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.

Russell whispered, “I think Geraldine might be sweet on you, young man. Perhaps you can slip her your phone number and make dinner plans. Sweeten her up before your trial.”

I rolled my eyes and suppressed a chuckle. “Yeah, right.”

“We are now on record for the State vs. Manos,” the judge intoned gravely, “case number SD-2013-K-071183A. Counsel, please announce your appearances for the record.”

“George Schlosser, on behalf of the state of California.”

“Stanley Whitehead, on behalf of the state,” Schlosser’s assistant said. Stanley flung me a scoffing glance like I’d stolen his milk money one too many times in grade school. I’d like to pop his whitehead with a pin and shove a gallon of benzoyl peroxide down his throat.

“Natalia Valenzuela, on behalf of the state,” Schlosser’s other assistant said with a fluid hispanic accent. I hoped Natalia was as kind hearted as she looked. For all I knew, it was just an act to make people forget to take her seriously. She worked for the D.A.’s office after all, not as a nun or a nurse.

“Russell Merriweather, on behalf of Mr. Manos.”

The judge shuffled papers and files on the desk in front of her, setting everything in order. When she was finished, she folded her hands on the desk in front of her. “Thank you, counselors. We have a number of motions to work through. I suggest we begin with the State. Mr. Schlosser?”

George Schlosser stepped up to the podium between the prosecution table and the defense table and said, “Mr. Manos is identified through witness statements and descriptions as the perpetrator in the assault and battery in question.”

 Schlosser then proceeded to dive into a litany of evidentiary motions. In other words, Schlosser told the judge all the things he was going to do at my trial to prove I was the bad guy, that I had swung first at poor old Horst Grossman for no good reason.

It was all uncomfortably familiar.

How many times had I sat behind the defense table for similar reasons? I’d lost count. In the past, I’d never cared. But I hadn’t had much to care about. Now things were different.

Now I had Samantha to worry about. Seeing her flourish and find success in life was my number one priority.

I grit my teeth. I couldn’t wait for this shit to be over.

When Schlosser finished sketching out what the State would argue on Friday at my trial, he returned to his seat and Russell took over the podium.

The entire time Russell spoke, Schlosser watched him closely, taking notes and periodically whispering to his assistants. I knew Schlosser was strategizing, looking for any weakness in Russell’s case that he could exploit during my trial. For the most part, nothing was whetting Schlosser’s carnivorous appetite. He almost looked bored. Russell Merriweather ran a tight ship, and I knew he’d worked up a solid case for my claim of self defense. The real action wouldn’t really start until Friday.

“Will you be calling any other witnesses at trial, Mr. Merriweather?” Judge Moody asked, her eyes on her desk while she jotted down a note on some paperwork.

Before Your Love by Kelly Clarkson began playing from my suit jacket. It wasn’t very loud, but in the crypt quiet courtroom, it sounded like a primo sound system at full blast. Shit. I thought I’d turned the ringer off before coming into court. I must’ve done it wrong. I fumbled with my jacket, trying to shut the phone off through the material. No good. I had to pull it out.

The judge cannoned a hard glare at me. “Do we have a problem, Mr. Manos?”

“No, I, uh,” I mumbled as I fished my phone out of my suit.

“Perhaps we can reconvene when it’s more convenient for you, Mr. Manos?” the judge asked sarcastically. I wasn’t scoring any points with her today.