for the fifty grand price tag, my father has shelled out twenty-five thousand in cash and offered his legal services free of charge for the next twenty-four months to Gold’s former owners who own the Fly Bye Café near the Ontario airport. He’s defending the couple in a frivolous lawsuit brought on by a customer who claims she suffered second-degree burns from a scalding hot wiener that slipped out of the bun and disfigured her chin. The woman is asking for two hundred thousand for medical bills, lost wages, and mental pain and anguish. After all, she now has to dab concealer on the reddish nickel-sized spot on her skin left behind by the runaway hot dog.
The high-priced stallion is supposedly paid for with the hefty retainer Bared had ponied up. Defending a homicide charge doesn’t come cheap even if a plea bargain is reached and it never goes to trial. With the expert witness from Long Beach Memorial waiting in the wings to back up Bared’s claim of temporary insanity, the Prosecutor settles on a ten-year sentence at a maximum security psychiatric facility. And with good, meaning sound, behavior, Bared will be out in five years before his daughters are my age and enter middle school.
Uncle Gil turns down the TV and it’s in my uncertainty about his real motives, in those brief seconds while I decide how to get out of this, that he makes his move. His warm hands slipping all over my skin worries me. I know things could get far worse.
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