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inched forward to his side.
    Wieland gazed up at her with surprise in his eyes. Rory felt the world seem to tilt and slide away. He was bleeding profusely. Without immediate medical care, he wouldn’t stay alive for long.
    The man in red check said, “What do we do?”
    Rory turned, lips parting. Nixon loomed above her.
    He grabbed her by a handful of sweater, fingers twisting into the fabric and into her hair. She cried out.
    “Up.”
    He dragged her away from the judge. She struggled for balance, knees sliding along the stone floor.
    “On your feet,” Nixon said.
    “Let me—”
    “Up.”
    He lifted her by the scruff of her sweater. She flailed to her feet. He pointed at the man in the red shirt. “Move it, pops.”
    The man looked up with shock and complete loss. “But…”
    Nixon swung the barrel of the gun toward him. The man threw his hands in front of his face.
    Nixon pointed at Cary Oberlin. “You too. Come on. Now.”
    Then he shook his head at the dead wannabe hero in the
Justice!
shirt. He turned sharply toward Reagan. “Fucking idiot—”
    Outside the main doors, noise. Voices in the hallway, footsteps, the squawk of a radio. The door handles rattled.
    Reagan and Nixon turned toward the doors.
    A man in the hall called, “Open up.”
    More rattling sounds. “Sheriff’s Department. Open the doors.”
    Beyond the windows, the first of the sirens floated on the morning air.

6

    N ixon snapped his fingers at Reagan. “Get ’em out. Hurry.”
    Reagan waved Rory and Oberlin and Red Check toward the door to chambers. “Go.”
    Judge Wieland lay breathing shallowly, his face white. Blood soaked his robe, dark and sparkling against the black fabric. He caught Rory’s eye. She found her feet unable to move.
    She turned to Reagan. “We’ve got to get him help. You—”
    He shoved her toward the door to chambers.
    Nixon lumbered ahead, opened the door, and ducked into the hall. A second later he returned, eyes narrow, and shut the door behind him.
    “They’re outside.”
    Reagan said, “No. God, what…”
    “Shut up.”
    Sirens strengthened. The main doors rumbled again, rattling the Club steering-wheel lock. Something heavy—a shoulder or foot—hit the door.
    From outside, a man shouted: “Open up. What’s going on in there?”
    A moment later, the phone at the court clerk’s desk rang. And, more distantly, another phone, in Judge Wieland’s chambers. Then a cell phone stuffed inside Reagan’s plastic supermarket bag.
    Nixon grabbed a chair from the defendants’ table, dragged it to the chambers door, and jammed it under the doorknob.
    Reagan twitched. “No. We gotta get out of here.”
    Nixon said, “I know.”
    The chambers doorknob rattled and turned. But with the chair jammed against it, the door wouldn’t budge.
    On the far side a man said, “Wedged shut. Get a crowbar.”
    Outside the main doors, harsher: “This is the Sheriff’s Department. Open the doors or we’ll break them down.”
    The sirens grew loud outside. Rory heard them as the sound of deliverance.
    Reagan grabbed Nixon’s arm. “We need to move. Come
on,
man.”
    Nixon held up a hand. Then he raised the shotgun toward the ceiling and fired.
    People screamed. Plaster exploded and pebbled down.
    Nixon tightened his grip on the shotgun and stalked down the aisle to the main doors. He planted his feet wide.
    “Touch the doors again and people will get shot,” he called.
    Plaster dust drifted around Rory’s head. The banging and rattling of the chambers doorknob stopped. In the courtroom, the air seemed freighted.
    From the hallway, more distant now: “Is anybody injured in there?”
    Nixon looked at the dead
Justice!
vigilante. He didn’t even glance at Judge Wieland. “One down. His own fault. If you want to keep casualties to that number, you stay away from the doors.”
    From beyond the windows came the heavy blat of rotor blades. A helicopter was approaching. Rory had an unobstructed view of the street,