“I don’t know if you’re aware of this, Christos, but if the jury finds you guilty on all charges, you could face up to four years in the state penitentiary.”
“Prison,” I said.
“Yes.”
“What are the chances of clearing that extra charge, the one that means prison time?”
“You’re talking about the secondary charge? Serious Bodily Injury, correct?”
“Yeah, that. What’s the status on that?
“The State is claiming that the man you assaulted has endured all manner of ongoing health-related issues because of the incident. I have my team investigating the facts, and I intend to call the man’s personal physician to the stand during trial. I will also be calling a physician friend of mine as an expert witness. Then it will be up to me to prove in court that the man’s medical conditions either preceded the incident, or came about wholly separate from it. But it will ultimately be up to the jury to decide whether his injuries qualify as Serious Bodily Injury, or not, as per the judge’s instructions at trial.”
“In English?” I asked.
“From what I’ve seen, that crybaby Horst Grossman wants to blame you for everything from his hangnail to his hair-piece. My task will be to convince the jury that Horst Grossman, is in fact, a cry baby.”
I chuckled. “That sounds like good news. What about the rest of the charges? I mean, I actually hit the guy.”
“Yes, and for that, even if we knock it down to a misdemeanor, you could still face up to a year in jail.”
“Are we going to be able to say it was self-defense?”
“We can say it all we want, but we still have to convince the jury.”
“Can we do that?”
“At this point in time, that part of your case does not look nearly as good. We’re up against the issue of reasonableness. In your case, we’re going to have a very difficult time proving to the jury that you were in fear for your life when Horst Grossman lunged at you. The state will argue that you could’ve easily dodged out of the way without striking him.”
“I didn’t even have time to think about it. I just reacted.”
“Unfortunately, the Deputy D.A. is going to ask why you even walked up to the man in the first place.”
“Because I was trying to help that girl,” I said. I still hadn’t told him “that girl” was Samantha. I really wanted to keep her out of the case entirely. Because if I told her about this trial, that would lead to her inevitable questions about all my other trials. The trials where I’d been found guilty, and rightfully so. I’m sure Samantha would be ecstatic when she found out all about my criminal past.
I’m sure her parents would be happy about that. They’d jump for joy when they found out their daughter was dating an ex-con. They’d want to know when I was going to pressure Samantha into changing her major from Art to Assault.
“And there’s the rub,” Russell said without humor. “If we could find that girl, she may very well convince the jury that she was in fear for her life, and your actions constitute self-defense of another. Then your actions suddenly become more reasonable, both objectively and subjectively.” Russell searched my eyes. “Christos, is there anything you can remember about her? What kind of car was she driving? What color was it? Have you ever seen the girl since the incident, perhaps on the same route? Maybe she commutes to work that way every day. Is it possible she’s a student at SDU? Think hard, son. We’re running out of options.”
Samantha.
Agápi mou.
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t tell her. I couldn’t bring her into my mess. It was mine to deal with. Time to suck it up.
With any luck, Russell and his crack team would get me off. Then Samantha and her controlling parents wouldn’t have to worry about my past.
Everything would be perfect.
SAMANTHA
Romeo, Kamiko, and I walked out of Oil Painting class together.
“Do you guys want to get lunch?” Romeo asked.
“I have to go look for a job,” I sighed.
“Why? What happened?” Kamiko asked.
“I changed my major to Art.”
“That’s awesome, Sam!” Romeo said. “You should take Figurative Sculpture with me! There’s still a couple of spots open.”
“Really? I thought it would be full by now,”
“Nope, but you should sign up ASAP.”
“So how come you need the job?” Kamiko asked.
“Oh,” I sighed again, “because I told my parents I changed my major. They flipped and told me they wouldn’t pay for my apartment anymore.”
“That sucks,” Kamiko said. “Do you want to live in my dorm room?”
Kamiko had a double room, which she shared with a roommate. “Thanks, Kamiko. I don’t think there’s room. Well, guys, you should go get lunch. I better take care of things.”
“Do you want us to wait for you?” Romeo asked.
“We totally can,” Kamiko said.
“Thanks, guys. You’re the best. But you should eat.”
We said our goodbyes and I trotted over to the Registrar’s Office first. I was in luck. Figurative Sculpting still had one space left. And class was today. I stopped at the Campus Bookstore to buy supplies.
The clay and sculpting tools were another $139.85. Now it looked like I’d be broke by Friday. Maybe I needed to start skipping lunches. Groan.
I walked back to Career Services in the middle of campus and took a number. I was finally called and sat down at a desk facing a cute guy. He wore a polo shirt with an embroidered SDU logo over the heart.
“How can I help you today?” he asked charmingly.
“I need to find a work-study job.”
“Do you have your student ID?”
I pulled it out of my purse and handed it to him. He punched my info into the computer, then clicked through a few screens.
“It’s a little late in the school year,” he said. “Most of the jobs are usually taken at this point.”
“Oh.” I had been right. Crap.
He smiled at me. “Don’t worry, I’ll find you something. Let me see here…I see that you recently changed your major to Art?”
