Madison and Kamiko turned to glare at Romeo.

“What, you guys?” he whined. “I’ve never spread gossip about any of you three and you know it, or my name isn’t Romeo Fabiano!”

“You mean Elmo?” I chided.

“Who’s Elmo?” Madison asked, confused.

Romeo looked distinctly embarrassed.

I arched an eyebrow at Romeo. “You keep my secret, I’ll keep yours. Deal?”

“Deal,” he nodded.

“Christos has to go to court on Friday,” I said.

“Court?” Romeo blurted.

“Friday?” Madison said. “That’s on Valentine’s Day!”

“I know,” I groaned.

“Why does he have to go to court?” Kamiko asked.

“Because he got in a fight.”

“So?” Madison shrugged. “Guys get in fights all the time.”

“Yeah,” Romeo said, “I bet nothing is going to happen to those rugby buttplugs from last night.”

“Rugby buttplugs?” Madison asked.

“I’ll tell you later,” Romeo said. “Right now we need to hear all about Christos’ court date.” Romeo sucked on his soda straw like he was in the middle of a movie theater watching a juicy drama.

I sighed and said, “He hasn’t really told me much—”

Bitch…

“I just know he punched a guy out—”

Slut…

“—and I think it happened the day I met him.”

Whore…

Oh my god. That was it! Christos punching that fat guy who’d yelled at me! That had to be why he was going to court. Why hadn’t I seen it sooner? And why hadn’t Christos told me? I was a witness and I could help!

“What, Sam?” Madison asked. “You look like you just swallowed some bad sushi.”

“I think I just figured it out!” I shouted.

“What?” Romeo asked, on the edge of his seat, clutching his soda.

“I saw it!”

“Saw what?” Kamiko begged.

“I was there when Christos punched that guy! I’m the only other person who knows he started it! I have to call him right now!”

“You’re losing us,” Madison said, looking confused.

I whipped my phone out and dialed Christos. It started ringing. To the gang, I said, “I can help Christos win his trial! I saw everything!” Christos’ phone went to voicemail. Damn. He was probably still in court. “Christos, you have to call me right now. It’s about the trial. I was there! I can help.” I hung up and texted him the same information. With any luck, he’d at least look at his phone and call me.

I just hoped it wasn’t too late for me to be a witness for his trial.

* * *

CHRISTOS


“Are you saying that whatever we tell the judge today is what we have to say in the trial on Friday?” I asked Russell while we walked into the courtroom.

“Yes,” Russell said as we sat down behind the defense table. “The judge gave us several months to get all our shit in order so there won’t be any surprises on Friday. She’s assuming that by now we’ve turned over every stone there is to turn.”

There was still one stone nobody had turned. But I’d resolved to keep Samantha safely out of this mess from the beginning. It was my problem to deal with, not hers. “Got it,” I said.

Russell pulled a laptop and several folders out of his briefcase while I looked around.

Everything in the room was wood paneled in dark tones or upholstered in muted grays. The color palette of serious business. It almost made court seem like the hip place to be. Chuckle.

At least the pre-trial would be short. Things would get serious in two days when the actual trial commenced. For now, I could entertain myself by studying inconsequential details like the color of the chairs.

The Deputy District Attorney was already at the prosecutor’s table with two young assistants, the three of them going through files and murmuring softly about how they were going to hang my ass up on a spike.

The jury box was empty, as were the benches in the spectator gallery. No TV crews or reporters were present either. Nobody came out to watch pre-trials unless it was newsworthy. A one punch fight between two random citizens didn’t qualify.

Russell turned to me and said quietly, “Once the judge walks in, the D.A. is going to lay out the basic framework he intends to present on Friday, then I’ll lay out our proposed defense. We tell the judge up front about all the evidence and witnesses that we plan to bring into the trial. If we’re lucky, and Judge Moody feels like the D.A. has a weak case, she may dismiss it right here on the spot. If that happens, you’re a free man. If not, we step into the ring on Friday.”

Man, I hoped everything went as smoothly as Russell made it sound.

He squeezed my shoulder and looked me straight in the eyes. “Don’t worry about it, son. I’ve got you taken care of. No matter what the D.A. throws at us, I’ll have a work around.”

“Tell me you’ve got a getaway car ready just in case.”

