You see a helicopter flying this way?”
A woman planted against a window to Rory’s left said, “I don’t know.”
In Reagan’s plastic supermarket bag, a cell phone rang. With Rory’s ringtone.
Nixon’s reflection darted right, then left. With the windows blocked by human shields, he couldn’t see what was going on outside. He turned to Reagan. Snapping his fingers, he pointed at the bench and Judge Wieland’s computer.
“Check to see what the news is showing.”
Oh God.
Reagan ran up the steps to the bench, set his shotgun on the desk, hunched over the monitor, and clumsily pounded the keyboard.
After a second he straightened. Shook his head.
Nixon turned. He shouted at the doors: “You’re bullshitting me.”
Nguyen said, “It’s inbound.”
At the computer, Reagan shook his head more vehemently. He whispered, “Cops are just standing there. Not clearing a landing zone.”
“Sixty seconds,” Nixon shouted. “Get a chopper on the ground. Or you’ve got a kid who’s going to regret answering his jury summons.”
A man’s voice, broken: “Don’t shoot me. Please. I take care of my mom. I have little sisters.”
It was Frankie Ortega. Rory felt dizzy.
She said, “I see the helicopter. It’s landing.”
It wasn’t; it was barely visible, a copter easing its way over the roof of the courthouse, high up. But bullshit was all she had, so she’d better dish it with conviction.
“Don’t lie to me. Fifty seconds,” Nixon said.
“No,” Rory said. “Can’t you hear it?”
“Where?” Nixon said.
She hoped the other people lined up against the windows would get it and wouldn’t falter.
“It’s directly overhead. Up high. The TV crew in the garage can’t get an angle to see it. That’s why it’s not on the news,” she said.
The helicopter lurked at the top of the view out the window. She couldtell it had law enforcement markings on it. She could also tell it wasn’t anything close to a heavy-lifting aircraft. She had no idea if the cops had actually sent it for them.
The sound grew louder, bouncing off the walls. Nixon shouted, “Thirty seconds. Hovering don’t count. On the ground where I can see it.”
From the end of the gun barrel, Frankie said, “Don’t, man. I beg you.”
Reagan was staring at the computer screen shaking his head.
“That’s it. Ninety seconds gone,” Nixon yelled.
“It’s landing,” Rory shouted. “You can’t see it on the screen. But I can—it’s landing on the roof.”
Red Check, next to her at the window, said, “It’s descending. For God’s sake, you can’t demand that it touch down before the cops have even had time to contact the pilot.”
Nixon went silent. Rory held her breath.
Please spare Frankie. Please.
The sound of the engine blatted against the walls. She glanced over her shoulder.
Nixon stared at the windows, trying to see the copter. Reagan continued to stare at the screen. He shook his head. “They’re not showing it.”
“They probably know you have TV access,” Rory said. “They want to keep everything covert. But it’s there. Listen to it.”
The noise of the helicopter grew louder.
Nixon shouted at the door: “That had better be it.”
After a second, Nguyen said, “It’s landing on the roof.”
Rory didn’t believe it. She really didn’t. She thought Nguyen may have heard her shouting and gone with her bullshit, a desperate gamble.
After a moment, Nixon said, “We’re leaving.”
Relief bled through her. She turned around and saw Nixon pull the barrel of his shotgun off of Frankie. He stalked back down the aisle. Frankie steadied himself against a bench, one hand to his face.
Nixon strode to the middle of the courtroom. “Heads up. We’re getting ready to depart. The three people who were tapped on the back earlier, come with me.”
Rory didn’t know what was about to happen. But if she and everybody else in the courtroom were going to emerge unscathed, it was going to require
A woman planted against a window to Rory’s left said, “I don’t know.”
In Reagan’s plastic supermarket bag, a cell phone rang. With Rory’s ringtone.
Nixon’s reflection darted right, then left. With the windows blocked by human shields, he couldn’t see what was going on outside. He turned to Reagan. Snapping his fingers, he pointed at the bench and Judge Wieland’s computer.
“Check to see what the news is showing.”
Oh God.
Reagan ran up the steps to the bench, set his shotgun on the desk, hunched over the monitor, and clumsily pounded the keyboard.
After a second he straightened. Shook his head.
Nixon turned. He shouted at the doors: “You’re bullshitting me.”
Nguyen said, “It’s inbound.”
At the computer, Reagan shook his head more vehemently. He whispered, “Cops are just standing there. Not clearing a landing zone.”
“Sixty seconds,” Nixon shouted. “Get a chopper on the ground. Or you’ve got a kid who’s going to regret answering his jury summons.”
A man’s voice, broken: “Don’t shoot me. Please. I take care of my mom. I have little sisters.”
It was Frankie Ortega. Rory felt dizzy.
She said, “I see the helicopter. It’s landing.”
It wasn’t; it was barely visible, a copter easing its way over the roof of the courthouse, high up. But bullshit was all she had, so she’d better dish it with conviction.
“Don’t lie to me. Fifty seconds,” Nixon said.
“No,” Rory said. “Can’t you hear it?”
“Where?” Nixon said.
She hoped the other people lined up against the windows would get it and wouldn’t falter.
“It’s directly overhead. Up high. The TV crew in the garage can’t get an angle to see it. That’s why it’s not on the news,” she said.
The helicopter lurked at the top of the view out the window. She couldtell it had law enforcement markings on it. She could also tell it wasn’t anything close to a heavy-lifting aircraft. She had no idea if the cops had actually sent it for them.
The sound grew louder, bouncing off the walls. Nixon shouted, “Thirty seconds. Hovering don’t count. On the ground where I can see it.”
From the end of the gun barrel, Frankie said, “Don’t, man. I beg you.”
Reagan was staring at the computer screen shaking his head.
“That’s it. Ninety seconds gone,” Nixon yelled.
“It’s landing,” Rory shouted. “You can’t see it on the screen. But I can—it’s landing on the roof.”
Red Check, next to her at the window, said, “It’s descending. For God’s sake, you can’t demand that it touch down before the cops have even had time to contact the pilot.”
Nixon went silent. Rory held her breath.
Please spare Frankie. Please.
The sound of the engine blatted against the walls. She glanced over her shoulder.
Nixon stared at the windows, trying to see the copter. Reagan continued to stare at the screen. He shook his head. “They’re not showing it.”
“They probably know you have TV access,” Rory said. “They want to keep everything covert. But it’s there. Listen to it.”
The noise of the helicopter grew louder.
Nixon shouted at the door: “That had better be it.”
After a second, Nguyen said, “It’s landing on the roof.”
Rory didn’t believe it. She really didn’t. She thought Nguyen may have heard her shouting and gone with her bullshit, a desperate gamble.
After a moment, Nixon said, “We’re leaving.”
Relief bled through her. She turned around and saw Nixon pull the barrel of his shotgun off of Frankie. He stalked back down the aisle. Frankie steadied himself against a bench, one hand to his face.
Nixon strode to the middle of the courtroom. “Heads up. We’re getting ready to depart. The three people who were tapped on the back earlier, come with me.”
Rory didn’t know what was about to happen. But if she and everybody else in the courtroom were going to emerge unscathed, it was going to require
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