Devon Hartford - Reckless

I hadn’t seen him face-to-face in a couple months.

We clasped fists and slapped a man hug on each other.

“Did Rhonda offer you a beverage?” he asked.

I winked at Rhonda. “Twice.”

She returned a curt smile.

“Hold my calls, Rhonda. I’ve got Christos Manos up in here.” Russell chuckled heartily. “Come on, son, let’s talk in my office.”

The offices of six other attorneys and several paralegals opened off the long hallway that led to Russell’s office. He had done quite well for himself.

“Have a seat,” he said while motioning to a leather chair in front of his desk. The corner view in his office was more impressive than the one in the lobby. You could see up and down the coast of San Diego. The Pacific Ocean seemed to go on forever.

“Did you come here on that crotch-rocket of yours?” he asked, raising his eyebrows parentally.

“Nope. Garaged it, like you said. My Camaro’s downstairs.”

Russell nodded approvingly. “Good boy. There may be hope for you yet.” He smiled reluctantly, but I could tell it was genuine. He patted my shoulder firmly several times. “Very good.”

He closed his office door and lowered himself into the executive chair behind his desk. His jovial demeanor dimmed about a hundred watts as he laced his fingers together on the blotter in front of him.

“I’m not going to sugar-coat it, son. My private detectives have failed to turn up a single clue that can be of use. We can keep throwing money at them, but I highly doubt they’ll turn anything up at this point.”

I’d been doing my best not to think about any of this for the last several months. I trusted Russell, and knew he hired only the best. I’d seen the invoices. “Where does that put us?”

“I don’t know if you’re aware of this, Christos, but if the jury finds you guilty on all charges, you could face up to four years in the state penitentiary.”

“Prison,” I said.

“Yes.”

“What are the chances of clearing that extra charge, the one that means prison time?”

“You’re talking about the secondary charge? Serious Bodily Injury, correct?”

“Yeah, that. What’s the status on that?

“The State is claiming that the man you assaulted has endured all manner of ongoing health-related issues because of the incident. I have my team investigating the facts, and I intend to call the man’s personal physician to the stand during trial. I will also be calling a physician friend of mine as an expert witness. Then it will be up to me to prove in court that the man’s medical conditions either preceded the incident, or came about wholly separate from it. But it will ultimately be up to the jury to decide whether his injuries qualify as Serious Bodily Injury, or not, as per the judge’s instructions at trial.”

“In English?” I asked.

“From what I’ve seen, that crybaby Horst Grossman wants to blame you for everything from his hangnail to his hair-piece. My task will be to convince the jury that Horst Grossman, is in fact, a cry baby.”

I chuckled. “That sounds like good news. What about the rest of the charges? I mean, I actually hit the guy.”

“Yes, and for that, even if we knock it down to a misdemeanor, you could still face up to a year in jail.”

“Are we going to be able to say it was self-defense?”

“We can say it all we want, but we still have to convince the jury.”

“Can we do that?”

“At this point in time, that part of your case does not look nearly as good. We’re up against the issue of reasonableness. In your case, we’re going to have a very difficult time proving to the jury that you were in fear for your life when Horst Grossman lunged at you. The state will argue that you could’ve easily dodged out of the way without striking him.”

“I didn’t even have time to think about it. I just reacted.”

“Unfortunately, the Deputy D.A. is going to ask why you even walked up to the man in the first place.”

“Because I was trying to help that girl,” I said. I still hadn’t told him “that girl” was Samantha. I really wanted to keep her out of the case entirely. Because if I told her about this trial, that would lead to her inevitable questions about all my other trials. The trials where I’d been found guilty, and rightfully so. I’m sure Samantha would be ecstatic when she found out all about my criminal past.

I’m sure her parents would be happy about that. They’d jump for joy when they found out their daughter was dating an ex-con. They’d want to know when I was going to pressure Samantha into changing her major from Art to Assault.

“And there’s the rub,” Russell said without humor. “If we could find that girl, she may very well convince the jury that she was in fear for her life, and your actions constitute self-defense of another. Then your actions suddenly become more reasonable, both objectively and subjectively.” Russell searched my eyes. “Christos, is there anything you can remember about her? What kind of car was she driving? What color was it? Have you ever seen the girl since the incident, perhaps on the same route? Maybe she commutes to work that way every day. Is it possible she’s a student at SDU? Think hard, son. We’re running out of options.”

Samantha.

Agápi mou.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t tell her. I couldn’t bring her into my mess. It was mine to deal with. Time to suck it up.

With any luck, Russell and his crack team would get me off. Then Samantha and her controlling parents wouldn’t have to worry about my past.

Everything would be perfect.

SAMANTHA

Romeo, Kamiko, and I walked out of Oil Painting class together.

“Do you guys want to get lunch?” Romeo asked.

“I have to go look for a job,” I sighed.

“Why? What happened?” Kamiko asked.

“I changed my major to Art.”

“That’s awesome, Sam!” Romeo said. “You should take Figurative Sculpture with me! There’s still a couple of spots open.”

“Really? I thought it would be full by now,”

“Nope, but you should sign up ASAP.”

“So how come you need the job?” Kamiko asked.

“Oh,” I sighed again, “because I told my parents I changed my major. They flipped and told me they wouldn’t pay for my apartment anymore.”

“That sucks,” Kamiko said. “Do you want to live in my dorm room?”

Kamiko had a double room, which she shared with a roommate. “Thanks, Kamiko. I don’t think there’s room. Well, guys, you should go get lunch. I better take care of things.”

“Do you want us to wait for you?” Romeo asked.

“We totally can,” Kamiko said.

“Thanks, guys. You’re the best. But you should eat.”

We said our goodbyes and I trotted over to the Registrar’s Office first. I was in luck. Figurative Sculpting still had one space left. And class was today. I stopped at the Campus Bookstore to buy supplies.

The clay and sculpting tools were another $139.85. Now it looked like I’d be broke by Friday. Maybe I needed to start skipping lunches. Groan.

I walked back to Career Services in the middle of campus and took a number. I was finally called and sat down at a desk facing a cute guy. He wore a polo shirt with an embroidered SDU logo over the heart.

“How can I help you today?” he asked charmingly.

“I need to find a work-study job.”

“Do you have your student ID?”

I pulled it out of my purse and handed it to him. He punched my info into the computer, then clicked through a few screens.

“It’s a little late in the school year,” he said. “Most of the jobs are usually taken at this point.”

“Oh.” I had been right. Crap.