by Zoe Chant
“A sledgehammer made out of words.”
“I’ll tell him I don’t want him to declare a mistrial or recuse himself, that I would never even dream of it, but that I want him to be alert to anything suspicious.”
“Hang on,” Tiffani said suddenly. “I might have just remembered something.”
She opened the leather satchel resting on her knees and dug through whatever was inside. She came up with a clutch of papers that her eyes flew over.
“Your notes?” Martin guessed.
“My notes. I give the transcripts to the judge, but I keep the original steno ones.”
She ran one finger down the page and then looked up at him triumphantly, her eyes shining. She looked like a goddess.
“Bruce wasn’t in the courtroom the entire time the protesters were there. I always record the attendance of all the officers of the court and the lawyers—everyone on our side of the courtroom, basically. I remembered because at first I’d expected him to be there, but then he got smug about how he wouldn’t have to sit through it. He said he’d be in the judge’s chambers.”
“Doing what?”
“No idea. I don’t even know if he was really there, but we can at least use this as proof that he wasn’t anywhere the protesters might have seen him.”
“No Bruce,” Martin said, letting that sink in.
Tiffani slid the papers back into her satchel and closed the flap with a definitive smack.
“One hundred percent sure. No Bruce.”
Chapter Eighteen: Tiffani
If they gave out official US Marshal Service commendations for patience in the line of duty, Tiffani thought, Martin would have one before the day was out.
The two of them had been sequestered with Judge McMillan for twenty minutes now. He was still refusing to hear a single thing Martin was saying.
She and Martin agreed that Bruce was definitely their number one suspect, but Tiffani had still balked at sharing that suspicion with McMillan. Martin was right: that could wreck Bruce’s job and maybe even his entire life. If he turned out to be innocent, she didn’t want that on her head.
Still, she thought they had more than enough ammunition to convince McMillan that he should be hyper-vigilant about anything unusual happening in his courtroom. They shouldn’t have had to tell him who might be responsible for it. But McMillan was refusing to be convinced.
“I will not stand idly by while you make a three-ring circus out of this trial, Powell!”
“Your Honor, once again, that’s not my intention. All I’m asking is that you allow an additional Marshal to stand on duty with me in the courtroom and that you keep an eye out for anything strange.”
McMillan scoffed. “Anything strange. This whole trial is strange.”
“That’s right,” Martin said. “It’s already a three-ring circus. It’s a breeding ground for bizarre incidents. No one will be happier than me if it turns out that that’s all this is.”
“I’ll be happier,” McMillan said.
Martin was silent a moment. Tiffani wondered if he was counting to ten inside his head.
“Fine. You would be happier. No one cares about this trial as much as you do. No one knows as much about this trial as you do. That’s why I need your help in looking out for anything that doesn’t belong—you’re the one who knows what fits.”
“And you have the best view,” Tiffani said, unable to resist.
McMillan looked at her sharply, but her little blackmail maneuver yesterday still held. She didn’t know if it was fear or lingering gratitude that made him ignore her snarky input, but she was glad to have gotten away with it. It felt good, she thought, to make jokes.
Especially when she knew Martin thought she was funny.
“I will be alert,” McMillan said at last, his voice very begrudging. “But no extra Marshals.”
“Your Honor, be reasonable. Remember how concerned you were about security the day we got the bomb threat.”
Two days ago. It seemed like a lifetime had passed since then. Enough time for McMillan to have changed his mind. Enough time for her to have fallen in love.
McMillan pressed his thin lips together. Tiffani entertained herself by thinking about what kind of shifter he would be—though she doubted he was that interesting.
A turtle, maybe, all bald head and glower. Or a snake... though that might have been too obvious.
Two days ago, McMillan had thought the biggest threat to his courtroom was a possible mad bomber. Now, he thought the biggest thread was a cloud of confusion and concern getting the trial booted down the road. He wouldn’t budge.
In his heart, Tiffani suspected that if he’d had the choice between him losing control of the trial and someone at the trial dying, he would have chosen to let someone die.
No wonder he’d attracted this kind of vendetta.
“No extra security,” McMillan said. “That’s final. I won’t have you inducing terror and panic.”
He stood up and pointed them both towards the door.
“How much terror and panic do you think it would induce if someone started waving a gun around?” Tiffani said under her breath as she and Martin filed out.
“I’m afraid we might find out,” Martin said grimly.
In the hallway, surrounded by people briskly passing by to either side of them, they stood close together, like two people huddling over a fire—in this case, she supposed, their shared certainty that something was very wrong here.
