Light slipped into the office around the window blinds. I yanked the cord and sunlight blared inside.

Morning already?

How late had I worked? There was no way to know what time I’d fallen asleep. But it didn’t matter. I’d found what I’d been looking for online last night. I now had a way to help Christos.

I couldn’t wait to tell him the good news!

The house was so quiet, I imagined Christos was still in bed. I tiptoed out of the office and back to Christos’ bedroom. Our bedroom.

The door was open.

He was not in bed.

I walked into the bathroom. It was empty, and all the roses from Valentine’s Day were gone, as if they’d never been there.

“Christos?” I called.

The house was silent.

I went from room to room.

This search felt eerily familiar. I’d done the same thing only days before, but it had been at night. Now the sun shone through windows all over the house.

Fuck! What time was it? I ran downstairs, hoping to find Christos and Spiridon eating breakfast together, hot coffee in the pot waiting for me.

The kitchen was empty. The clock on the stove said 8:30am.

“Christos?” I called loudly. “Spiridon?” My panic started to rise. Tears began dripping down my cheeks.

I ran to the studio and shouted, “Christos! Spiridon!”

Silence.

I even checked the back deck, but no one was outside.

I ran into the house and toward the front doors. A note was taped to one of them. It read, ‘Went to court’.

I opened the front door and sprinted down the driveway.

I screamed when I reached the street. “Christos!” I started sobbing uncontrollably. “Noooo!!!!”

How could I help my man when I didn’t know where to find him?

I fell to my knees on the cement of the driveway and wailed.

* * *

CHRISTOS


The sky was clear blue as I drove my ’68 Camaro south on the 5 freeway toward downtown. Great day for a trial, right? What I wouldn’t do to strip out of the shirt and tie that were strangling me so I could head down to the beach with my board and catch some waves with Jake instead.

Not today.

Maybe not for the next four years.

I grit my teeth, doing my best not to think about it.

Morning traffic was light and my car cruised along at sixty-five. I thumbed on the MP3 player mounted in the dash and skipped through songs until I hit Mouth For War by Pantera. I cranked the volume and the music rumbled the interior of the car. My left foot pounded on the floor board in time to the bass drum and my hands slapped out the rhythm of the snare drum on the steering wheel. Guitars screamed into my eardrums.

Yeah, I was going to fucking fight.

Time to testify, mother fuckers.

I desperately wanted to floor the gas pedal. Take my Camaro up to one-forty and start weaving through the cars on the road. But these people weren’t my enemies.

That’s what was driving me crazy.

There was no one to fight. No one to punch. No one to kick, claw or bite. Damn, I needed to punch someone in the face.

I glanced over at the Buick next to me. An old woman was at the wheel. She had the seat pushed way forward and could barely see over the dash. Her hands were at ten and two and her chin jutted forward, pinning her eyes on the road in front of her.

Yeah, not exactly what I had in mind.

Where was that Hunter Blakeley when I needed a punching bag? I’d barely scratched his nose the night me and Jake had run into him coming out of the downtown Hooters. He deserved a proper ass kicking for being such a shit magnet.

I took a deep breath and tried to release my frustration. I started shouting along with the lyrics of Mouth For War.

A couple miles later, I pulled off the freeway at the Front Street exit and headed toward the courthouse. I drove into a parking garage. The lower levels were already filled with cars so I hammered the gas and squealed tires up the next four floors, leaving trails of rubber around every corner, until my car was on the roof. Plenty of spaces. I parked in the far corner. After throwing on my suit jacket, I headed for the stairs.

When I was on the sidewalk, I turned the corner at Broadway. The sun shot hot bullets off the glass front of the courthouse, punching my eyes. I squinted at the glare and felt like some western cowboy at high noon. Time for the final shootout. Too bad a trial took way longer and was way more boring than a six gun duel on a dusty street cut between rows of whorehouses and saloons.

I shot my cuffs and adjusted my tie. Man, I hated suits.

I strode up the courthouse steps.

Time to kick fucking ass.

* * *

SAMANTHA


After screaming my lungs out on the driveway for the better part of two minutes, I stood and dusted off the knees of the sweats I’d slept in and ran into the Manos house. I sprinted upstairs and jumped behind the desk in Spiridon’s office and frantically searched online for San Diego court houses while wiping tears from my eyes.