“I did!” I couldn’t hide my excitement.
“Maybe there are some internships with the professors.” He clicked several more keys and moused around, reading intently.
My stomach knotted tighter and tighter as I waited hopefully.
“Hmmm,” he frowned. “I’m not seeing anything.”
“Oh.” My heart sank.
“Let me try one more thing.” He searched around for another minute. His face broke into a smile and he turned to me. “How about working in the Eleanor M. Westbrook art museum?”
“Really? That sounds awesome!”
“They need someone to work the front counter. Do you think you could handle that?”
“Of course! How much does it pay?”
“Ten bucks an hour. Will that work?”
“Totally!” $10.00 an hour was more than my dad had calculated that artist had made on the hundred dollar oil painting in Dad’s office! I smiled smugly to myself. Christos was right. I was already going to make more money doing art things than my parents believed possible. I was determined to prove to myself, and to them, that I could do this. That art wasn’t a pipe dream career.
“I’ll shoot an email over to the head curator at the museum to let them know you want to apply for the position, but you’ll have to go over there and fill out the application and do an interview. Is that okay?”
“I can totally do that! Thank you!” I was elated.
I left Career Services and headed straight over to the museum, smiling the whole way there.
When I walked inside, I told the girl sitting at the cash register that I needed an application.
“Are you applying for the cashier job?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Would you like to speak to Mr. Selfridge? He’s in his office.�
�
“Sure,” I said. I had an hour until Sculpting class with Romeo. My stomach grumbled, but I’m sure I would have time to grab a snack on the way to class. I just hoped I could afford it.
The girl at the counter made a call on a phone behind the counter. “He’ll be out in a second. You can wait here.”
“Okay,” I smiled. I stood at the entryway to the main gallery. I had loved the museum the first time I’d been in it last quarter. It was big and quiet and calming. The paintings were amazing. I couldn’t imagine a better place to work.
Not long after, a tall, handsome man in a tweed sport coat came walking out of the main entrance to the gallery.
“Hi, I’m Samantha Smith,” I extended my hand.
He shook it. “I’m Mr. Selfridge.”
“Did you get the email from Career Services?”
“I did. Do you want to apply for the counter position?”
“Definitely. Do you need a résumé or something?”
“No. You’re a student here, correct?”
“I’m an Art major,” I said proudly.
He smiled. “You don’t say. That’s terrific. Then you’ll be right at home at the museum.” He folded his hands together. “I can only offer you ten hours per week. Is that acceptable?”
Oh. I hadn’t been expecting that. Ten hours meant about $400.00 a month, less after taxes, a fact I knew from growing up in the Smith household. Thanks, Dad. I would need to find a second job. But in the mean time, I needed to take whatever I could get. “Uh, yeah, that would be great,” I smiled.
“Excellent. Here’s the application,” he said, handing me a pre-printed form. “Bring it back on Monday. You can start then.”
“Okay, thank you,” I smiled.
“I look forward to working with you, Samantha,” he nodded pleasantly.
“I’ll see you Monday!” I walked out and jogged to the Food Court at the Student Center.
My phone jangled. A text from Madison.
Where u at?
I replied, Running to Student Center.
Wanna get lunch?
Don’t have time. Late for class.
Ok. Tomorrow.
As I jogged, I had a moment to wonder how I had ended up right where I’d started at the beginning of the school year last quarter, late and running from one place to the other.
I really needed to figure out the campus shuttle. This was getting ridiculous.
I considered fish tacos, but didn’t want to spend the extra money. I grabbed a protein bar and a bottled smoothie from the convenience store beside the campus bookstore and saved $1.38. It wasn’t much, but every bit helped.
I trotted back toward the Visual Arts building.
“She’s late, she’s late! For a very important date!” Tiffany mocked as I ran by.
“Don’t you have class?” I sneered.
“More than you, you genital sore!” she shouted at my back. Her minions cackled. They were all in league with Satan.
But seriously, didn’t she have anything to do other than stand in the same place all day long and mock me? Or was she just working this campus street corner, waiting for rich upperclassmen to come along and buy things for her?
Probably.
SAMANTHA
I ran into the Visual Arts building and blundered down the hallway to the sculpting studio. Inside, I heard an echoey voice. The door was locked, so I knocked furiously. After a minute, the voice stopped, and I heard heels clicking closer and closer to the door. Someone opened the door.
“Perhaps if you were on time, you wouldn’t have to interrupt the entire class,” the woman holding the door said snidely. Despite her casual clothes, she had big hair and carefully applied makeup. Her hair was a work of art unto itself. She didn’t strike me as the sort of woman who would be teaching a sculpting class. Maybe fashion design or even a cosmetology class.
I was breathless from running. “I, uh, had, an, on, campus, job, interview.”
Despite her striking lips gloss, her lips thinned out of existence when she frowned at me. “Next time, be on time.” She held the door for me, still irritated.
