Russell ignored it.
She just had to slide that in, didn’t she? Who the fuck was this woman?
Brianna gave my hand a brief reassuring squeeze under the table. She knew the story, I’d told her and Russell so many times. I glanced at her and she smiled briefly. Neither of us wanted to call attention to ourselves. She went back to taking notes on her laptop and preparing files while I went back to looking bland and calm.
Russell worked Edna Holloway over with questions for the next twenty minutes, coming at her from every angle, but Edna Holloway wouldn’t budge. The last thing Russell wanted to do was look like he was badgering the witness, so he finally backed off and said, “Nothing further, your honor,” before sitting down.
The score was now, the State: 2, and Me: 0.
After Mrs. Holloway left the witness stand, the deputy led Horst Grossman into the courtroom to be sworn in.
Too bad I couldn’t stand next to Grossman so the jury could see our actual size difference. Horst wasn’t as big as me, but no way was he the tiny man that the District Attorney’s side by side photo of me and Grossman had led the jury to believe.
Grossman’s big gut hadn’t changed. It tented out the flaps of his threadbare sport coat. The guy looked like he couldn’t afford new clothes. I knew that was bullshit. He drove a custom Mercedes convertible, for fuck’s sake. Gone was his gold jewelry and the expensive silk shirt and fitted slacks he’d been wearing the day I’d punched him.
Also missing was his fancy toupee. I remember thinking the guy had a great head of hair. Now he sported a stringy comb over. He looked the part of an ineffectual city bus driver hoping for an early retirement.
Horst Grossman limped his way to the witness stand. He breathed heavily, like he was climbing Mt. Everest. What a show boater. Give that guy an Oscar.
I repressed a desire to chuff out a comical laugh. Ridiculous.
George Schlosser leaned patiently against the podium and smiled while poor old Horst settled into the witness chair with a series of grunts and wheezes. I’m surprised they hadn’t wheeled Horst in on a hospital bed with an IV tube sticking out of his arm.
Schlosser asked Grossman all the usual questions to identify who he was and where he lived. Grossman also rambled on about his family who he loved dearly, his selfless involvement in the community, and his considerable charitable contributions. In his spare time, I had no doubt that Horst sponsored thousands of starving children living in Third World countries, regularly rescued kitten’s caught in trees and helped old ladies across the street. Somebody call the Vatican. They needed to officially recognize Saint Horst Grossman and make some statues of the guy.
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.