“Could I talk you into suddenly feeling like you had to call in sick?” Martin said.
From the look in his eyes, he already knew the answer.
Tiffani shook her head. “I have a job to do. And if I’m not there to do it, they’ll just send in someone else. Someone who might not be willing to pitch in and help you if things go wrong. You want to protect me? I want to protect you. And I don’t want to put anyone else in danger just so I can be safe.”
Martin touched her chin. Just for a moment, but Tiffani felt as though the warmth of his hand would linger there all day.
“My brave mate,” he said, his voice pitched too low for anyone else to hear the words. “I never thought perfect for me would mean you being this perfect.”
She couldn’t explain it, not even to herself, but there was something so straightforward about him, something that slipped past all her defenses. He was so matter-of-fact even when he was saying these romantic lines that any woman would kill to hear. He didn’t seem to know they were lines at all—and maybe from him, they weren’t. No, she knew they weren’t. They were just what he felt. He was honest, and she was his truth.
No, she wasn’t going to let anything happen to him.
*
“All rise!”
And here we go.
Tiffani rose along with everyone else, smoothing her skirt down as she stood. She made eye contact with Martin and twitched her gaze towards Bruce, hoping he would follow her look. He did and gave her a tiny nod.
She would have guessed that being so nervous would be a huge distraction. She’d have thought that her fingers would slip and slide off the keys or come down too heavily. She’d expected any and every kind of mistake that would result in her having an error-ridden set of notes that it would take forever to correct.
But even if she was nervous, her hands were not. They flew over the steno machine keys like they were totally separate from the rest of her body.
It had been one thing to know that she was good at her job. It was another thing entirely to see it in action.
How about that.
But for the whole morning, it seemed like all their nervousness, all their planning, and all their caution might have been for nothing. The trial moved on as smoothly as it was ever going to—testimonies and cross-examinations were peppered with heated objections, the spectators responded audibly even when told multiple times to remain quiet, and anyone stepping out of the room was greeted immediately with camera flashes. But that was all par for the course,
more or less. It came with the publicity.
Martin had been right: Tiffani knew this kind of thing. She had been through it before. And so far, she thought, today was going as well as it could.
Maybe there had never been anything wrong.
Maybe even if Bruce had been trying to strike out at his boss, the increased attention this morning had scared him off. Especially since Tiffani didn’t trust McMillan not to have mentioned something about Martin interfering in his running of his own courtroom.
Bruce could have gotten spooked, especially if the earlier events had partly been about lulling them into ignoring any hint of a threat. He wouldn’t have liked that tensing them up instead.
It was like some alternate take on the boy who cried wolf, Tiffani reflected. One where the townspeople started to think that something was a little creepy about how much this kid wanted them to think a wolf was coming, and in the end the kid wound up in therapy.
Which was, actually, a kinder ending to the story than being eaten by a wolf.
Or knocked in the head by a pegasus’s hoof.
A forensic specialist was on the stand, explaining the fiber analysis process that had linked threads from the victim’s sweater—found on what was left of his body—to the interior of the defendant’s trunk.
“But that’s a common garment, isn’t it?” the defense lawyer said. “That sweater is widely available?”
“Objection, Your Honor. Leading the witness.”
“Sustained.”
The defense lawyer rephrased. “To the best of your knowledge, was the sweater in question unique to the victim?”
“No, it wasn’t hand-knitted or anything like that. It was from a department store.”
“A local department store?”
“Yes.”
“Your Honor, I would like to introduce Exhibit K, a photograph of the contents of the defendant’s own closet, laid out and numbered. Dr. Rose, would you please turn your attention to item number six. Can you identify this garment?”
She should have gotten another one of Bruce’s caramel coffees.
“It’s a sweater.”
“Would you say that it’s similar to the sweater worn by the victim?”
The doctor lowered her glasses and squinted at the picture. “Yes. It’s the same brand and color. Navy blue, same cut. Men have such safe tastes when it comes to business-wear.”
Tiffani suddenly wanted to have drinks with this woman. She had the feeling she would be a lot of fun.
“So the fiber particle discovered in the defendant’s trunk could easily have come from his own clothing.”
“Objection, Your Honor. Not a question.”
“I could tilt my voice up at the end if you want, counsel,” the defense lawyer said archly, winning a laugh from the courtroom that was not, under any circumstances, suppose to laugh. “But fine. It’s all right, Your Honor, I’ll rephrase. Could the fiber particle discovered in the defendant’s trunk have come from his own clothing?”
