Devon Hartford - Painless

“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.”