And now that she had agreed to go—he’d seen the heartbreak in her face—it was too late. The back-and-forth had made their shooter too jittery.
Would he have been better at his job if he’d known she was miles away from this kid’s loaded gun? Or was he better—sharper—because he knew her life was at stake here along with his own?
He had the feeling that the answer might be, paradoxically, both.
But he tried to force his focus onto the kid, especially since McMillan, in a rare burst of common sense, had decided to shut up.
“What’s your name?” Martin asked, once they had all been quiet for a few minutes and the kid had had some time to calm down.
“You don’t need to know my name,” the kid said, but it was typical kid bravado. He cracked a moment later. “Jamie. My name’s Jamie.”
“Hi, Jamie. I’m Martin. This is Tiffani.”
“Hi,” Tiffani said. She gave him a little wave.
“What are you here for, Jamie?” Martin said. He tried to sound as calm as he could.
Jamie jabbed his gun at the judge. Martin twisted his body to continue to block the shot.
“He hit me with everything he had just for boosting a car. It belonged to my friend’s dad, we were just taking it on a joyride! That was the only time! But there was blood on the front bumper and he didn’t care how old it was or when it had gotten there or even if anybody was hurt, he decided we were reckless. Endangering others.”
The sad part was that that was recognizably Terrence McMillan. He had always been unfairly harsh with younger defendants, bragging that he had no patience with any kid who wouldn’t stay on the straight and narrow. He always said that the best way to teach them a lesson was to slam them behind bars for a good, hard look at where their lives were going.
Never mind if all they had done was shoplift a lipstick or spray-paint a bank wall. Or, in this case, gone joyriding—something Martin had done himself when he was Jamie’s age.
He wouldn’t be surprised if, according to Florence, Terry McMillan had done it too.
“You’re out now,” Martin said. He tried to keep his voice calm. “Whatever he did to you, I’m sorry, but it’s done and you’re out of it now—Jamie, don’t play right back into his hands and get yourself thrown back in juvie.”
Jamie shook his head. “I won’t go back. That’s not going to happen.” He jabbed his whole arm forward. “And stop standing in front of him! Stop protecting him!”
Martin shook his head. “I have to, son. It’s my job.”
“Why won’t you go back?” Tiffani said suddenly.
Martin hadn’t even known that Bruce Tompoulidis was still in the room until he heard an unfamiliar voice, sharp and strained: “For God’s sake, Tiffani, don’t get involved. What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing,” Tiffani said. “There’s nothing the matter with me.”
She moved to stand beside Martin. He passionately wished she was anywhere else and yet knew, at the same time, that she was exactly where she was supposed to be. They were destined to be a team.
Tiffani said, “Jamie, did someone tell you that nothing bad would happen to you if you came here and did this? Did they say they’d be able to protect you?”
“What the hell is she talking about?” Bruce said. He was now appealing to Martin, as though he thought Tiffani beyond reason: the edge of panic in his tone was sharper than a knife.
Tiffani ignored him so completely it was like she couldn’t even hear him.
All Martin wanted to do was to airlift her out of this, but his pegasus said, Don’t you dare. Our mate is strong.
Being strong doesn’t mean you can’t get shot, Martin argued.
She needs your trust more than she needs your protection.
Fine. She had his trust—every last bit of it. He still wasn’t lowering his gun.
“Because,” Tiffani said steadily, “if Bruce Tompoulidis—that guy back there who’s been yelling at me to shut up—if he told you that he could keep anything from happening to you, he lied. He doesn’t have that kind of power. He doesn’t have any influence. He’s just a law clerk who hates his boss and would be glad to ruin his day.”
Martin watched Jamie take this in.