Painless (17 page)

“The Court will now come to order,” the uniformed bailiff announced from the front of the room.

So much for happy reunions.

Time to fight.

===

SAMANTHA

Traffic ground to a halt before I reached the 805 split. I was literally parked in my VW in an ocean of other frustrated drivers.

Just north of the SDU campus, the 5 freeway split into two roads, the 5 and the 805. Usually traffic lightened up at that point because there were suddenly twice as many lanes.

I’d hoped that the slow down through Del Mar would be temporary.

No such luck.

I was stuck. I couldn’t get to an off ramp to take surface streets because traffic had not moved in the last ten minutes. I know, because I was watching the clock on my dashboard.

I considered driving along the shoulder. Several drivers had done just that in the last couple of minutes. Desperate times called for desperate measures. The only problem was, I was in the number three lane and there was an eighteen wheeler between me and the shoulder on the right. There was no way he could move out of the way, and I was boxed in by cars on the front, back and left.

If my VW had been shorter, I would’ve driven beneath the eighteen wheeler’s trailer, between the sets of wheels. I’d seen it done in a movie once, but I didn’t have a low slung sports car.

Maybe I needed to hop out of my car and hitch a ride with one of those people driving down the shoulder?

A second later, a California Highway Patrol car sped by, lights flashing, siren blaring. He was probably going to pull over those shoulder drivers and ticket them.

Groan!
 

Could I charter a helicopter and call in an airlift? Probably not. What if I called 911 and told them I needed to get to the hospital? Too bad that wouldn’t help me get to court.

What was I going to do? It was fifteen miles to downtown. Wait. I could run fifteen miles. It wouldn’t take me more than, oh, I don’t know, two hours?

Too bad I was in heels.

Where were Taylor Lamberth’s running shoes when I needed them? I should’ve learned my lesson. Never wear heels. Heels were evil.

I laugh cried at my own morbid joke.

I’d now been stopped for twenty minutes.

That was when I noticed black smoke billowing up into the sky in the distance.

There must have been an accident.
 

I knew the fire trucks were going to drive by and clear the road at any minute, right? Open up the road and get at least one or two lanes moving?

Right?

Ten more minutes passed without a single firetruck or ambulance. Where were they? People could be dying in their mangled cars. Somebody needed to help them so I could get to the courthouse!

How long would it take to walk? How fast could I walk? Three miles an hour? I could make it to downtown in five hours! Would Christos still be in court?
 

But could I walk fifteen miles in heels?

Fuck.

As soon as this day was over, I was throwing away any shoe I had with a heel on it. I was going to be one of those women who wore business suits and running shoes during their power walk lunch breaks, but I was going to do it around the clock. I would spearhead the movement to rid the world of shoes with heels! Ladies! Throw away your chains! Burn your heels! Right, like that was going to work. When it came to addictive substances, women’s shoes were worse than crack cocaine. I knew from experience.

Another ten minutes passed without moving an inch. People had gotten out of their cars to look around and see what was happening.

An ambulance finally drove by, followed by a fire truck.

My good humor was gone. I was really stuck. Maybe I could walk to the nearest off ramp and call a cab? But with traffic stopped, how would a cab get to me? Crap.

What was I going to do?

I tried calling Christos. No answer. I’m sure he was in the courtroom in the middle of the trial. He wouldn’t answer.

This was killing me.

I had cold hard evidence that Christos was innocent, incontrovertible proof that he had acted in self defense. All I needed to do was to give it to him and his lawyer. They would know what to do.

But what did it matter if I couldn’t reach them?

I didn’t even know the name of Christos’ lawyer, otherwise I would’ve called his office to tell them what I knew. I’m sure the guy had a secretary who could send an assistant over to the courthouse or whatever.

I slammed my palms repeatedly against my steering wheel.

“Fuck!!!!!!!!!” I screamed.

In that moment, I was completely useless.

Chapter 8

CHRISTOS

“All rise for the Honorable Geraldine Moody, presiding,” the bailiff said.

