“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.
Russell said to me. “We get you off today, I’ll drive you both out to the track myself. But my money’s on Brianna.”
“I hope you like losing,” I grinned.
“I never lose,” Russell said shrewdly. “We ready?” He nodded toward the courtroom.
“Let’s do it,” I said.
Russell opened one of the heavy wooden doors and his game face slid into place like Sir Lancelot’s visor.
I followed Brianna and Russell into the belly of the beast.
The big door latched shut firmly behind me.
===
SAMANTHA
I was excited and anxious as I drove out of my new home, the one I shared with Christos!
I was sure fate was with me and good things were going to happen once I got to the court house downtown. Everything was going to work out for me and Christos in the end
The only problem?
At that moment, everything started going wrong.
Halfway to the freeway, the needle on my gas gauge decided to lay down on the job. It pointed right at the E like a lazy bastard. No problem. I was all about solving problems today. I would not be deterred. Luckily, there was a gas station right before the on ramp. Yay! There was also a long line. Lame! But there were no other convenient gas stations.
Waiting in line wouldn’t take that long, would it? There were four lines of cars, so I picked the shortest one, hoping it was the quickest one.
I waited.
Why was it so crowded? Were they out of gas? I hadn’t heard about any looming gas shortages or oil embargoes.
I pretended to be patient while I waited. The sedan two cars ahead finished and pulled away from the pump. The guy in front of me drove forward and climbed out of his huge truck to gas up. I was next.
Too bad truck guy had a gas tank the size of an oil field. It took forever for him to fill it up. Then he had to go inside to pay. Didn’t he have a credit card or a debit card? Who used cash anymore? Maybe he was going to pay with gold doubloons?
I tapped my foot impatiently. “Any time, cowboy!” I shouted. He had been wearing boots. All men who wore boots and drove trucks were cowboys. I’m sure he had a gun rack in his truck somewhere. I grew up in Washington D.C. Sue me.
Were had he gone? Was he using the bathroom? Did he fall into the toilet, or was it just diarrhea? Geez, how long did it take to wipe your butt?
I drummed my fingers on my steering wheel. If I tried to drive around the island to another pump, I might lose my spot. Truck guy’s truck was too big for me to push out of the way with my tiny VW, otherwise I would have. And the gas hose was too short to reach my car because the bed of his truck was about a mile long, and it had forced me to stop way far from the pump.
When I noticed moss starting to grow on the tip of my nose, Cowboy finally walked outside. Molasses slow. Slow motion scene in a movie slow. The shifting of continents slow. “Move it!” I shouted inside my car. He hadn’t heard me so I rolled down my window to shout again.
Before I could make a peep, he turned on his cowboy boot heel and walked back into the store. No! Where was my lasso! I need to wrangle his ass and throw him behind his steering wheel.
I scanned around me. Unfortunately, the lines for the other pumps were wall to wall cars. It was really smartest for me to wait.
Two minutes later, Cowboy came back outside with a big pepperoni flavored Slim Jim and a bottle of Mountain Dew. He climbed into his truck. Did he immediately drive off? No. Did he even start his engine? No. Did he do anything other than play with the meat stick in his hand while in the comfort of his cab?
I had no idea what he did with his meat stick, nor did I want to.
Days, weeks, even months later, he started his truck. A gust of exhaust billowed through my window as he drove off. I should’ve rolled it up. I coughed out a portion of my left lung before the air cleared.
I gassed up my car then sped to the onramp for the 5 freeway. I swear, every light I hit on the way there was red. At one intersection, I got stuck behind a line of cars waiting to turn right because a woman with a stroller out for a Sunday stroll had decided to use the cross walk. Didn’t anyone tell her it was Friday? No Sunday strolling on Fridays! I swear, I saw three snails racing past her. Why was she walking? Who walked anywhere anymore? Didn’t she know it was rush hour and people had places to go?
Eventually, the right turners turned and I made it through the light. I was on the 5 heading south a few minutes later.
Nothing could stop me now.
Except a traffic jam.
As I crested the hill at Del Mar Heights Road, I nearly crashed into a blanket of brake lights. The cars had all slowed from 65 to 35 in less than a quarter mile. A few minutes later, my VW crept along at 10 mph.
Had I jinxed myself by hoping things would turn out for the best?
===
CHRISTOS
Russell led Brianna and me to the defense table inside the courtroom.
The judge’s bench was still empty. Only a few random heads populated the seating in the spectator gallery.
I noticed that George Schlosser and his assistant hangmen, Stanley Whitehead and Natalia Valenzuela, were already set up at the prosecutor’s table with three laptops open and humming, and file folders neatly arranged between them.
George Schlosser looked calm and sure of himself. Whitehead looked like a smug fuck who I’d very much like to bump into in some dark alley when no one was looking. Natalia was a bright eyed and bushy tailed vampire jackrabbit.
Whatever.
I knew that me, Russell, and Brianna looked like three gladiators stepping into the Coliseum in Ancient Rome as we walked up to the defense table. We were going to slice some heads off. I could feel it.
