the courtroom with you.”
“I don’t want to hear you’re working on it. I want to hear you tell me exactly when the helicopter is going to land on that lawn outside,” Nixon repeated.
“Then work with me. Fair enough?”
“No.”
This, Rory thought, was a half-assed ransom negotiation. Her first, and it was simply piss-poor. Nixon wouldn’t give an inch.
Nguyen said, “We heard gunfire earlier. You gain nothing by letting injured people suffer. If you want the helicopter, you’re going to need to help me out—”
“Forget it.”
“That’s a tough attitude,” Nguyen said. “Who am I talking to here?”
“The guy who needs his fucking helicopter and five million dollars,” Nixon shouted. “And Fox Fucking News outside, ready to broadcast the confession to murder by these tools of the police state.”
“Then give us something,” Nguyen said.
Reagan waved an arm in frustration. He strutted up to Nixon, jumpy, like he was walking on hot coals. He hissed, “It’s not working. They aren’t budging.”
Nixon stared at him for several long seconds. He turned toward the doors.
“Get the chopper here in the next ten minutes or I’ll shoot a hostage,” he said.
A woman cried out. The entire room stirred, like birds challenged by a fox.
“Ten minutes—that’s unrealistic,” Nguyen said.
“Do it. Get me the chopper
now.
”
Nguyen said, “It’ll take longer than that to get a heavy-lifting-capacity helicopter.”
Reagan yanked on Nixon’s sleeve and whispered, “That’s not what I meant. Hell you doing?”
Low and sharp, Nixon said, “Getting us out of here. Sticking around is not an option. Don’t you get it? The longer we stay, the more the odds stack against us. We go, and we go now.”
Rory began writing on the window again. One small letter at a time.
Help. Hurry.
She tried to stay present, to focus. On anything, even the song she’d been singing.
Welcome home…
Home, as empty as ever.
She wondered where SWAT was and how many long-range rifles lurked in the shadows of the parking garage across the street. She wondered if her roomie was out there in the crowds behind the barricades, muttering about karma and worrying who would take care of the dog if Rory didn’t come out alive. She wondered if her parents were there. The thought tightened the knot in her throat.
Get out,
they’d said. They’d been concerned when she came home this time. Hell, she’d been concerned too. Out of work, the entire thing kicked out from under her and, awfully, out from under all the people who relied on the charity.
She had always believed the Japanese proverb: “Fall seven times, stand up eight.” But she had run, and run, and ended up back where she started. Maybe it was a sign: Whatever her life was missing couldn’t be found. And here she was, at the finish line.
Behind her Reagan paced skittishly. Nixon stood planted like a stump.
“Nine minutes left,” he shouted. “Where’s the chopper?”
From the hallway, Sergeant Nguyen, said, “Give us more time.”
“You’ve had time,” Nixon shouted. “You’ve had two hundred fifty years to impose the police state on us. And to let thugs and criminals run rampant while cops take bribes to look the other way. You’ve had all the goddamned time you need.”
Holy shit,
Rory thought.
“Get a chopper on the lawn or the roof of the courthouse right this goddamned minute,” Nixon shouted. “I can hear a whole bunch of them outside. Tell one of them to land. You have ninety seconds.”
11
P ressed against the yellow police tape at the perimeter, the crowd had grown nervous. The camera crew rolled continuously, catching the windows of the courthouse, the eerie no-man’s land in front of it, the police officers who dashed anxiously from location to location. A mobile command unit, a huge gaudy RV, had rolled up and parked a block to the south. Overhead, three helicopters hovered.
The honey with the cousin inside tried to pace
“I don’t want to hear you’re working on it. I want to hear you tell me exactly when the helicopter is going to land on that lawn outside,” Nixon repeated.
“Then work with me. Fair enough?”
“No.”
This, Rory thought, was a half-assed ransom negotiation. Her first, and it was simply piss-poor. Nixon wouldn’t give an inch.
Nguyen said, “We heard gunfire earlier. You gain nothing by letting injured people suffer. If you want the helicopter, you’re going to need to help me out—”
“Forget it.”
“That’s a tough attitude,” Nguyen said. “Who am I talking to here?”
“The guy who needs his fucking helicopter and five million dollars,” Nixon shouted. “And Fox Fucking News outside, ready to broadcast the confession to murder by these tools of the police state.”
“Then give us something,” Nguyen said.
Reagan waved an arm in frustration. He strutted up to Nixon, jumpy, like he was walking on hot coals. He hissed, “It’s not working. They aren’t budging.”
Nixon stared at him for several long seconds. He turned toward the doors.
“Get the chopper here in the next ten minutes or I’ll shoot a hostage,” he said.
A woman cried out. The entire room stirred, like birds challenged by a fox.
“Ten minutes—that’s unrealistic,” Nguyen said.
“Do it. Get me the chopper
now.
”
Nguyen said, “It’ll take longer than that to get a heavy-lifting-capacity helicopter.”
Reagan yanked on Nixon’s sleeve and whispered, “That’s not what I meant. Hell you doing?”
Low and sharp, Nixon said, “Getting us out of here. Sticking around is not an option. Don’t you get it? The longer we stay, the more the odds stack against us. We go, and we go now.”
Rory began writing on the window again. One small letter at a time.
Help. Hurry.
She tried to stay present, to focus. On anything, even the song she’d been singing.
Welcome home…
Home, as empty as ever.
She wondered where SWAT was and how many long-range rifles lurked in the shadows of the parking garage across the street. She wondered if her roomie was out there in the crowds behind the barricades, muttering about karma and worrying who would take care of the dog if Rory didn’t come out alive. She wondered if her parents were there. The thought tightened the knot in her throat.
Get out,
they’d said. They’d been concerned when she came home this time. Hell, she’d been concerned too. Out of work, the entire thing kicked out from under her and, awfully, out from under all the people who relied on the charity.
She had always believed the Japanese proverb: “Fall seven times, stand up eight.” But she had run, and run, and ended up back where she started. Maybe it was a sign: Whatever her life was missing couldn’t be found. And here she was, at the finish line.
Behind her Reagan paced skittishly. Nixon stood planted like a stump.
“Nine minutes left,” he shouted. “Where’s the chopper?”
From the hallway, Sergeant Nguyen, said, “Give us more time.”
“You’ve had time,” Nixon shouted. “You’ve had two hundred fifty years to impose the police state on us. And to let thugs and criminals run rampant while cops take bribes to look the other way. You’ve had all the goddamned time you need.”
Holy shit,
Rory thought.
“Get a chopper on the lawn or the roof of the courthouse right this goddamned minute,” Nixon shouted. “I can hear a whole bunch of them outside. Tell one of them to land. You have ninety seconds.”
11
P ressed against the yellow police tape at the perimeter, the crowd had grown nervous. The camera crew rolled continuously, catching the windows of the courthouse, the eerie no-man’s land in front of it, the police officers who dashed anxiously from location to location. A mobile command unit, a huge gaudy RV, had rolled up and parked a block to the south. Overhead, three helicopters hovered.
The honey with the cousin inside tried to pace
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