Текст книги "Painless"
Автор книги: Devon Hartford
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 32 страниц)
Brianna 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’ lawyer, 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.
This was going to be torture.
Fucking Christ. Did they serve bourbon to defendants? I could use a shot or twelve.
Deputy District Attorney George Schlosser walked up to the podium to give his opening statement to the jury. He took his time, looking each of the twelve members of the jury in the eye before he opened his mouth. Was he going to say anything, or just smile pleasantly all morning?
The court room was completely silent.
“Yeah, I hit the guy,” Schlosser said, nodding dramatically, looking at various jurors. “Yeah, I hit the guy,” he repeated before pausing for further dramatic effect. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, these are the defendant’s own words, given during an interview with the San Diego Police Department, a few days after he assaulted Horst Grossman.”
Schlosser put his hands on his hips, pushing his suit jacket behind him with his arms, and in a voice dripping with accusation and harsh judgment said, “The defendant himself admitted that he did in fact violently punch Horst Grossman in the stomach on September 26, 2013.” Schlosser nodded authoritatively.
Violently? What did you expect when good old Grossman called me a fucking prick and tried to jump me? Was I supposed to give him a friendly punch or maybe a gentle one? Fuck me.
Based on Schlosser’s delivery, you’d think he’d already won the trial. What a fucking douche. He wasn’t there. He didn’t know what happened. I grit my teeth and did my best to look calm, cool, and bland. Russell had warned me not to show my emotions, or the jury might latch onto whatever I did as if it was proof of my guilt.
Schlosser smiled at the jury like they were old pals. “You may be asking yourself why we’re even having a trial today, if the defendant already admitted to hitting Horst Grossman. He’s guilty, right?”
Fuck. I knew exactly what Schlosser was doing. He was planting seeds in the minds of the jury. He was good. I knew a few tricks of my own. Too bad I couldn’t use a single one in the courtroom.
“The reason we’re here today, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is because the defendant wants you to believe he struck the victim in self defense,” Schlosser sneered, as if it couldn’t possibly be true.
I noticed that Schlosser’s assistants, Stanley Whitehead and Natalia Valenzuela, were watching his performance with obvious admiration. I could tell the two of them bowed and scraped at Schlosser’s feet. I couldn’t blame them. If I wanted to be the best bottom feeder ever, I’d probably pucker up for Schlosser too. Fucking low lifes.
“Members of the jury, I ask you to take a look at Exhibit 86 B on the projection screen,” Schlosser said, clicking buttons on his laptop at the podium.
A huge photo popped on the screen mounted on the wall across from the jury box, filling it like a drive in movie theater. The image was split down the middle with me on the left and Horst Grossman on the right. I looked like the Incredible Hulk standing next to a little old man.
The reason for this discrepancy was obvious.
The picture of me was from the day I had been arrested. I wore a white V neck short sleeve tee. My muscled arms, covered in tattoos, were popping out of my shirt. In clear black letters on the gray wall behind me was a horizontal measurement line with the numerals 6’5” skimming the top of my hair.
Horst’s photo had been taken at a different time in front of a random white wall. There were no measuring lines behind him. Horst could be 3’2” or 8’11”, but without any numbers, there was no way to know. Whatever his actual height, his head was positioned much lower than mine, creating the illusion that he was much shorter. Finally, the photo of Horst had been zoomed out. Not so much as to be comically misleading, but enough that Horst seemed like a small, inconsequential man standing next to a mammoth titan.
This was fucking absurd. I knew from standing two inches from Horst Grossman that he wasn’t nearly as tiny as this image made him seem.
The split photo had been on screen for all of two seconds before Schlosser said, “The defendant wants you to believe that Horst Grossman put him in fear for his life that day—”
“Objection, your honor,” Russell cut in authoritatively, “this evidence is blatantly prejudicial.”
“Sustained,” Judge Moody said. She leveled a stern look at Schlosser and said, “Counselor, take that slide down immediately.”
“Absolutely, your honor,” Schlosser said agreeably. He clicked on his laptop and the screen went black.
“Members of the jury,” the judge said, “you will disregard that photo. Let the court transcript reflect that exhibit 86 B has been stricken from evidence.”
It didn’t matter. The jury wasn’t going to forget the photo now that they’d seen it. Worse, none of them had yet seen Horst Grossman in person because he wasn’t even in the courtroom. If he had been, the fair thing would be to have me and Horst stand shoulder to shoulder in front of the jury so they could see for themselves our actual size differences. But that wasn’t how it worked.
