“At the moment, Your Honor, I don’t have anything to type. And I already transcribed my notes from this morning. I’m ready and waiting for court to be reconvened.”
Martin gave her a little twitch of a thumbs up behind McMillan’s back. He was leaning forward slightly, like one more comment from McMillan would make him spring into action to protect her.
McMillan himself scowled but couldn’t seem to think of any objection to this. “Well. Try to keep your mind on your work.”
“Of course,” Tiffani said coolly, crossing her ankles under her desk.
Martin leaned back again. She smiled at him, trying to thank him from a distance for both supporting her and letting her fight her own battles.
People slowly began to filter back into the courtroom. It helped her out by diffusing some of the sexual tension.
She was glad Martin hadn’t seen her conversation with Bruce. She had the feeling his patience for someone talking to h
er like that would be low, and as much as she would get a thrill out of being defended, she would be better off in the long run if she could shut down her jerk boss all on her own.
Besides, she didn’t want him to spend the whole afternoon steaming. She knew a lot of people didn’t think court reporters had the most interesting job in the world, but she would have taken it over courtroom security any day. Martin had joined the Marshals for adventure and the desire to see what he was made of. At the moment, he was stuck leaning against a wall waiting for something to happen. And hoping it wouldn’t.
Today wouldn’t exactly live up to his childhood dream. She wanted to make sure it would be no worse than it had to be.
“ALL RISE!” the bailiff bellowed.
Tiffani forced herself to turn all her attention to her steno machine.
The funny thing, she thought, was that Theo had been right when he had made her job sound like a sacred task. At least, it was one that resonated with her on a bone-deep level. She had spent her whole adult life dealing with whirling rumors, innuendoes, and blurry memories. It was good to know that she was helping to contribute to some absolute record of what was being said and decided right in this room. Years from now, anyone who wanted to could consult her notes and find the whole story of this trial, accurate down to the word.
Including the words that had no business being in that courtroom at all.
“Stop the bulldozers! Stop the bulldozers! Stop the bulldozers!”
Tiffani reflexively recorded the protest but had to stop herself from adding, “Stop what bulldozers?”
A bunch of gray-haired men and women had risen from their seats. One particularly tech-savvy gentleman had cued up some inspirational music on his phone.
The courtroom had been struck by elderly flash-mob protesters.
Elderly flash-mob historians, apparently. They were now unfurling butcher’s paper placards that read things like A CITY NEEDS ITS HISTORY and STOP DEMOLITION and PROTECT HISTORIC HOMES.
A sprightly woman with a cotton candy-like puff of white hair moved into the aisle and proved to have a booming voice to rival the bailiff’s.
“Sterling may not be New York or Boston, but we have our history here, and we’re proud of it! Some of our surviving architecture dates back to the early eighteen-hundreds, and developers are trying to tear it down for malls! Condos! E-cigarette stores!” She threw that last possibility out with such disgust that Tiffani was willing to bet she was a proudly unreconstructed smoker. Or maybe just someone sticking it to a grandchild she considered obnoxious.
“Join with Sterling’s Historical Society and preserve our city!”
McMillan looked like his life was flashing before his eyes. For once, Tiffani pitied him.
Martin was clearly reluctant to strongarm senior citizens out of the courtroom, and Tiffani could see him trading glances with the bailiff, each of them trying to see if the other would take the lead.
Finally, Martin said, “Ma’am, I think you might be in the wrong courtroom. This trial doesn’t relate to land development or historical preservation, and you’re disrupting—”
“I know where I am, young man!” the lady snapped.
(Tiffani typed that bit up with actual glee and wished she could also record the impressed shock on Martin’s face.)
“We go where our audience is,” she continued. “If crowds will turn out for bloody, despicable murder—”
“...Objection?” a lawyer tentatively said.
“—but not for our fair city staying attached to its roots and its local color, then we in the Historical Society have to reach out to the community where it is.”