Trial Gone Awry. Jesus.

Last I wrote I had chosen Siccio as my personal defense attorney, and the case was looking good. We went to trial this morning, facts in hand, and I was a sure thing to collect my damages from the salon and the ridiculous women who work there. Little did it matter that Siccio's command of the English language was loose; we had run through countless courtroom scenarious wherein fine grammar was immaterial. He always made our case in a compelling manner.

In the car on the way to the courthouse Siccio was not being himself, and seemed completely preoccupied. He kept using his right-hand index finger to tap the pads of his left-hand fingertips in ordered succession, and during opening arguments he stumbled several times. Well, I say stumbled, but facts be plain, he was completely batshit. There was something wrong with the man.

The judge caught onto this before too long and asked him if he was feeling alright. He responded by muttering in Italian and falling to his knees. He then pressed his forehead to the floor and began weeping in unconstrained high tones.

Just my luck my attorney would get Manic Depression coupled with Sahrazen's Ture during my trial and be deemed Unfit to Represent. I accompanied Siccio to the hospital where he was dressed in a simple patterned paper gown and trundled off to Observation, but that was about it. I'm at home now, trying to figure on what to do next.

I am now represented by Siccio.

That J. Preston Norwood character turned out to be a hack ambulance chaser who ought to spend a little more time practicing law and a little less time filling the airwaves with his warbly local cable TV ads. That asshole: I stand to make millions from this god-damned assault and he has the gall to say to me, in the most blasé of voices, that he "...really [doesn't] specialize in people who get beat up at barber shops." I got the point pretty quick that if I wasn't his carbon-copy, insurance-fraud-in-a-neck-brace, he didn't want anything to do with me, so I hung up right in his corny god-damned face. I'll be launching an investigation into his cases later, on my own, in order to bring down his greasy practice.

Long story short, I am now represented by Siccio, who seems like he has carry-through. I had actually preferred him from the beginning, despite the language barrier, because he exudes a swarthy, stoic confidence, and juries are subject to that just like the rest of us. If Siccio says I am innocent, then I dare the average jurybox-filling nitwit to tell him otherwise. If Siccio says that the barberess and her salon have to give me 1.6 million dollars, and he slaps his right fist into his left palm, I am going to get 1.6 million dollars. If I don't, Siccio says, "all the barbershop and the barber lady they have for sure a accident."