George Schlosser knew exactly what he was doing. He was pushing the rules of law to the breaking point, and he was getting away with it.
It wasn’t the first time shit like this had happened to me when I was in court. All I could do was sit still and suck it up in silence.
The rest of Schlosser’s opening statement was almost as heinous and misleading as that split photo, but there was nothing overt that Russell could object to. It was all in the way Schlosser delivered his argument: his sneering judgmental tone of voice, body language, and choice of words. Schlosser was a despicably brilliant man.
When Schlosser finished and sat down at the prosecution table, Russell leaned over and very quietly whispered in my ear, “After nine years working under the head District Attorney, Schlosser is still nothing more than a young buck trying to prove himself. His only goal today is to sharpen the points of his glorious career on your hide while climbing the political ladder. The only problem is, there’s a mountain lion in this here courtroom ready to take his shit down a rung. And that mountain lion’s name is me. Don’t worry, son. I’m going to have Schlosser’s head mounted on my wall before the day is over.”
I cracked a smile.
“No smiling,” Russell ordered sharply as he stood and stepped up to the podium.
Russell was a consummate badass during his opening statement. He was gracious, level headed, straight to the point, focused on the facts, and he dismantled the bulk of Schlosser’s inflammatory arguments with ease.
The men and women in the jury box, who had looked ready to string me up from the nearest tree in a tight noose, nodded thoughtfully at Russell’s words, enthralled by his confident, no bullshit presence.
When Russell finished and sat down at the defense table next to me, I breathed an obvious sigh of relief.
I couldn’t imagine a better attorney in my corner of the ring than Russell Merriweather.
The only problem was that it was going to be back and forth like this all day. Russell Merriweather and George Schlosser were evenly matched. When it came down to it, this trial hinged on my word against Horst Grossman’s, and whether or not the jury believed a word I said after Schlosser titillated them with tales from my true crime lifestyle.
People weren’t inclined to believe a convicted criminal.
Schlosser had the advantage.
If only we had something better to work with.
* * *
SAMANTHA
It had been over an hour since traffic had stopped. There was a black haze in the air that stank of burning rubber and cooked meat. It was nauseating to say the least.
I finally got word from some guy standing outside his Toyota Camry that it wasn’t a pile of burning corpses. Thank god for that. Apparently, a refrigerated Ralph’s grocery store semi truck had over turned and gone up in flames. Several other cars were involved, all of them burning. The CHP weren’t letting anyone drive through the inferno.
But I did see a Life Flight helicopter land up ahead. Had my wish been granted? Was it possible?
Of course not.
I’m pretty sure they needed it for someone who was seriously hurt. Yes, I considered asking if they could give me a lift after they dropped off the injured people at the hospital. No, I didn’t walk up to the scene of the accident and actually ask.
The grapevine rumors about when traffic would be moving again ranged anywhere from one hour to four. I could only cross my fingers and hope.
I called Christos several more times. No answer.
I called Madison who called Jake to ask if he knew who Christos’ lawyer was. Jake never answered. Madison said he was surfing and it could be hours until he checked his phone. What was it with professional surfers spending all their time in the waves?
Damn it. There was nothing I could do but wait.
* * *
CHRISTOS
George Schlosser called a series of witnesses to the stand, all of whom had been at the scene the day I’d punched Grossman. They all sounded reasonable and credible.
The problem was that none of them had a clear, uninterrupted view of the whole thing from start to finish and no one had heard anything Grossman or I had said that day because the traffic noises were too loud, or they’d been too far away, or their windows were rolled up and they hadn’t heard anything at all.
You would think this would work to my advantage. Unfortunately, the law said that if I couldn’t prove I had acted in self defense, the jury would have to find me guilty of assault because I had punched Horst Grossman. It was that simple.
And right now, what the jury had to work with was like handing them a mystery novel with half the pages torn out, including the ending, and asking them who the killer was. They could only guess.
In other words the score was, the State: 1, Me: 0.
In Ice Hockey and Soccer, after a whole bunch of running around, many games finished with one to nothing on the scoreboard. I hoped things went differently for me. I needed someone to run a six point touchdown into the end zone. Too bad no one with legs had the ball.
“The state will call your next witness,” Judge Moody said.
From his seat at the prosecution’s table, George Schlosser said, “The state calls Edna Holloway.”
A uniformed deputy walked outside the courtroom to fetch her. A minute later, the deputy led an old woman up to the podium. She wore a shin length navy blue dress and a pill box hat that floated in the foam of her white hair. She firmly clutched a gold clasped old lady handbag in her gloved hands. Despite her age, she walked erect and with purpose.
