Reckless

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.

Agapi 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.

He smiled at me. “Don’t worry, I’ll find you something. Let me see here…I see that you recently changed your major to Art?”

“I did!” I couldn’t hide my excitement.

“Maybe there are some internships with the professors.” He clicked several more keys and moused around, reading intently.

My stomach knotted tighter and tighter as I waited hopefully.

“Hmmm,” he frowned. “I’m not seeing anything.”

“Oh.” My heart sank.

“Let me try one more thing.” He searched around for another minute. His face broke into a smile and he turned to me. “How about working in the Eleanor M. Westbrook art museum?”

“Really? That sounds awesome!”

“They need someone to work the front counter. Do you think you could handle that?”

“Of course! How much does it pay?”

“Ten bucks an hour. Will that work?”

“Totally!” $10.00 an hour was more than my dad had calculated that artist had made on the hundred dollar oil painting in Dad’s office! I smiled smugly to myself. Christos was right. I was already going to make more money doing art things than my parents believed possible. I was determined to prove to myself, and to them, that I could do this. That art wasn’t a pipe dream career.

“I’ll shoot an email over to the head curator at the museum to let them know you want to apply for the position, but you’ll have to go over there and fill out the application and do an interview. Is that okay?”

“I can totally do that! Thank you!” I was elated.

I left Career Services and headed straight over to the museum, smiling the whole way there.

When I walked inside, I told the girl sitting at the cash register that I needed an application.

“Are you applying for the cashier job?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Would you like to speak to Mr. Selfridge? He’s in his office.”

“Sure,” I said. I had an hour until Sculpting class with Romeo. My stomach grumbled, but I’m sure I would have time to grab a snack on the way to class. I just hoped I could afford it.

The girl at the counter made a call on a phone behind the counter. “He’ll be out in a second. You can wait here.”