empty, and he seemed way too old for his age. “Did Mama send you?” he said, his voice breaking.
Tank’s throat got tight. The note says “loved,” which is the past tense of “love.” He made himself smile. “Yeah, buddy.” We got dispatched by Mama.
Timothy, or Timmy, was his name. Hungry, shaking, yet still alive. Crow got bolt cutters off his bike and broke the chain. Timmy staggered on his feet because he was too weak to stand for long. The youngster said, “Are you angels?” when Hammer picked him up.
Hammer
“Mama said angels would come.” Angels that are big and have wings that roar. His gaze darted to the motorcycles parked outside.
Tank swallowed hard. “Then, yes, buddy. We are your angels.
Tank felt nauseous as they carried Timmy out. The message, the empty tone, and the boy’s query all pointed to something bad. He told two of his men to look around the rest of the house.
They found her in the basement.
Sarah Walsh. The mother of Timmy. She was gone for days, lying quietly on a mattress in her nicest outfit with a photo album held to her chest. Pill bottles that are empty next to her.
Crow gave Tank another letter, which was sealed and had the words “To Whoever Finds My Boy” written on it.
Tank’s hands shook as he opened it, knowing that this was just the start.
There was a lot of bustle in the hospital. Tank could barely hear the questioning from doctors, social workers, and the cops. Timmy held on to his hand like it was a lifeline and screamed anytime anyone tried to pull them apart.
“Please!” the boy begged. “Mama told me you were angels.” “Angels don’t go!”
Tank’s heart broke. He had fought in wars and buried brothers, but nothing affected him like the sound of a seven-year-old’s voice.
The story got out by dawn. There were a lot of reporters at the hospital, and they were shoving microphones in Tank’s face. He didn’t mean to talk, but when Channel 7 asked who the boy would remain with, he remembered the note from Sarah. He stared straight into the camera.
“This boy’s mother picked us.” Sarah Walsh knew she was going to die, so she made sure her son would be secure with individuals she trusted. We don’t take that lightly. “We’re not letting him go into a system that has already failed him once.”
Within a few hours, the clip went viral. Across the country, #SaveTimmy was a popular hashtag. People talked about Sarah’s note, her pictures with Timmy, and her narrative of abuse and cancer. There was a lot of sympathy, but there was also a lot of resistance.
Timmy’s grandfather on his father’s side, Robert Walsh Sr., suddenly emerged on TV and said he had “family rights.” He talked about family ties and tradition, but he cleverly left out the fact that he had been arrested for domestic abuse. His lawyer said that the Iron Wolves were criminals who shouldn’t have kids.
The fight started then.
Jennifer Martinez, a smart lawyer who Tank once pulled from a flaming car years ago, gathered a group of pro bono lawyers to help the Wolves. “You saved me when no one else would,” she said. “Now let me save this kid.”
The custody hearing started two weeks later in a packed courtroom. Timmy sat between Tank and Jennifer, holding on to Tank’s vest with his small hand. The prosecution said with a sneer, “Your Honor, these men are bikers.” Criminals. “The child should be with his family.”
Jennifer got up. “His family by blood? The same family that raised the man who almost killed Sarah Walsh? The same family that Sarah begged us to keep her son safe from? She spent months looking into these men. She saw them feed the needy, fix roofs for widows, and teach kids. Sarah didn’t pick them by chance. She picked them because they’re good.
Witnesses stood up one by one. An old woman whose house the Wolves had fixed. A veteran they had taken to appointments. They had kept a recovering addict off the streets. There were forty-seven testimonies in all, and each one showed that Sarah was right to believe them.
But the strongest proof came from blurry surveillance footage that showed Sarah standing at her window for three hours, watching the Wolves give out food four days before she died. You could see her tears, her decision formulating, and her desperate hope that these men were who she wanted them to be in that quiet video.
The courtroom was quiet. Timmy put his face in Tank’s arm.
Finally, Judge Morrison said something. “This isn’t a normal custody case. But it’s evident that Sarah Walsh’s last wish was for her kid to be with Marcus Williams and the Iron Wolves. And based on the evidence presented, this court can’t deny that they are already his family.
She looked at Tank. “Mr. Williams, you’re sixty-four, single, and in charge of a motorcycle club. Not at all normal. But sometimes family isn’t normal. People who show up are sometimes family.
She hit the gavel. “Marcus Williams and the Iron Wolves Motorcycle Club get full custody.”
There was a lot of noise in the courtroom—Robert Walsh yelling and reporters pushing each other—but all Tank could feel was the boy’s small arms around his neck and a whisper in his ear:
“See? “Angels don’t go away.”