There was more than one. I ruled out the obvious ones, like Juvenile Court and Family Law Court. There were two Superior Courts. One downtown, and the other in Kearny Mesa. They were fairly far apart. I hoped I didn’t pick the wrong one.

I had no idea how long a trial actually took. I mean, most court TV shows took an hour or less. But what about in real life? I had zero clue. Best to get cracking.

What I did know was that I couldn’t run into court wearing sweats and slippers.

I ran into my new bedroom and rifled through my closet. I didn’t have a second to savor the fact that this was my first morning in my new home with Christos. Welcome to Sucktown, population: Me.

The remnants of my Washington D.C. wardrobe were perfect for putting together court-appropriate attire. I selected a black blazer and a gray pencil skirt, plus a cute white blouse, black hose and conservative pumps to go with.

I dashed into the bathroom and slathered on antiperspirant. Too bad I was out of industrial strength. I would have to go with Extra Dry. I pulled my hair back in a harsh pony tail, then applied minimal makeup.

I was out of the house seven minutes later.

Who said women had to take forever to get dressed?

I was on a mission.

I was going to save Christos.

I tried calling him as I hopped into my VW, but he didn’t answer his phone.

It didn’t matter. I had proof of his innocence in the palm of my hand.

* * *

CHRISTOS


Footsteps echoed throughout the crowded marble hallway inside the courthouse as I snailed through security in slow motion. I had to remove my belt and shoes when I went through the metal detector. It was almost like going on a plane trip vacation, except there was a fifty-fifty chance my flight would crash into the side of Mt. Guilty.

I paused to glance back at the sunlight shining through the tall windows of the courthouse’s main entrance. I took a good look, in case it was the last time I saw freedom for four years.

No, fuck that.

I was going to fight this shit until I won.

I found Russell waiting outside our courtroom.

“Eye of the Tiger?” Russell said as I strutted up to him.

“What?” I asked.

“You got that Rocky Balboa look on your face when he fought Clubber Lang the second time at the end of Rocky three.”

I chuckled. “Fucking eye of the tiger, man.”

As always, Russell was sharply dressed from top to bottom. His suit was freshly pressed, his cufflinks glittered, and the white of his collar and cuffs contrasted brilliantly against his ebony skin. “Speaking of eyes, I see your concealer did the trick. You look like Joe Citizen now.”

“Yeah.” I’d borrowed some from Samantha’s makeup bag this morning.

“We win this,” Russell said, “I’ll have to take you out for a fancy dinner, considering we’re both dressed up.”

“Yeah,” I smiled. “I’m shooting for lunch. I plan on being in and out of here by noon.”

Russell chuckled and slapped my shoulder firmly. “Eye of the tiger.”

A tall, beautiful dark-skinned woman in a tight navy blue suit stood next to Russell, holding the handle of her briefcase in front of her hips with both hands. She smiled at me.

“Christos,” Russell said, “you remember Ms. Johnson? She will be assisting today at trial.”

“Of course.” I smiled down at her, “Brianna.” At 5’11” in her heels, she still seemed short to me. We shook hands. She had the same firm grip I remembered. I’d met her at Russell’s offices numerous times.

“Christos,” she smiled and nodded.

I knew Brianna was still on the lookout for quality husband material. Before Samantha had taken me off the market, I’d offered to fill the bill for Brianna several times. She was a good woman, smart and hellaciously funny the second she was off the clock and hung up her lawyer’s costume. But she’d said I was too young. I think I was eighteen at the time and she was thirty. I couldn’t blame her. I was still a mess back then. “Any good men been able to catch you yet, Brianna?”

“Not yet,” she grinned. “None of them are fast enough.” Brianna had trophies and photos of her running college track in her office.

“When are we going to head down to the SDU track to see who runs the fastest hundred?” I chided.

“Your muscle bound ass wouldn’t stand a chance,” she chuckled. “Too damn top heavy.”

“Keep dreaming,” I smiled. I was damn quick, but I knew Brianna would give me a run for my money once she put her track spikes on.