Schlosser continued asking Grossman a litany of questions: the severity of his injuries, how long he was off of work, how much pain he was in immediately after the attack and in the weeks following. It went on and on. Horst Grossman sounded like the most level headed, reasonable guy on the planet. George Schlosser was so smart with his questions, there was little Russell could object to.

I was on the edge of my seat when Schlosser finally turned things over to Russell.

Russell stepped confidently to the podium and went straight to work on Grossman. “Do you remember saying anything to Mr. Manos when he approached you?”

“Not that I recall,” Grossman answered promptly.

“You didn’t say anything to provoke him?”

“Not that I recall.”

“You didn’t make any threatening remarks?”

“Not that I recall.”

Fuck, Grossman had the most selective memory of all time. If he was going to lie his way through cross examination, I was fucked.

“How long would you estimate it was between the time you turned to face Mr. Manos and when you claim he attacked you?”

“I don’t know, maybe five seconds?” Grossman said thoughtfully.

Now he remembered. Too bad his recollection was a tad inaccurate.

“Did you make any moves that might have provoked Mr. Manos?”

“None that I recall.”

“You didn’t move toward him suddenly?”

“I don’t think so.”

Russell noticeably rolled his eyes. I couldn’t blame him. I wanted to roll mine, but I stared straight at Grossman as blandly as possible. I hoped the jury didn’t spot the daggers and bullets sneaking out of my eyes, because they were flying out at a thousand rounds a minute.

Russell asked Grossman, “You didn’t move an inch?”

“I don’t think so,” Grossman answered.

“Did you stand immobile, like a statue?” Russell asked in a tone that bordered on comical.

Grossman chuckled agreeably. “Of course not. But I didn’t make any sudden movements.”

“You’re sure?” Russell said doubtfully. “May I remind you, Mr. Grossman, that you are testifying under oath?”

Grossman’s brows furrowed. “I know that, sir, and I didn’t make any sudden moves.”

“That seems odd to me, Mr. Grossman. You’re saying that the defendant got off of his motorcycle, walked up to you, a complete stranger, and simply punched you in the stomach? Then he led you to the curb and asked you if you needed an ambulance?”

“It was the strangest thing…” Grossman mused thoughtfully.

“It was, wasn’t it?” Russell marveled, a grin of disbelief tugging at the corners of his mouth.

I was marveling too. Grossman was totally lying. But there was no way to prove it.

Russell asked more questions about the attack and the aftermath, including Grossman’s supposed injuries, but the man deflected all of Russell’s questions like the greatest goal tender in the history of sports. I couldn’t believe it. Grossman was a total pro on the stand.

Russell finally ran out of questions and sat down.

“Anything further, counselors?” the judge asked.

“No, your honor,” Schlosser said from the prosecutor’s table.

“Nothing further, your honor,” Russell said.

“The State rests, your honor,” Schlosser said.

Grossman stepped down from the witness stand.

“All right,” Judge Moody said, “we’ll take a short fifteen minute recess, then the defense will call its first witness.” She banged the gavel with finality.

Fuck. The score was now: the State: 3, Me: 0

The only way I was going to score any points with the jury was when Russell called me to the stand, giving me the opportunity to finally tell my version of events. If I was lucky, this would win me a point with the jury, bringing the score up to 3 to 1. Too bad Schlosser would get to follow up with questions about my criminal past during cross examination. He could very well undermine any advantage I’d gained from telling my side of the story. If things went poorly, after I was finished testifying, the score could be back to 3 to 0, or worse, the jury might view me as a criminal. Because everyone knew: once a criminal, always a criminal. That would score a point for the prosecution. The way I saw it, that would put things at 4 to 0.

Sadly, it didn’t matter. Whether it was 3-0, 3-1, or 4-0, I was the loser in every scenario.

I needed an NFL wide receiver to run right onto this soccer field and catch a Hail Mary touchdown pass, or I was fucked.

Too bad there were no wide receivers in soccer.

* * *

SAMANTHA


The traffic jam finally cleared enough for the emergency crews to let cars start going through. It took forever for everyone to merge into the one lane that was open and squeeze around the wreck.