My first impression was that she’d probably chopped open kegs of beer and liquor with a wood axe during prohibition, or had led an army of suffragettes during the early charges to secure voting rights for women in the U.S. during the 19th century.
The bailiff motioned for Edna to raise her right hand while he said, “Do you solemnly swear that your testimony will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God”
“Yes,” Edna Holloway said.
The bailiff led her to sit down at the witness stand.
George Schlosser asked Mrs. Holloway a series of questions establishing that she was an 83 year old retired high school math teacher who lived in Del Mar and never missed a Sunday at church. I’d been slightly off about her age. Edna also told the jury how she had been out walking her German Shepherd Greta on the trail running alongside Pacific Coast Highway when I’d punched Horst Grossman. She’d had a clear view of the incident, and had hung around to do her civic duty and tell the cops her version of events.
George Schlosser smiled at her from the podium. “Mrs. Holloway, please tell the court what happened in the moments leading up to the assault.”
“I saw that man,” she pointed at me forcefully, “get off of his motorcycle, walk up to Horst Grossman, and hit him without provocation.” She nodded once for emphasis, her wrinkled lips pursed as tightly as the handbag she clutched in her gloved hands. You’d think she was worried about purse snatchers.
Russell stood up and said, “Objection to the use of the phrase ‘without provocation’, your honor. Mrs. Holloway was not privy to the conversation between Mr. Manos and Mr. Grossman. She had no way of knowing what was said between the two men. Therefore, she can’t speak to matters of provocation.”
“Sustained,” Judge Moody said. “Please strike the phrase ‘without provocation’ from Mrs. Holloway’s testimony. Members of the jury, you will disregard her remark.”
Schlosser cast a snake’s smile in the direction of Russell before he turned back to the witness stand. “Mrs. Holloway, at any time, did you see the victim punch or kick the defendant?”
“No.”
“Did he attack the defendant in any way before the defendant punched him?”
“No. I saw the entire thing, from the time the defendant got off his motorcycle until the time he rode away. I never saw Mr. Grossman attack him.”
Schlosser nodded victoriously. “What happened after the defendant punched Mr. Grossman?”
“I’ll tell you what happened next. Mr. Grossman fell over. Then I watched in horror as the defendant dragged Mr. Grossman to the side of the road and threw him down on the curb like garbage,” she spat. “Just like garbage. I’ve never seen a young person show such blatant disrespect for an elder in all my life. Then he walked away with no concern for the health and well being of Mr. Grossman. After that, he got on his motorcycle and drove off to who knows where.”
That was wrong. I’d asked Grossman if he wanted an ambulance. He’d said no. Of course, Edna Holloway didn’t know that.
“Thank you, Mrs. Holloway,” Schlosser said to her. “Nothing further.”
Schlosser sat down and Russell stepped up to the podium.
“Mrs. Holloway,” Russell said in a friendly tone, “did you happen to overhear any of the conversation between Mr. Manos and Mr. Grossman?”
“I did not.” Edna Holloway’s eyes flashed at Russell like he was the mugger who would undoubtedly steal the purse in her gloved hands. She tightened her grip around it and sat up straight and stiff, her head held high.
“Did you see them speaking to each other?” Russell continued.
“I did.” Mrs. Holloway glanced around defensively, as if Russell was trying to trap her in a lie.
“But you didn’t hear any of the content of their conversation?”
“I did not,” she said warily.
“How would you characterize the body language of Mr. Manos during the conversation?”
I remembered clearly that I’d been calm and relaxed that day. I hadn’t gotten worked up until he’d told me to take a fucking hike.
“Aggressive,” Edna Holloway said, “and confrontational.”
Fuck me. Nothing like eye witness testimony to get to the bottom of things. Only in this case, Edna was shoveling dirt out of the grave she was digging for me with every word out of her mouth.
“You’re sure?” Russell asked doubtfully.
“Yes,” she said tightly.
“Did you at any time see Mr. Grossman move to attack Mr. Manos?”
“No.”
That was wrong. Ten seconds after getting up in my face and shouting F-bombs at me, Grossman had lunged like a charging bull. That’s when I’d punched him. Once. Sounded like self defense to me.
“You never saw Mr. Grossman lunge toward Mr. Manos?” Russell asked skeptically.
“No,” she said firmly.
“Did you see Mr. Grossman step toward Mr. Manos?”
“No.”
“He didn’t move at all?”
“No. Mr. Grossman stood right where he was the whole time. I don’t care how many ways you ask me, sir. That young man threw the first and only punch.” After a pause, she glared at Russell and added, “Without provocation,” as if she was spitting in his eye.
