Текст книги "Painless"
Автор книги: Devon Hartford
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 32 страниц)
The Mercedes’ horn blared at me and the car inched forward like a menacing cobra.
“You’re insane! I was totally here first!” I shifted my VW into park and got out of my car. For a second I thought it might be Hunter Blakeley, the figurative sculpting model who’d been stalking me all quarter. Then I remembered he drove a Porsche Boxster. I knocked on the window of the Mercedes sharply.
The power window whirred down.
“You,” sneered Tiffany Kingston-Whitehouse, eyes narrowed.
“Yes, me,” I smirked confidently. “Move your car.”
“Move my car? You’ve got it wrong, Merry Maid. Shouldn’t you be cleaning up fecal matter somewhere?”
As always, Tiffany looked like a team of stylists had done her hair, makeup, and nails this morning. She was dressed in the latest San Diego winter fashion: a sexy studded leather motorcycle jacket over a white scoop neck T that emphasized her ersatz rack, skinny black jeans, and a rugged belt. A super cute studded black leather clutch with white piping sat on the empty seat next to her. I had to admit, the girl knew how to dress. But it didn’t make her any less of a bitch.
Which was why I was seriously considering grabbing a fistful of her fuck me blond hair and giving it a good yank. Could you scalp someone by yanking? Or did you need a knife to do it right?
“I hate to disappoint you, Tiff, but I was here first. Kindly remove your Mercedes from my way.”
“I’m not moving anything, you shit stain. Get your car out of my way before I push it.” She revved the engine of her Mercedes.
Her blond locks were within easy reach. I flexed my fingers in anticipation. Where was that knife? Screw it. I wasn’t going to need it. I had nails. I was tired of taking shit from Tiffany Buttplug-Nuthouse.
“Go ahead,” I laughed lightly. “Scratch your paint job and mine. I’m sure your daddy pays for the best insurance money can buy.”
She glared at me and revved the Mercedes. “Move,” she growled around gritted teeth.
“No.” I stared her down.
She screamed in my face, “MOOOOVE!!!”
I winced and leaned back.
Wow, that girl sure had a set of lungs on her. And a voice that could cut glass. I think I was going to need to get my ears checked after that. But I stood my ground.
She thrust her head out her car window. “I’ve had it with you, you little bitch. You’ve been meddling in my life since you came to SDU. I’m sick of your ugly face. I’m going to make you regret the day you crawled out from whatever rock you lived under before you came to San Diego.”
“Are you threatening me, Tiff?” I asked cooly, an amused smile on my face.
“No. I’m warning you. Because it’s going to happen.”
“Okay,” I scoffed and waved a dismissive hand at her. No matter how many times Tiffany had tried to make my life miserable, she never succeeded. She was nothing more than a pesky housefly as far as I was concerned. I wasn’t going to take any more of her dramatic threats. She was a spoiled brat who didn’t know how good she had things.
Tiffany’s eyes narrowed and her brows dove into a tight, threatening scowl. She looked hawklike. “Don’t underestimate me, Samantha Anna Smith.”
Surprise lit up my face.
“That’s right,” she hissed, “I know who you are. Don’t think I’m some dumb blond you can laugh at. You have fucked with the wrong woman, you infected cunt.”
How the hell did she know my middle name was Anna? Had Christos told her? That seemed unlikely.
“Watch your back, bitch,” she said, then threw her car into reverse, backed up dramatically, and floored it. Her Mercedes growled a low threat as it disappeared at the end of the parking aisle.
Great. As if I didn’t have enough troubles already.
Chapter 4
CHRISTOS
Half an hour after leaving my house, I walked through the cool marble interior of the San Diego Hall of Justice, looking slick in my dark suit. People in similarly formal and conservative attire milled about the wide main hallway, conducting impromptu meetings before going into the various courtrooms. Uniformed deputies in tan shirts, olive pants and bulky gun belts were scattered throughout the space, as were a few members of the S.D.P.D. in dark blue uniforms. It was all so formal and civilized.
