If my VW had been shorter, I would’ve driven beneath the eighteen wheeler’s trailer, between the sets of wheels. I’d seen it done in a movie once, but I didn’t have a low slung sports car.

Maybe I needed to hop out of my car and hitch a ride with one of those people driving down the shoulder?

A second later, a California Highway Patrol car sped by, lights flashing, siren blaring. He was probably going to pull over those shoulder drivers and ticket them.

Groan!

Could I charter a helicopter and call in an airlift? Probably not. What if I called 911 and told them I needed to get to the hospital? Too bad that wouldn’t help me get to court.

What was I going to do? It was fifteen miles to downtown. Wait. I could run fifteen miles. It wouldn’t take me more than, oh, I don’t know, two hours?

Too bad I was in heels.

Where were Taylor Lamberth’s running shoes when I needed them? I should’ve learned my lesson. Never wear heels. Heels were evil.

I laugh cried at my own morbid joke.

I’d now been stopped for twenty minutes.

That was when I noticed black smoke billowing up into the sky in the distance.

There must have been an accident.

I knew the fire trucks were going to drive by and clear the road at any minute, right? Open up the road and get at least one or two lanes moving?

Right?

Ten more minutes passed without a single firetruck or ambulance. Where were they? People could be dying in their mangled cars. Somebody needed to help them so I could get to the courthouse!

How long would it take to walk? How fast could I walk? Three miles an hour? I could make it to downtown in five hours! Would Christos still be in court?

But could I walk fifteen miles in heels?

Fuck.

As soon as this day was over, I was throwing away any shoe I had with a heel on it. I was going to be one of those women who wore business suits and running shoes during their power walk lunch breaks, but I was going to do it around the clock. I would spearhead the movement to rid the world of shoes with heels! Ladies! Throw away your chains! Burn your heels! Right, like that was going to work. When it came to addictive substances, women’s shoes were worse than crack cocaine. I knew from experience.

Another ten minutes passed without moving an inch. People had gotten out of their cars to look around and see what was happening.

An ambulance finally drove by, followed by a fire truck.

My good humor was gone. I was really stuck. Maybe I could walk to the nearest off ramp and call a cab? But with traffic stopped, how would a cab get to me? Crap.

What was I going to do?

I tried calling Christos. No answer. I’m sure he was in the courtroom in the middle of the trial. He wouldn’t answer.

This was killing me.

I had cold hard evidence that Christos was innocent, incontrovertible proof that he had acted in self defense. All I needed to do was to give it to him and his lawyer. They would know what to do.

But what did it matter if I couldn’t reach them?

I didn’t even know the name of Christos’ lawyer, otherwise I would’ve called his office to tell them what I knew. I’m sure the guy had a secretary who could send an assistant over to the courthouse or whatever.

I slammed my palms repeatedly against my steering wheel.

“Fuck!!!!!!!!!” I screamed.

In that moment, I was completely useless.

CHRISTOS

“All rise for the Honorable Geraldine Moody, presiding,” the bailiff said.

Third time was always the charm. The last two times I’d heard that phrase, during my arraignment and pre-trial, it was no big deal. Now it was the real thing.

After my trial, I was walking out of this courtroom into one of two places. Freedom or prison.

Judge Moody walked to her throne. She wore more makeup than I’d seen previously, and her hair was up in a careful bun. She was all dressed up, an attractive woman who could fuck me over with a single bang of her gavel. Not the kind of banging I liked to think about.

I huffed out a sigh as she settled in.

I was tired of waiting. Let’s get this shit on.

George Schlosser and his assistant D.A. fucks Stanley and Natalia looked ready to drool over my corpse.

Fuck them. I was still kicking and breathing. Watch out, motherfuckers.

“Please be seated,” the judge said gravely from her bench. “We are now on record for the State of California vs. Christos Manos, case number SD-2013-K-071183A. All parties are present. And so we begin,” she finished ominously, “Bailiff, please call in the jury.”

The bailiff opened a side door and twelve jurors, a mix of men and women of various ages and ethnicities, filed into the jury box and sat down. Some of them looked bored. Some looked excited to do their civic duty. Some looked like they’d rather be anyplace else but here.

That was when the truth of my situation slapped me full in the face. Who was I kidding? This wasn’t a fist fight. For the next however many hours, I had to sit still and keep my mouth shut. No fists, no knees, no elbow strikes, nothing. All I could do was wait and hope the jury paid attention, kept an open mind, and didn’t bum rush to judge me.

This was going to be torture.

Fucking Christ. Did they serve bourbon to defendants? I could use a shot or twelve.

Deputy District Attorney George Schlosser walked up to the podium to give his opening statement to the jury. He took his time, looking each of the twelve members of the jury in the eye before he opened his mouth. Was he going to say anything, or just smile pleasantly all morning?

The court room was completely silent.

“Yeah, I hit the guy,” Schlosser said, nodding dramatically, looking at various jurors. “Yeah, I hit the guy,” he repeated before pausing for further dramatic effect. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, these are the defendant’s own words, given during an interview with the San Diego Police Department, a few days after he assaulted Horst Grossman.”

Schlosser put his hands on his hips, pushing his suit jacket behind him with his arms, and in a voice dripping with accusation and harsh judgment said, “The defendant himself admitted that he did in fact violently punch Horst Grossman in the stomach on September 26, 2013.” Schlosser nodded authoritatively.

Violently? What did you expect when good old Grossman called me a fucking prick and tried to jump me? Was I supposed to give him a friendly punch or maybe a gentle one? Fuck me.

Based on Schlosser’s delivery, you’d think he’d already won the trial. What a fucking douche. He wasn’t there. He didn’t know what happened. I grit my teeth and did my best to look calm, cool, and bland. Russell had warned me not to show my emotions, or the jury might latch onto whatever I did as if it was proof of my guilt.

Schlosser smiled at the jury like they were old pals. “You may be asking yourself why we’re even having a trial today, if the defendant already admitted to hitting Horst Grossman. He’s guilty, right?”

Fuck. I knew exactly what Schlosser was doing. He was planting seeds in the minds of the jury. He was good. I knew a few tricks of my own. Too bad I couldn’t use a single one in the courtroom.

“The reason we’re here today, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is because the defendant wants you to believe he struck the victim in self defense,” Schlosser sneered, as if it couldn’t possibly be true.

I noticed that Schlosser’s assistants, Stanley Whitehead and Natalia Valenzuela, were watching his performance with obvious admiration. I could tell the two of them bowed and scraped at Schlosser’s feet. I couldn’t blame them. If I wanted to be the best bottom feeder ever, I’d probably pucker up for Schlosser too. Fucking low lifes.