Russell ignored it.
She just had to slide that in, didn’t she? Who the fuck was this woman?
Brianna gave my hand a brief reassuring squeeze under the table. She knew the story, I’d told her and Russell so many times. I glanced at her and she smiled briefly. Neither of us wanted to call attention to ourselves. She went back to taking notes on her laptop and preparing files while I went back to looking bland and calm.
Russell worked Edna Holloway over with questions for the next twenty minutes, coming at her from every angle, but Edna Holloway wouldn’t budge. The last thing Russell wanted to do was look like he was badgering the witness, so he finally backed off and said, “Nothing further, your honor,” before sitting down.
The score was now, the State: 2, and Me: 0.
* * *
After Mrs. Holloway left the witness stand, the deputy led Horst Grossman into the courtroom to be sworn in.
Too bad I couldn’t stand next to Grossman so the jury could see our actual size difference. Horst wasn’t as big as me, but no way was he the tiny man that the District Attorney’s side by side photo of me and Grossman had led the jury to believe.
Grossman’s big gut hadn’t changed. It tented out the flaps of his threadbare sport coat. The guy looked like he couldn’t afford new clothes. I knew that was bullshit. He drove a custom Mercedes convertible, for fuck’s sake. Gone was his gold jewelry and the expensive silk shirt and fitted slacks he’d been wearing the day I’d punched him.
Also missing was his fancy toupee. I remember thinking the guy had a great head of hair. Now he sported a stringy comb over. He looked the part of an ineffectual city bus driver hoping for an early retirement.
Horst Grossman limped his way to the witness stand. He breathed heavily, like he was climbing Mt. Everest. What a show boater. Give that guy an Oscar.
I repressed a desire to chuff out a comical laugh. Ridiculous.
George Schlosser leaned patiently against the podium and smiled while poor old Horst settled into the witness chair with a series of grunts and wheezes. I’m surprised they hadn’t wheeled Horst in on a hospital bed with an IV tube sticking out of his arm.
Schlosser asked Grossman all the usual questions to identify who he was and where he lived. Grossman also rambled on about his family who he loved dearly, his selfless involvement in the community, and his considerable charitable contributions. In his spare time, I had no doubt that Horst sponsored thousands of starving children living in Third World countries, regularly rescued kitten’s caught in trees and helped old ladies across the street. Somebody call the Vatican. They needed to officially recognize Saint Horst Grossman and make some statues of the guy.
Finally, Schlosser dove into relevant testimony. “The question on everyone’s mind, Mr. Grossman, is why you got out of your car in the first place, putting yourself in harm’s way?”
Grossman nodded respectfully, like a good little boy who always did what he was told. Uh huh. He made Sir Anthony Hopkins look like a ham actor in a Wayan’s Brothers comedy. Grossman said, “I thought the woman driving the VW, the one who had stopped in front of me, was having some sort of car trouble. The stoplight had been green for a long time, and her car hadn’t moved. So I got out of my car to check that she was okay.”
It took everything I had not to blurt laughter. Grossman had wanted to kill her, not help her.
Grossman continued, “It turned out, she had spilled her coffee all over her car. I asked her if she needed any help. She said no, she was fine. I suggested that she should pull over to the side of the road to let traffic go by.”
What? He was totally lying. He’d been shouting his ass off at Samantha and calling her names. The guy had been so worked up, I was surprised he hadn’t given himself a stroke. That’s why I’d walked up to Samantha’s car in the first place. Grossman had been trying to pry her window down so he could get to her. When that hadn’t worked, he’d started kicking her car door.
“Was this the point at which the defendant approached you?” Schlosser asked.
“Yes. He surprised me. I never saw him walk up. The next thing I know, he told me to ‘back the F-word off’ and leave. I had no idea what was going on. I had been trying to help the young woman in the VW. I turned to face him so I could explain myself. That’s when he hit me. I was so surprised, I never saw it coming.”
Was he serious? Or just fucking insane?
“Where did the defendant strike you?” Schlosser asked.
“In the stomach. I felt pain shoot out from my belly, and I think the wind was knocked out of me. I couldn’t breathe or even stand up, so I fell to my knees. Before I could recover, he grabbed the back of my shirt and lifted me up. My shirt cut into my throat and I couldn’t breathe. Then he dragged me to the side of the road. I was trying to stay on my feet, but he was pushing me so fast, I kept tripping. I think the only reason I didn’t fall on my face was that he had me by the shirt collar. When we got to the curb, he threw me to the ground.”