A woman in one of those sexy fitted business suits carrying a briefcase peered at me over a pair of reading glasses. Her hair was in a neat mess on top of her head. Sexy librarian or sexy attorney? Same difference. I tossed her a dimpled smile and her composed, professional expression crumbled into a school girl grin.
May as well amuse myself before going into battle.
Russell Merriweather, my attorney, stood head and shoulders above the crowd in a dark charcoal suit, chatting on his cell phone. His ebony dark skin contrasted brilliantly against his impeccable amethyst button down shirt and striped tie. When he noticed me, he narrowed his eyes and flicked a nod in my direction. As always, he was all business while inside the courthouse.
I walked up to him as he ended his call. He slipped his phone inside his suit jacket and turned to me. “What the hell did you do to your eye, son?”
I opened my mouth to answer.
He held up a halting palm. “Stop. I don’t want to know. Buy some concealer before the trial. We don’t need the jury jumping to conclusions about you at the trial Friday.”
I smiled. “Actually, I was thinking about getting the other one banged up so they match.”
Russell repressed a smile and shook his head. “You do that,” he said sarcastically. “But get some concealer either way.” He put a fatherly hand on my shoulder. “On a more serious note, have you made a decision regarding the plea bargain offered by the District Attorney?”
I grit my teeth. “Fuck the D.A. I’m not guilty.”
Russell nodded. A glint of approval passed across his eyes. “I expected nothing less from you, son. But may I remind you,” he said ominously, “once you enter a plea, it’s set in stone. No going back. If we go to trial and the jury finds you guilty, you run the risk of up to four years in prison. Are you okay with that?”
“Yup.”
Russell nodded toward the doors to the courtroom. “You ready?”
“One other thing.”
Russell raised his brows. “Do I want to hear it? The look on your face tells me I don’t.”
I grinned. “I’m going to testify.”
Russell nodded, his eyes narrowing while his lips pursed thoughtfully. “As your attorney, I would be remiss if I didn’t remind you that it’s never wise for a defendant to testify. If you do, the Deputy District Attorney will have free rein to ask you anything he wants. Including questions about your criminal record. They will dredge up all of the demons from your past and parade them in front of the jury like a marching band. In the eyes of the jury, you will go from looking like a man who punched another man in a single case of self defense to Crime Spree Christos.”
I knew he was right. But I hadn’t started that fight with Horst Grossman. No matter how hard the D.A. tried to convince the jury I was a piece of shit, I knew the truth. I was going to stand up for myself. I was going to look every member of the jury straight in the eye and tell my story. If they didn’t believe me? Fuck ‘em.
They could all rot in hell.
“What other evidence do we have that I didn’t start the fight,” I asked, “other than my version of events?”
“Not as much as I would like,” Russell said curtly.
“Then I have to testify,” I said. “We don’t have any other options.”
Russell looked me in the eye. Hard. He didn’t shout. He didn’t lose his temper. He didn’t try to argue me out of it. I’m pretty sure he could see the resolve in my eyes. All he said was, “You’re sure?”
“Yeah.”
“All right then. I’ll make it work. Let’s do this thing,” Russell said, opening the door to the courtroom for me. He motioned inside. “After you, sir.”
* * *
SAMANTHA
Professor Tutan-yawn-yawn was working the ancient Egyptian sleep magic in Sociology class better than the sandman today. I’d drained my Venti Americano within the first five minutes of class. If I was going to make it through the rest of the day, I was going to need more coffee.
I texted Madison.
I have a coffee emergency. Meet me at Toasted Roast after class?
Her reply, Can’t. I have Managerial Accounting with Dorquemann and Spanish after that. Lunch?
I replied, K. C u then.
I heaved a sigh. Maybe I could find Kamiko or Romeo. I was seriously in need of some moral support. I didn’t want to stew in my own thoughts about what might happen to Christos for a second longer.
