“He’s just trying to get a rise out of people,” she said. “No other comment.”
“Ms. West!”
She was shocked and grateful—shocked that she was grateful—when the Olympiad swept her up and escorted her away from the journalistic horde. Mentis appeared on one side of her, Spark on the other, and the Captain and the Bullet broke through the crowd and herded them back.
Everyone stepped aside when Captain Olympus appeared.
“Conference room. This way,” Bronson said, nodding over his shoulder.
By then, the reporters were shouting at all of them, but they’d all had experience ignoring the press. They left the courtroom without a backward glance.
—Better?—
“Yeah, thanks,” Celia said, and her mother glanced at her, questioning. Chuckling to herself, Celia had to shake her head.
Once safe in the privacy of Bronson’s conference room, which was windowless and annoyingly devoid of chairs, the Captain began pacing the length of the longest wall.
“He had no business talking to you,” he muttered. He glanced at Celia and frowned. “Mentis, why’d he do it? What did he mean by it?”
“Haven’t a clue. I’ve never been able to read him. That hasn’t changed,” the telepath said.
“You must have made quite an impression on him. At some point,” Bronson said to her.
She had to take a calming breath before speaking. “It’s the same old story. He’s using me to get to them.”
“We know,” Spark said.
“I am definitely not putting you on the stand. Not after that.”
Good, Celia thought. She was a bit panicked that Bronson had ever considered calling her to testify.
Bronson thanked the heroes for being there, for giving their stamp of approval to the proceedings. Maybe now the media would stop asking why the Olympiad didn’t take justice into its own hands. The heroes were servants of the city. Not its judge and jury.
The meeting broke up after that. She was happy enough to leave Bronson’s posthearing war council. The hallway had finally cleared out, and she could navigate it in peace. Almost.
“Ms. West. Celia. I mean … Hi.” Detective Mark Paulson came from the back of the courtroom to intercept her. He had the best aw-shucks grin she’d seen in weeks.
She tried to look encouraging. “Detective, hello. What can I do for you?”
“Well, see, as a matter of fact … I’ve got a couple of tickets to the symphony fund-raiser on Friday. I know this isn’t a good time, but I don’t know when I’m going to see you again—”
“You could call.”
“I don’t have your number.”
“You’re a detective and you couldn’t dig up my phone number?” He was starting to blush. She felt like she was wearing an awfully silly smile in response. “Or you could ask for it.”
“So,” he said. “How about it?”
“My number?”
He sighed. “Yeah. And the symphony.”
“I think I’d like that. It’s formal, right?”
“Right.”
“So I should get a dress?”