Painless (18 page)

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.”

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

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

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

“Not that I recall,” Grossman answered promptly.

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

“Not that I recall.”

“You didn’t make any threatening remarks?”

“Not that I recall.”

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