Living in Vegas, those words mean many things. I grew up here. I became a court reporter. I am not a tape recorder in a wool suit. I am not a timid, bland, unattractive, older woman with a bun, who blends into the background. I am young. I am sexy. I wear Ellen Tracy and the requisite double pair of shoulder pads. These are the days of big hair, and I have a big mop of naturally curly, dark, wild pony hair. I wear doily socks with heels. I make over $75,000 a year, and I am in my late twenties. It’s designer everything.
My equipment is even computerized. I am the first court reporter to write, “real-time,” in a courtroom on a daily basis in this jurisdiction: Real-time means that, as I write, it comes right up on my computer screen next to me. It’s brand new technology. My judge and the attorneys can get a rough draft of the proceedings at the end of the day on disk. Well, the attorneys have to pay for them. I charge them $100, and I ask them if they want one of my, “Dirty ASCII’s.” And yes, I will explain how that magic little machine of mine works. Be patient.
I have been the scribe for thousands of criminal histories, satires, even a few legends. I keep the Record. The judge I work for is one of the best. Hence, he is referred to as one of the Supreme Court’s favorites. He presides over many a civil suit, as well.