I did my best to concentrate on the Sociology lecture and take notes until class was finished. Still in need of coffee, I got a fresh cup at Toasted Roast by myself before heading over to my History lecture.
I squeezed into a seat and pulled out my laptop. There wasn’t enough room for my coffee and computer on the little fold out armrest desktop.
Did the University have a suggestion box somewhere? Because they totally needed to install cup holders in all the lecture halls.
“Well if it isn’t Cathy Guisewite,” some guy in the row behind me said over my shoulder in a smooth, smoldering voice.
I turned and looked into the eyes of a cute guy sitting behind me. He was chewing on the corner of a pen and grinning at me. He had this clean shaven boy band look going. No tattoos, and not especially muscular, but great hair and totally swoon worthy. I could imagine him sitting behind a piano and crooning while women threw underwear at him onstage.
I frowned but sort of smiled at him. “You must have me confused with someone else.”
“Nope.”
“I’m not Cathy Whoever.”
“Sure you are,” he grinned.
This poor boy had a screw loose. I arched an eyebrow. “Uh…no?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never read Cathy?”
“What?” I was totally confused. Maybe I had the loose screw. I’m sure if I shook my head something would rattle around inside.
“The comic strip? By Cathy Guisewite?”
Still not getting it, I shook my head.
“Do you even know what a comic strip is?” he smiled.
“Duh.” I wasn’t an idiot.
“Didn’t you ever read the comics in the newspaper? I know it’s totally unhip for people our age to admit to such a thing, but you can tell me,” he winked, “I won’t out you on Facebook or Twitter or whatever.”
Now that he mentioned it, my parents still got the newspaper. My dad couldn’t go to the office without first reading the comic strips at breakfast. He called them ‘the funnies.’ I used to look at them when I was a kid and try to copy the drawings, but I hadn’t done that in a long time. Then a hazy memory locked into place. “Oh! You mean Cathy, the comic strip!”
He nodded, smiling. “Yeah. I mean, I know the series ended three and a half years ago, but I figured you may have seen it once or twice before all the newspapers started going out of business.”
Who was this guy? He was bizarre. He was way too cute to be into something as last century as comic strips. “So, um, why are you calling me Cathy?”
“I’ve seen you drawing cartoons during class. Do you ever take notes, or just doodle?”
Guilty as charged. I blushed. “Is it that obvious?”
“Probably not to the professor and the T.A.’s, so your secret is safe with me,” he winked. “You know, your work is pretty good. Have you ever considered submitting some of it to the school paper?”
I’m pretty sure he was pulling my leg. “No, those guys are all Snooty McSnoots-a-lots.” The SDU school newspaper, The Sentinel, had a reputation for being a high-brow elitist newspaper for preppie journalism majors. And considering I’d been ejected from high school society back in D.C., I didn’t have any desire to go before a tribunal of hip socialites and have them tell me I wasn’t good enough to join their club.
“The Analites at the Sentinel are totally snooty,” he smiled. “I was talking about The Wombat.”
The Wombat was SDU’s comedy newspaper run by the Associated Students of SDU. It was full of funny spins on current events, humor about college life, party reviews of actual parties (on and off campus), and the ever famous Wombat comic strips. I’d read the comic strips before. They satirized the seedier social aspects of college: drinking, drugs and doing it with members of the opposite sex, same sex, or even different species. Some of them were hilarious and some of the art was amazing.
I raised my eyebrows. “You think I should submit my cartoons to The Wombat?” I didn’t think my stuff was good enough.
“Yeah. I’ll put in a good word for you with the editor.”
“Who’s the editor?” I asked.
“Me,” he smiled. “Justin Tomlinson.” He leaned down and offered his hand.
I had to awkwardly turn in my seat to shake it. “Samantha Smith. Isn’t Tomlinson the name of one of the guys in One Direction?”