I sat down while Russell and Brianna arranged their laptops and files on the defense table. It was a quiet moment for me to settle into my seat. I was going to be doing a lot of sitting for the next few hours. At least it was peaceful in the courtroom prior to trial. Almost like enforced meditation. I could roll with that. Then my stomach dropped through a hole in the floor and plummeted to the center of the earth.
“Paidi mou,” my father said from somewhere behind me.
I recognized his voice instantly.
Holy fuck. How the hell did he get here?
My stomach bounced back from the earth’s core and flew through the ceiling to shoot into the stratosphere. This was not going to be my day, was it?
I hadn’t told my dad about the trial. I’d considered it after discussing the topic with my grandfather, but at the last minute decided not to. Maybe if my dad actually came by my grandfather’s place now and then or showed some interest in something other than drinking, I would’ve told him.
I glanced back as he squeezed my shoulder.
He was leaning over the thigh high partition between the court floor and the gallery, wearing a sharp dark suit. He looked like a slightly older version of me, but with a hint of gray at the temples. To my surprise, he looked healthier than when I’d last seen him almost a year ago.
Ever since my mom had run out on us, my dad had stayed locked up in his house where he drank away his days. His split with my mom had turned him into an absentee human being. I couldn’t stand watching him throw away his life and tremendous talent, so I rarely visited him, and we never talked on the phone. He was always too damn drunk to hold a conversation.
Russell and Brianna both turned to look at my dad. Russell knew him on sight. He’d met my dad many times in my youth, but I don’t think Brianna knew him.
“Mr. Manos,” Russell nodded, standing to shake my father’s hand.
B
rianna stood as well and introduced herself. “Brianna Johnson.”
“Nikolos Manos,” my father said.
Reluctantly, I stood and turned to face him. My grandfather, wearing a light gray suit, walked up behind my dad, looking nervous and apologetic. Yeah, he knew why I might possibly be irritated that he’d brought my dad. Fuck.
“Pappoús,” I said as I leaned over to hug my grandfather.
He whispered in my ear, “I thought your father should be here. For you. For his son.”
That explained where my grandfather had been last night. Probably sobering up my dad so he wouldn’t be sloppy drunk in court. I ground my teeth together.
Still whispering, my grandfather continued, “Your father was worried you wouldn’t want him to be here but I told him it would be all right with you.”
Yeah, right.
I pulled away from my grandfather but dropped my eyes to my hands. My hands were already clenched into fists. My fucking dad was the last person I wanted sitting behind me during my trial.
“I can see where Christos gets his good looks,” Brianna said warmly. “You three could be brothers.”
My grandad smiled proudly and nodded. “That’s my boys.”
“Say hello to your father,” Russell said softly, nudging my elbow.
I glared at Russell but saw compassion in his eyes. He’d been encouraging me to forgive my dad for years.
Without looking at my dad, I leaned toward him. He threw his arms around me and squeezed, stifling me. I expected to smell booze, but I did not. That was a surprise.
I pulled away and glanced at him briefly. “Hey,” I mumbled.
“Paidi mou, it’s so good to see you,” he said earnestly.
As I was about to take a step back, my dad threw his arms around me again and crushed me to his chest. He’d let his body go to shit years ago. But now, he was much stronger than I remembered. Had he been working out again? That seemed impossible. I sighed as he patted my back repeatedly. “Okay, dad. That’s enough.”
He softened when I’d said ‘dad’.
He released me and I glanced at him again. His eyes were moist.
“You look handsome as always, son,” he smiled, his mouth shaking. “Bet the ladies have been chasing you, no?”
I arched a noncommittal eyebrow.
“I heard all about your sellout show at Charboneau,” he continued, “I went down to see everything the day after opening night. Amazing work, paidi mou. Your female figures put mine to shame.”
I gave him a solid, long look.
“I’m not bullshitting you, paidi mou. At my best, I did not paint like you do now.”
My chest tightened and my eyes went hot. For my father to say that and say it sober blew me away. My father never exaggerated when it came to painting. He wasn’t harsh, but he never piled on false praise. He was honest, direct, and encouraging. But he never said what he didn’t mean. I’d been waiting to hear words like that from him my entire life. He was so fucking talented, I never thought I would. I was shell shocked.
My voice cracked as I spoke, “Thanks, Bampás.”
My dad’s smile widened across his even white teeth. Silent tears dripped from his eyes, staining his suit jacket. He grabbed me and hugged me more fiercely than before.
I let him.
My grandfather rubbed my dad’s back affectionately. His eyes were wet as well. Then he turned to Russell and said, “My grandson is such a good boy.”
“Yes he is,” Russell stated firmly.
I was ready to cry myself. When my dad released his hug, I happened to glance at Russell who was marveling like he was witnessing a miracle. Maybe he was.
“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’ lawye
r, 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.
Painless (The Story of Samantha Smith #3) Page 13