“Yes, it could.”
“None of the victim’s blood was discovered on this fiber?”
“No, it was not.”
“Thank you, Dr. Rose.”
“So now you care about this?”
Tiffani had already typed the question before she realized that it had come from an entirely new voice, one she had never heard before. The lawyers had all taken their seats again. This question came from further back, somewhere behind her. Out in the peanut gallery.
It was a kid.
A punk kid, she remembered Colby saying, back when all of this had first started. He had said he was a punk kid once.
And this kid did look like the kind that would get described, unironically, as a punk kid—he looked to be about fifteen, with an eyebrow piercing and a nose ring. He had tattoos that snaked up his arm, a heavy scowl, a serious acne problem, and a gun.
Pointed straight at McMillan.
The kid was crying, and his crying was messy and real. He kept sniffling and wiping at his nose with his sleeve.
His vision must be blurred, Tiffani thought, surprised by how crystal-clear her mind felt. No, ice-clear. She was frozen. That could be bad. Not being able to hit what he aims at doesn’t mean he won’t hit something—or someone—else.
“Now you care?” the kid said again. “About evidence? About fibers? About blood? You didn’t care when it was me!”
Shit. McMillan’s horrible reputation with juvenile offenders. She should have guessed back when Colby had first started talking about punk kids.
Martin stepped into the kid’s line of fire and Tiffani felt all her breath lock itself up inside her chest. He held up his hands.
“Your problem is with the judge, isn’t it,” he said. His voice was smooth, calming. “Not with anyone else here. You don’t want to hurt any of these people. Let me send them outside.”
“They’ll call the police!”
“No,” Martin said. “No, they won’t. They’re scared and they just want to get out of here. Let me send them out.”
If the kid thought about that for even a second, he had to realize that that was insane. Of course they would call the police. Tiffani would guarantee that multiple 911 texts, tweets, and alerts had already been sent out from people frantically fiddling with their phones on their laps.
But Martin was reassuring. She knew that firsthand.
It took several tense minutes of negotiation, but finally the kid let most of the people go. First he sent out the spectators, who filed out as quickly as they could, clearly terror-stricken. Then he let the lawyers and witnesses go. Finally he let the bailiff take out the defendant, who seemed to vaguely resent having been upstaged at his own trial.
“She can go too,” the kid said, gesturing to Tiffani. “You can go too.”
She really wished he wouldn’t wave at her with the hand holding the gun. “No, thank you.”
He blinked at her. “Are you crazy?”
“No,” she said calmly. “I’m just dating the man you’ve been talking to and I don’t want to leave him here alone.”
He boggled at that and she wondered if he had ever even had a girlfriend or a boyfriend. God, he was so young.
“I’ll be fine,” Martin said. His voice was strained but steady. “Please go, sweetheart. I’ll feel better knowing you’re safe.”
Tiffani hesitated—she wanted to know that he was safe, too—but she couldn’t miss the fear in his eyes. It hadn’t really shown up in force until she had refused to leave.
He knew what he was doing. The last thing she wanted was to be a distraction.
So, feeling like she was about to cry, she nodded. “Okay. I love you.” She swallowed. “I’ll see you outside.”
“Nobody’s going outside!” the kid yelped. He pushed his hand back through his hair, making it all stand up in sweaty spikes. He waved the gun back and forth wildly. “No, we’re done, we’re done here.”
“Just let her go out with the others,” Martin said.
“No! I can’t deal with all this!”
“It’s just one more person. You just said she could go.”
“And now I’m saying she can’t! Nobody moves. I just need to think. All of you need to shut up.”
Martin looked at Tiffani. Now the fear had turned to desperation and determination. His jaw was locked. He gave her a small nod. They were in it together now. He might not have chosen it, and it might not be a good idea, but she was as stuck there as he was. The kids was too panicky now to risk further argument.
This was the end-game. A couple of hostages, a teenage gunman, and a pegasus.
She didn’t want anything to happen to any of them—she was almost as worried about this young, freaked-out kid as she was worried about McMillan, the man he had come to hurt.
Though most of all, she was worried about Martin.
Chapter Nineteen: Martin
Most of all, he was worried about Tiffani.
Some part of him had been touched when sh
e had refused to leave the courtroom on his account, but the smarter, more conscious part of him had groaned in dismay. She had to go. She had no weapon, no training in hostage negotiation, no surprise karate skills—unless she had forgotten to tell him about them. And somehow he didn’t think that was very likely.
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.