I cringed as I skulked past her. The sculpting studio was a high-ceiling room with exposed pipes painted black hanging overhead, and a concrete floor beneath. A wall of windows mounted on high-tech steel frames allowed ample light. It was not nearly as warm and comfy as Professor Childress’ inviting Life Drawing room had been last quarter, but it was better than another boring lecture hall.
I searched the room for Romeo. He waved, but the positions next to him were taken by other students. I grabbed the only remaining spot.
Like drawing and painting, the students surrounded the center of the room in a circle. But instead of easels, everyone had their own elevated square table on wheels. The table was not much bigger than a barstool. I set my stuff down on the floor next to mine.
I noticed that everyone’s table was adjusted to a different height. I realized there was a twisty handle on the side of the lone post supporting the table top. I twisted it and…BLAM!! My table top crashed down to the lowest height. The noise boomed throughout the room.
I think the echoes lasted for three or four minutes. The room had a cement floor, after all.
Everyone stared at me. Of course.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. Undeterred, I twisted the handle slightly to add some friction, so the table wouldn’t slam down again and maybe slice my fingers off. I lifted it up slowly. Somebody had forgot to oil my table.
!!SQUUUUEEEE!!—
I had to put my foot on the base to hold the stand down while I lifted. It was really sticking now. I put my back into it. Needed to adjust it sooner or later.
—!!EEEEEEEE!!—
Everyone was staring again. I shrugged my shoulders sheepishly, still lifting. May as well get it over with now that I’d started.
—!!EEEEEEEE!!—
Several students were wincing like they were getting their teeth drilled.
—!!EEEEEEEE!!—
Almost got it…
—!!EEEEAAAK!!
There! All finished! I smiled at everyone. Why did I feel like I was in the gas chamber and all the people around me were about to witness my execution?
Whatever. Smile!
:-)
The woman who had opened the door for me shot me a bow-and-arrow glare before rolling her eyes dramatically and huffing, “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, my name is Marjorie Bittinger and I am the sculptor in residence here at SDU. I will be teaching you the basics of figurative sculpting. I hope you all came prepared.” She singled me out again, “Miss, did you forget your supplies in addition to being late?”
Wow, what a bitch. “No, I have them right here,” I said confidently, holding up my bag of sculpting supplies from the bookstore.
“I don’t see a proportional caliper sticking out of your bag,” Professor Bittinger gloated.
I was confused. “What’s a proportional caliper?”
“Exactly,” she sneered. “Would someone care to show our late arrival what a caliper is?”
A couple of students pulled these giant metal things out of their own bags and held them up. They looked like giant metal earwigs with those freaky pincer tails on one end, and a smaller matching pincer mouth on the other.
Oh. How had I missed those? I must have been in too much of a hurry at the bookstore.
Marjorie raised her eyebrows triumphantly. “I hope you will come prepared next time, Miss…what is your name?”
“Samantha Smith.”
“Miss…Smith.” The look on her face made me think that Major Bitchinger had spent her childhood torturing squirrels and kittens, doing their hair and makeup after strangling them. I refused to be her next victim. “Did you at least remember to bring your armature wire, Miss Smith?”
Why was she singling me out? Whatever. I reached into my bag and pulled out the ring of wire. I didn’t know what it was for, but I held it up proudly. “Right h
ere,” I smiled my fakest smile.
The professor nodded while smiling smugly.
Had I made a mistake signing up for this class? I didn’t want to think about it.
“Do you have any further interruptions before we begin, Miss Smith?” she glared at me. She was expecting an answer.
After a minute, I cracked. “No.” Did I sound like I was thirteen after being scolded by my mom? I hoped not.
Professor Bitchinger gave me a curling smile, “Very good.” She turned to address the entire room. “Today, class, we’re going to craft a simple armature and start doing quick sculpts of the model. Please get out your armature wire.”
The professor, who was sadly a total bitch, was also a total professional. She quickly demonstrated how to make a twelve-inch tall stick figure out of the armature wire by bending the wire into the proper shape and twisting the wire around itself to add rigidity. She walked the room as students repeated the process from her demonstration. When necessary, she made corrections and improvements to the students’ efforts. She was not kind, but she was very informative and knowledgable.
Luckily, she circled in such a way that she came to me next to last, so I had time to build my armature.
“Let’s see what kind of mess you’ve made, Miss Smith,” she snarked.
I held up my completed armature and smirked.
The look of superiority on her face did not falter as she scanned my armature. “Well, it looks like we have an over-achiever in our midst,” she said, loud enough for the entire room to hear.
Okay, she was lame. She hated me, whether I was a screw up or top of the class. Whatever.
The professor abruptly yanked the armature from my hand and turned it over and around, wiggling it in several places before slapping it back into my hand. “Good job, Miss Smith,” she said dismissively, turning her back to me as she walked to the final student and inspected their work.
“Okay, class,” she said in a clear voice, “everyone place your purchased clay into the bin next to the clay warmer. After you’ve done that, take a few blocks of warm clay out of the warmer.”
The clay warmer turned out to be a refrigerator that had been converted into a re-warmerator. Inside it, something circulated hot air, and on the shelves were dozens and dozens of warm chunks of green clay.
Reckless Page 19