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t remind me. If I’d had a choice at birth, I would’ve had the stork deliver me to another house,” he smiled.
He sure had a great smile. Now all he needed was four more cuties and a boy band anthem and the girls would come out of the woodwork like termites. If they weren’t already. For all I knew, Justin had a limo filled with fan girls waiting outside.
“Anyway,” he said, “nice to meet you, Samantha. Email me some of your samples and I’ll show them to my peeps at the paper.”
“I’ve never written a comic strip. I mean, I just doodle in my sketchbook.”
“Do you have your sketchbook on you now? I’ve seen you drawing in it before.”
Ah, creepy stalker much? Or, had I been drawing in my sketchbook in History so often that it had become obvious to anyone who sat near me? That seemed unlikely. I religiously took notes in History class as if it was the most interesting topic ever invented. Not. “Yeah, I have it in my book bag.”
“Can I see it?”
I had never shown my sketchbook to a stranger. I was somewhat reluctant. Oh well, if he mocked me, then he was a jerk, boy band cute or not. I pulled my sketchbook out and handed it to him.
He flipped through it casually, smiling the entire time. He stopped to linger at various pages, I didn’t know which ones. He even chuckled a few times. “Yeah,” he said, “these are great. Do you have any strips? Like multiple panels telling a cohesive story?”
“Not really,”
“No worries. What do you think about working with a writer?”
“What do you mean?”
“Some of the strips in The Wombat are written by one person and drawn by another. I could team you up with a writer if you needed help. Until you get the hang of it. But I get the sense you’ll figure it out pretty quick, based on what I see here. Then you can write your own if you want. It would be up to you.”
Wow, this guy was really nice. And cute. Not that I was interested in him. But he was being totally helpful, and he didn’t even know me. “Okay. When do I start?” I wasn’t sure how this was supposed to work.
“I have to show your stuff around first. But, like I said, I think the other guys will dig your work. Gimme your number and I’ll give you a call after our next meeting—”
Oh. How smooth of him. I’d almost fallen for it. He was a master pickup artist.
“—or better yet,” he continued, “why don’t you come to our next staff meeting? It’s this Friday.”
Maybe I was getting ahead of myself. Maybe he was being genuine. “This Friday?”
“Yeah. We meet at 4:20 at Toasted Roast.”
I did a double take. “You guys meet at Toke Time? Do you smoke joints during the meeting?” I smiled.
“It’s up to you,” he grinned. “so bring your own joints. But usually we stick to coffee.”
“Sounds like my kind of crowd.” But it was on Valentine’s Day. The day of Christos’ trial. Shit. My guess would be that I wasn’t going to make their meeting. “But I don’t think I can make it. I have…something really important to do that day.”
“That’s cool. If you want, I can snap some pics of your sketchbook and show them on Friday.”
“Okay.”
“Shoot me an email and I’ll let you know what everybody says.”
Wow, he backed off quick. Maybe I had judged him too hastily. Maybe he was totally just trying to help. “What’s your email?”
“Look up The Wombat website online. You can find it there.”
The professor walked into the lecture hall and set his briefcase down, getting ready to start.
“Okay,” I said to Justin, “I’ll do that.”
Why did I suddenly feel like my life was being pulled in one too many directions at once? The one direction it was already heading was stressful enough.
And why was I thinking in boy band puns all of a sudden?
Groan!
* * *
I secretly wondered if Justin Tomlinson would try to chat me up after History class, but he was gone when I finished packing up my laptop.
On my way to the Student Center to meet Madison for lunch, I texted Romeo and Kamiko to see if they wanted to join us.
Madison was already waiting in line for fish tacos, decked out in an SDU hoodie, Hollister sweats and flip flops. For a certain contingent of students, sleepwear was acceptable school dress. I couldn’t blame her. I knew she was jonesing to be back in short sleeves and board shorts. “What up, girl!” she cheered and gave me a big hug.
“Hey, Mads,” I smiled.
