Painless (9 page)

“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.