Third time was always the charm. The last two times I’d heard that phrase, during my arraignment and pre-trial, it was no big deal. Now it was the real thing.

After my trial, I was walking out of this courtroom into one of two places. Freedom or prison.

Judge Moody walked to her throne. She wore more makeup than I’d seen previously, and her hair was up in a careful bun. She was all dressed up, an attractive woman who could fuck me over with a single bang of her gavel. Not the kind of banging I liked to think about.

I huffed out a sigh as she settled in.

I was tired of waiting. Let’s get this shit on.

George Schlosser and his assistant D.A. fucks Stanley and Natalia looked ready to drool over my corpse.

Fuck them. I was still kicking and breathing. Watch out, motherfuckers.

“Please be seated,” the judge said gravely from her bench. “We are now on record for the State of California vs. Christos Manos, case number SD-2013-K-071183A. All parties are present. And so we begin,” she finished ominously, “Bailiff, please call in the jury.”

The bailiff opened a side door and twelve jurors, a mix of men and women of various ages and ethnicities, filed into the jury box and sat down. Some of them looked bored. Some looked excited to do their civic duty. Some looked like they’d rather be anyplace else but here.
 

That was when the truth of my situation slapped me full in the face. Who was I kidding? This wasn’t a fist fight. For the next however many hours, I had to sit still and keep my mouth shut. No fists, no knees, no elbow strikes, nothing. All I could do was wait and hope the jury paid attention, kept an open mind, and didn’t bum rush to judge me.

This was going to be torture.

Fucking Christ. Did they serve bourbon to defendants? I could use a shot or twelve.

Deputy District Attorney George Schlosser walked up to the podium to give his opening statement to the jury. He took his time, looking each of the twelve members of the jury in the eye before he opened his mouth. Was he going to say anything, or just smile pleasantly all morning?

The court room was completely silent.

“Yeah, I hit the guy,” Schlosser said, nodding dramatically, looking at various jurors. “Yeah, I hit the guy,” he repeated before pausing for further dramatic effect. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, these are the defendant’s own words, given during an interview with the San Diego Police Department, a few days after he assaulted Horst Grossman.”

Schlosser put his hands on his hips, pushing his suit jacket behind him with his arms, and in a voice dripping with accusation and harsh judgment said, “The defendant himself
admitted
that he did in fact
violently
punch Horst Grossman in the stomach on September 26, 2013.” Schlosser nodded authoritatively.

Violently? What did you expect when good old Grossman called me a fucking prick and tried to jump me? Was I supposed to give him a friendly punch or maybe a gentle one? Fuck me.

Based on Schlosser’s delivery, you’d think he’d already won the trial. What a fucking douche. He wasn’t there. He didn’t know what happened. I grit my teeth and did my best to look calm, cool, and bland. Russell had warned me not to show my emotions, or the jury might latch onto whatever I did as if it was proof of my guilt.

Schlosser smiled at the jury like they were old pals. “You may be asking yourself why we’re even having a trial today, if the defendant already admitted to hitting Horst Grossman. He’s guilty, right?”

Fuck. I knew exactly what Schlosser was doing. He was planting seeds in the minds of the jury. He was good. I knew a few tricks of my own. Too bad I couldn’t use a single one in the courtroom.

“The reason we’re here today, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is because the defendant wants you to believe he struck the victim in self defense,” Schlosser sneered, as if it couldn’t possibly be true.

I noticed that Schlosser’s assistants, Stanley Whitehead and Natalia Valenzuela, were watching his performance with obvious admiration. I could tell the two of them bowed and scraped at Schlosser’s feet. I couldn’t blame them. If I wanted to be the best bottom feeder ever, I’d probably pucker up for Schlosser too. Fucking low lifes.

“Members of the jury, I ask you to take a look at Exhibit 86 B on the projection screen,” Schlosser said, clicking buttons on his laptop at the podium.

A huge photo popped on the screen mounted on the wall across from the jury box, filling it like a drive in movie theater. The image was split down the middle with me on the left and Horst Grossman on the right. I looked like the Incredible Hulk standing next to a little old man.