“Did you find Christos last night?”
“Yeah.”
“So what was the emergency?”
Hmm. How to explain that I was secretly worried he was going to commit suicide last night and still had no idea whether or not he had tried? And he was going to trial in two days? Yeah, not exactly an easy breezy topic. I wanted Madison to distract me from my pressing troubles, not dredge up my drama.
She nudged against me. “Come on, girl. Dish. I’ve got a scoop right here.”
I sighed. Was there something else we could talk about, like boy bands? No, not that either. There had to be at least one topic I could come up with that wouldn’t leave me dramatized.
“Can you believe that fight last night?” Romeo asked as he walked up to me and Madison, Kamiko at his side.
Eye roll.
“Fight?” Madison asked, looking between me and Romeo. “What fight? Between you and Christos?” she gasped. “And you didn’t tell me?!”
I bugged my eyes at both of them. “Geez, you guys are worse than the National Enquirer! Christos and I didn’t have a fight. And, Romeo, stop being such a dramaholic!”
“Can you blame me?” he asked. “I almost had my face bashed in by the jock squad last night.”
“Wait,” interrupted Madison. She looked at me pointedly. “What does the jock squad have to do with you calling me in the middle of the night asking where Christos was?”
Romeo, Kamiko, and Madison raised their eyebrows in tandem. They stared at me, dumbfounded.
“Don’t hold out on us, Sam!” Romeo demanded. “If you have secrets, you have to share.”
“That’s what I said,” Madison said, folding her arms across her chest. “Spill it bitch!”
“Fish tacos!” I cried.
Madison frowned, “That’s not an answer,”
“Look!” I pointed and everyone turned to look at nothing. I considered running away while they were distracted, but luckily, we’d made it to the front of the line and it was time to order. I was spared further accusatory looks from my friends. For a few precious minutes, anyway. After everyone had their food, we carried our trays outside to an empty table.
“Well?” Romeo asked me after everyone sat down. “We’re waiting to hear all about your fight with Christos.”
My fish taco was halfway to my face when I said. “Reel it in, Rumor Romeo. There was no fight.”
“Then what’s the story, Sam?” Romeo asked. “We all want to know what we missed.”
I scoffed. “You were the one who spent the night in Hillcrest with the vomit squad. Care to tell us about that?”
“Gladly,” Romeo smiled. “It all started when I met this guy outside The Brass Rail, down in Hillcrest.”
“What’s The Brass Rail?” Kamiko asked.
“A gay bar in Hillcrest,” Romeo answered. “Anyway, the vomit guy was—”
Madison cringed. “Can we table that discussion until after I’ve finished eating and digesting? Maybe after Winter Quarter is over or sometime next year?”
“I second that,” Kamiko grimaced. “I don’t need to know any more about Romeo’s alternative lifestyle than I already do.”
I would’ve gladly endured Romeo’s graphic tale if it meant taking the heat off of my back.
The three of them stared at me.
If I couldn’t tell my closest friends about my problems, who could I? Wasn’t that part of what friends were for? To help you deal with your problems when you needed it? But how would Christos feel if I told the gang all about his trial? It’s not like he’d willingly told me about it. I’d had to drag it out of him word by word. I contemplated waiting until Romeo and Kamiko were gone and just telling Madison. She seemed more leak proof than Rumor Romeo. I wasn’t worried about Kamiko, but she and Romeo were practically attached at the hip. I secretly believed that if neither of them ever met their one true love, they’d eventually move in together and live like spinsters.
“We’re waiting,” Romeo said, chewing on his fish taco.
Screw it. They were my friends. They had a right to know. “Okay, but you guys have to promise to keep this a secret,” I said.
“Oooh! Secrets! I love secrets!” Romeo cooed.
“I’m serious,” I growled. “You can’t tell anybody. This is a big deal. No fooling around. Especially you, Romeo. You. Can’t. Tell. Anybody.”
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.