He winked at me, “Gassed up with the engine running.” Russell turned to the Deputy District Attorney and said casually, “Good morning, George.”

“Russell,” the man nodded in reply.

I recognized George Schlosser from my arraignment. He was a tall man with short cropped hair dusted gray at the temples and a serious yet boyish face. A wolf in altar boy’s clothing. The civilized kind of guy who offered you a cup of tea after whacking the bamboo stakes under your fingernails.

“How are Judy and the boys?” Russell asked him.

“Good,” Schlosser said dismissively. “Has your client made a decision regarding our plea offer?” he asked, all business.

“After careful consideration, my client has decided to respectfully decline,” Russell replied.

George Schlosser’s lips curled minutely into a feral grin. He looked pleased. “So be it,” he said.

With a blank expression on his face, Russell leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Rumor has it, old George over there cooked and ate his wife and children, hence his reluctance to answer my inquiry as to their health and well being. I almost asked him if human flesh went better with white wine or red, but I didn’t think it would be in the best interest of your case.”

I was ready to crack up laughing from what Russell had just said, so I dropped my chin to my chest and held it in.

I’d been in court with Russell many times in the past, and I always appreciated his effort to keep things light behind the defense table, no matter what was going on in the rest of the courtroom.

The door behind the immense judge’s bench opened and Geraldine Moody floated out like a black robed phantom.

“The Court will now come to order,” the uniformed bailiff said. “All rise for the Honorable Geraldine Moody, presiding.”

Judge Moody was as harshly beautiful as she was the last time I’d seen her at my arraignment. Her hair was perhaps a bit longer and blonder than before. Her makeup was subtle but effective. A queen taking her throne. Her leather executive chair was flanked by two flags, the U.S. on the left and the State of California on the right. The California State Seal, a large brass bas relief disc, hung behind her on the wood paneled wall.

“Please be seated,” she said formally from her executive chair. Then she glanced at me briefly. “We meet again, Mr. Manos,” Geraldine Moody said from behind the ramparts of her immense bench. I couldn’t decide whether it was good news or bad that she remembered me. Considering she had been kind enough to set my bail at $150,000, even though the D.A. had only asked for $25,000, I was guessing bad. I couldn’t escape the nagging feeling she was holding something personal against me.

At my arraignment, I’d been wearing an orange prison jumpsuit with my tats on display. Maybe she thought I looked like any other criminal that passed through her court room on a daily basis. At least now I was in a conservative suit, my ink hidden. But my shiner was incriminatingly obvious, even at a distance. I was starting to wish I’d put on that concealer. The smallest detail could sway her opinion for me or against me. If worse came to worse, and the jury found me guilty, her opinion would influence the sentencing, which could mean the difference between two years in prison or four. No small thing.

The only thing I could do was look as innocent as possible. I’d buy some concealer the second I stepped out of this courtroom. No more bullshitting around. From here on out, I was Mr. Clean, I was a Boy Scout. I helped old ladies across the street. Maybe I could squeeze some charity work in between now and Friday. Maybe Mrs. Elders at the library could arrange for a last minute Crayons with Christos session in front of Judge Moody during my trial. Fuck, who was I fooling? The time to be a Goody Two Shoed Samaritan had passed.

Russell whispered, “I think Geraldine might be sweet on you, young man. Perhaps you can slip her your phone number and make dinner plans. Sweeten her up before your trial.”

I rolled my eyes and suppressed a chuckle. “Yeah, right.”

“We are now on record for the State vs. Manos,” the judge intoned gravely, “case number SD-2013-K-071183A. Counsel, please announce your appearances for the record.”

“George Schlosser, on behalf of the state of California.”

“Stanley Whitehead, on behalf of the state,” Schlosser’s assistant said. Stanley flung me a scoffing glance like I’d stolen his milk money one too many times in grade school. I’d like to pop his whitehead with a pin and shove a gallon of benzoyl peroxide down his throat.

“Natalia Valenzuela, on behalf of the state,” Schlosser’s other assistant said with a fluid hispanic accent. I hoped Natalia was as kind hearted as she looked. For all I knew, it was just an act to make people forget to take her seriously. She worked for the D.A.’s office after all, not as a nun or a nurse.