The Ralph’s semi and the other cars involved in the accident were all twisted, crunched, and blackened. The firemen were still milling about and hosing things down, but nothing appeared to be burning anymore. The people who’d been air lifted out by the helicopter were long gone. I took a moment to remind myself that their days were going way worse than mine.

I stuck to 65 mph on the way downtown, paranoid I might get pulled over by the CHP if I tried to speed. I didn’t need any more delays. I kept a four second following distance from the cars in front of me. I didn’t want to somehow get in a wreck of my own. That bitch Lady Luck had been working against me all morning, so I wasn’t giving her any opportunities to further fuck me over.

I exited the freeway at Front Street and headed toward the courthouse. There were a bunch of one way streets and I got turned around several times before I found the courthouse on Broadway.

Did the courthouse have priority parking for panicky girlfriends? No. Did they have any parking whatsoever? None that I could see.

I was tempted to ditch my car on the steps of the courthouse and run inside. Crap. That wasn’t an option. I drove around the block and stopped at the first parking garage I could find. They wanted twenty five bucks! I didn’t care. I threw some bills at the parking attendant and parked on the third floor.

I took my heels off and carried them while I ran from my car to the courthouse. Lucky for me the San Diego sidewalks were relatively clean. The courthouse was a huge building with a bunch of Roman columns out front and the words ‘Hall of Justice’ in big letters above the entrance. Did Superman and Wonder Woman work here? Why hadn’t Wonder Woman flown her invisible jet to pick me up from the traffic jam? Or Superman could’ve just hopped out his window and swooped me out of my car. Those guys were getting lazy.

I put my shoes on and walked through the doors. Then I got in line for the security check and promptly took my shoes back off. And my belt. Why? I wasn’t flying anywhere. Couldn’t they see I wasn’t a terrorist? So what if my blouse was soaked with sweat? I know I was close to losing my cool because one more delay was going to broil my brain and send me into seizures, but it wasn’t like I had a bomb in my purse.

After I finished with security, I stopped in my tracks. Where the hell was Christos’ courtroom? There must’ve been a hundred rooms in this place! I grabbed several people walking by and asked if they knew where the Manos trial was, hoping that was what it was called. Every person I grabbed looked at me like I was insane. I wanted to tell them I didn’t have a bomb in my purse, nor was I a terrorist, but I deduced that would not help matters any.

So I started opening courtroom doors at random. Every time I did, whatever was going on inside ground to a halt. Everyone turned to stare at me and the lawyers glared at me like I was ruining their lawyer mojo. What the heck was the problem? I was being quiet. It might have been because all of the courtrooms were so small. Where were the huge ones you saw in all the movies?

More importantly, were the heck was Christos?

I was never going to find him.

This building had at least ten stories. Did I have to go from floor to floor opening every single door? That could take hours. But nobody I’d asked had a clue where Christos’ trial was.

What if I’d driven to the wrong court house?

Fuck!

Chapter 9

CHRISTOS


We all filed into the courtroom after the recess. The judge sat down at her bench and called in the jury.

“Mr. Merriweather,” Judge Moody said to Russell, “you may call your first witness.”

Russell leaned over and whispered in my ear, “You ready to do this?”

I took a huge breath. “Yeah.”

Time to roll the dice.

Time for me to step up and testify.

I felt my balls crawl up inside my pelvis. I think the hair on my head was trying to crawl back into my scalp and my fingernails were retracting. Every part of my body was attempting to avoid disaster or injury. This was it. Up on the high wire without a net. Did I fall to my death in the middle of my performance or finish with a flourish to the sound of applause?

“Psst!”

I whipped around to see who was hissing in my ear.

It was Samantha.

I nearly jumped out of my seat.

“Samoula?” my grandfather whispered, looking confused.

Brianna looked up from her laptop and stared at Samantha like she had just stepped off the Crazy Train from Crazy Town.

Russell’s head swiveled slowly around like a gun turret. He leveled a bludgeoning gaze at Samantha. He had no idea who she was. “Excuse me, young lady,” he whispered sternly, “may I help you?”