“What about them?” he said warily.
“This is an important trial. I’m sure my records will be consulted many times in the future—long after the media coverage has faded away, these will still be the official record of what happened here today. I had to make a judgement call, Your Honor, about whether or not you would want those irrelevant matters cluttering up the legal record. I know your professionalism, obviously, so I thought that you would prefer to have a transcript largely clear of those distractions.”
Hope began to dawn in McMillan’s eyes. They didn’t look used to having anything dawn in them at all. Their sudden optimism didn’t seem to go with his stern, hangdog face.
“That would, of course, be best.”
“But I also know my own professionalism,” Tiffani said, “and how important it is that everyone involved in this trial execute their tasks fully. If I were to stay at my desk, I would have the responsibility of transcribing every word of that outburst, relevant or not. But if I were forced to get involved, I could indicate that in my records—accurately—to account for any gap. I doubt anyone would mind that, since it’s clear that the protest was irrelevant to the outcome of the trial.”
She handed Judge McMillan the crisp, freshly-printed pages of her transcript. She had put a sticky tab on the most relevant page.
It was the one that now had a large, bracketed break in the center of it:
[At this point court reporter (Tiffani Marcus) was needed to intervene in peacefully clearing the protesters from the courtroom. Missing dialogue not germane to the trial, a fact testified to by Deputy Chief Marshal Martin Powell, here witnessed, and Tiffani Marcus, here witnessed. Court resumes.]
McMillan looked up from the page.
“Ms. Marcus,” he said, “you kept a remarkably clear head during all that
uproar. I’m glad to have a court reporter of your talents assigned to me on such an important trial.”
“I’m only doing my best, Your Honor,” Tiffani said.
Chapter Fourteen: Tiffani
Once again, it was her particular, dangerous pleasure to step outside after a long day’s work and run into Martin.
Maybe this was going to be her life now. Was that way too much to hope for?
“Hey there, tall, dark, and hands—wait, don’t they measure horses’ heights in hands?”
His mouth quirked. “They do.” He lowered his voice even though they were alone, and it made everything feel more intimate. “I’m eighteen hands, roughly. My mother used to mark our heights against the door of the barn.”
That was precious. It was so adorable it should have been a watercolor painting at some county fair: a cute little colt with his neck stretched out as far as it would go, a laughing woman with a Sharpie. The wings would give it a surreal touch, of course.
She shook her head, not that it did that much too clear it. It had been one hell of a day. A hell of a week. “You got off early.”
“Gretchen’s still managing the office while I watch your courtroom.”
“You’re not watching the courtroom now,” she pointed out. “Don’t they need you?”
He shrugged. This was the first time she had seen him look like his body didn’t fit him; like he was as uncomfortable in his own skin as he would have been in new and very itchy clothes.
“I’m not going to be able to split my focus very well until all this wraps up. When the courtroom is open, when court is in session, I’m courthouse security. I’m a Marshal and that’s the job. But otherwise, as long as it doesn’t bother you, I... want to make sure you’re safe. Can I take you to dinner again? Walk you to your car, at least, if you have to go home?”
It was such an innocent question. It reminded her of the swoony fantasies she’d had about boys before she had ever even kissed one: he would be chivalrous and walk her to her door at night and give her his letterman’s jacket if she got cold. It wasn’t naive to believe that Martin was, against all odds, really that guy. Tiffani had a lot of faults, but being naive wasn’t one of them, not anymore. She trusted her own judgment enough to believe that he really was the perfect dream guy.
After all, what little girl hadn’t grown up wanting a flying horse?
He was her dream. And if she still had trouble believing she was his, well, she had to admit he made her want to.
Besides, after this afternoon, she felt like kind of a badass.
Suddenly, she had a ludicrous and wonderful idea.
You said you’d let him sweep you off your feet, she reminded herself. And so far, as amazing as everything has been, you have still very literally been on the ground.
She nodded. “Okay. And yes to dinner, definitely. But instead of walking me to my car, why don’t you give me a ride?”