The reason for this discrepancy was obvious.

The picture of me was from the day I had been arrested. I wore a white V neck short sleeve tee. My muscled arms, covered in tattoos, were popping out of my shirt. In clear black letters on the gray wall behind me was a horizontal measurement line with the numerals 6’5” skimming the top of my hair.
 

Horst’s photo had been taken at a different time in front of a random white wall. There were no measuring lines behind him. Horst could be 3’2” or 8’11”, but without any numbers, there was no way to know. Whatever his actual height, his head was positioned much lower than mine, creating the illusion that he was much shorter. Finally, the photo of Horst had been zoomed out. Not so much as to be comically misleading, but enough that Horst seemed like a small, inconsequential man standing next to a mammoth titan.
 

This was fucking absurd. I knew from standing two inches from Horst Grossman that he wasn’t nearly as tiny as this image made him seem.

The split photo had been on screen for all of two seconds before Schlosser said, “The defendant wants you to believe that Horst Grossman put him in fear for his life that day—”

“Objection, your honor,” Russell cut in authoritatively, “this evidence is blatantly prejudicial.”

“Sustained,” Judge Moody said. She leveled a stern look at Schlosser and said, “Counselor, take that slide down immediately.”

“Absolutely, your honor,” Schlosser said agreeably. He clicked on his laptop and the screen went black.

“Members of the jury,” the judge said, “you will disregard that photo. Let the court transcript reflect that exhibit 86 B has been stricken from evidence.”

It didn’t matter. The jury wasn’t going to forget the photo now that they’d seen it. Worse, none of them had yet seen Horst Grossman in person because he wasn’t even in the courtroom. If he had been, the fair thing would be to have me and Horst stand shoulder to shoulder in front of the jury so they could see for themselves our actual size differences. But that wasn’t how it worked.

George Schlosser knew exactly what he was doing. He was pushing the rules of law to the breaking point, and he was getting away with it.
 

It wasn’t the first time shit like this had happened to me when I was in court. All I could do was sit still and suck it up in silence.
 

The rest of Schlosser’s opening statement was almost as heinous and misleading as that split photo, but there was nothing overt that Russell could object to. It was all in the way Schlosser delivered his argument: his sneering judgmental tone of voice, body language, and choice of words. Schlosser was a despicably brilliant man.

When Schlosser finished and sat down at the prosecution table, Russell leaned over and very quietly whispered in my ear, “After nine years working under the head District Attorney, Schlosser is still nothing more than a young buck trying to prove himself. His only goal today is to sharpen the points of his glorious career on your hide while climbing the political ladder. The only problem is, there’s a mountain lion in this here courtroom ready to take his shit down a rung. And that mountain lion’s name is me. Don’t worry, son. I’m going to have Schlosser’s head mounted on my wall before the day is over.”

I cracked a smile.

“No smiling,” Russell ordered sharply as he stood and stepped up to the podium.
 

Russell was a consummate badass during his opening statement. He was gracious, level headed, straight to the point, focused on the facts, and he dismantled the bulk of Schlosser’s inflammatory arguments with ease.

The men and women in the jury box, who had looked ready to string me up from the nearest tree in a tight noose, nodded thoughtfully at Russell’s words, enthralled by his confident, no bullshit presence.

When Russell finished and sat down at the defense table next to me, I breathed an obvious sigh of relief.

I couldn’t imagine a better attorney in my corner of the ring than Russell Merriweather.

The only problem was that it was going to be back and forth like this all day. Russell Merriweather and George Schlosser were evenly matched. When it came down to it, this trial hinged on my word against Horst Grossman’s, and whether or not the jury believed a word I said after Schlosser titillated them with tales from my true crime lifestyle.

People weren’t inclined to believe a convicted criminal.

Schlosser had the advantage.

If only we had something better to work with.

===

SAMANTHA

It had been over an hour since traffic had stopped. There was a black haze in the air that stank of burning rubber and cooked meat. It was nauseating to say the least.