Finally, Schlosser dove into relevant testimony. “The question on everyone’s mind, Mr. Grossman, is why you got out of your car in the first place, putting yourself in harm’s way?”

Grossman nodded respectfully, like a good little boy who always did what he was told. Uh huh. He made Sir Anthony Hopkins look like a ham actor in a Wayan’s Brothers comedy. Grossman said, “I thought the woman driving the VW, the one who had stopped in front of me, was having some sort of car trouble. The stoplight had been green for a long time, and her car hadn’t moved. So I got out of my car to check that she was okay.”

It took everything I had not to blurt laughter. Grossman had wanted to kill her, not help her.

Grossman continued, “It turned out, she had spilled her coffee all over her car. I asked her if she needed any help. She said no, she was fine. I suggested that she should pull over to the side of the road to let traffic go by.”

What? He was totally lying. He’d been shouting his ass off at Samantha and calling her names. The guy had been so worked up, I was surprised he hadn’t given himself a stroke. That’s why I’d walked up to Samantha’s car in the first place. Grossman had been trying to pry her window down so he could get to her. When that hadn’t worked, he’d started kicking her car door.

“Was this the point at which the defendant approached you?” Schlosser asked.

“Yes. He surprised me. I never saw him walk up. The next thing I know, he told me to ‘back the F-word off’ and leave. I had no idea what was going on. I had been trying to help the young woman in the VW. I turned to face him so I could explain myself. That’s when he hit me. I was so surprised, I never saw it coming.”

Was he serious? Or just fucking insane?

“Where did the defendant strike you?” Schlosser asked.

“In the stomach. I felt pain shoot out from my belly, and I think the wind was knocked out of me. I couldn’t breathe or even stand up, so I fell to my knees. Before I could recover, he grabbed the back of my shirt and lifted me up. My shirt cut into my throat and I couldn’t breathe. Then he dragged me to the side of the road. I was trying to stay on my feet, but he was pushing me so fast, I kept tripping. I think the only reason I didn’t fall on my face was that he had me by the shirt collar. When we got to the curb, he threw me to the ground.”

Schlosser continued asking Grossman a litany of questions: the severity of his injuries, how long he was off of work, how much pain he was in immediately after the attack and in the weeks following. It went on and on. Horst Grossman sounded like the most level headed, reasonable guy on the planet. George Schlosser was so smart with his questions, there was little Russell could object to.

I was on the edge of my seat when Schlosser finally turned things over to Russell.

Russell stepped confidently to the podium and went straight to work on Grossman. “Do you remember saying anything to Mr. Manos when he approached you?”

“Not that I recall,” Grossman answered promptly.

“You didn’t say anything to provoke him?”

“Not that I recall.”

“You didn’t make any threatening remarks?”

“Not that I recall.”

Fuck, Grossman had the most selective memory of all time. If he was going to lie his way through cross examination, I was fucked.

“How long would you estimate it was between the time you turned to face Mr. Manos and when you claim he attacked you?”

“I don’t know, maybe five seconds?” Grossman said thoughtfully.

Now he remembered. Too bad his recollection was a tad inaccurate.

“Did you make any moves that might have provoked Mr. Manos?”

“None that I recall.”

“You didn’t move toward him suddenly?”

“I don’t think so.”

Russell noticeably rolled his eyes. I couldn’t blame him. I wanted to roll mine, but I stared straight at Grossman as blandly as possible. I hoped the jury didn’t spot the daggers and bullets sneaking out of my eyes, because they were flying out at a thousand rounds a minute.

Russell asked Grossman, “You didn’t move an inch?”

“I don’t think so,” Grossman answered.

“Did you stand immobile, like a statue?” Russell asked in a tone that bordered on comical.

Grossman chuckled agreeably. “Of course not. But I didn’t make any sudden movements.”

“You’re sure?” Russell said doubtfully. “May I remind you, Mr. Grossman, that you are testifying under oath?”

Grossman’s brows furrowed. “I know that, sir, and I didn’t make any sudden moves.”

“That seems odd to me, Mr. Grossman. You’re saying that the defendant got off of his motorcycle, walked up to you, a complete stranger, and simply punched you in the stomach? Then he led you to the curb and asked you if you needed an ambulance?”

“It was the strangest thing…” Grossman mused thoughtfully.

“It was, wasn’t it?” Russell marveled, a grin of disbelief tugging at the corners of his mouth.

I was marveling too. Grossman was totally lying. But there was no way to prove it.

Russell asked more questions about the attack and the aftermath, including Grossman’s supposed injuries, but the man deflected all of Russell’s questions like the greatest goal tender in the history of sports. I couldn’t believe it. Grossman was a total pro on the stand.

Russell finally ran out of questions and sat down.

“Anything further, counselors?” the judge asked.

“No, your honor,” Schlosser said from the prosecutor’s table.

“Nothing further, your honor,” Russell said.

“The State rests, your honor,” Schlosser said.

Grossman stepped down from the witness stand.

“All right,” Judge Moody said, “we’ll take a short fifteen minute recess, then the defense will call its first witness.” She banged the gavel with finality.

Fuck. The score was now: the State: 3, Me: 0

The only way I was going to score any points with the jury was when Russell called me to the stand, giving me the opportunity to finally tell my version of events. If I was lucky, this would win me a point with the jury, bringing the score up to 3 to 1. Too bad Schlosser would get to follow up with questions about my criminal past during cross examination. He could very well undermine any advantage I’d gained from telling my side of the story. If things went poorly, after I was finished testifying, the score could be back to 3 to 0, or worse, the jury might view me as a criminal. Because everyone knew: once a criminal, always a criminal. That would score a point for the prosecution. The way I saw it, that would put things at 4 to 0.

Sadly, it didn’t matter. Whether it was 3-0, 3-1, or 4-0, I was the loser in every scenario.

I needed an NFL wide receiver to run right onto this soccer field and catch a Hail Mary touchdown pass, or I was fucked.

Too bad there were no wide receivers in soccer.

SAMANTHA

The traffic jam finally cleared enough for the emergency crews to let cars start going through. It took forever for everyone to merge into the one lane that was open and squeeze around the wreck.

The Ralph’s semi and the other cars involved in the accident were all twisted, crunched, and blackened. The firemen were still milling about and hosing things down, but nothing appeared to be burning anymore. The people who’d been air lifted out by the helicopter were long gone. I took a moment to remind myself that their days were going way worse than mine.

I stuck to 65 mph on the way downtown, paranoid I might get pulled over by the CHP if I tried to speed. I didn’t need any more delays. I kept a four second following distance from the cars in front of me. I didn’t want to somehow get in a wreck of my own. That bitch Lady Luck had been working against me all morning, so I wasn’t giving her any opportunities to further fuck me over.