Both officers were on their walkie-talkies, coming toward me to secure the door through which Quillian had fled. “When we heard shots, I called for backup and a bus,” one of them said-the NYPD shorthand for an ambulance. “They should be here any minute. Those reporters are all going nuts.”

One stationed himself beside the door, watching the knob wiggle, hearing a man’s voice yelling to Artie Tramm as he banged at the door. “Artie? Open up. It’s me-it’s Blakely.”

The second officer went around to the back of the bench and put his hand under Fred Gertz’s arm to help the shell-shocked jurist to his feet. “Judge, you gotta come with me. I want you at the other end of the room.”

“The captain has us in lockdown,” the first officer answered Blakely. “I can’t let you in till we get backup here. The prisoner went out your way. We got Elsie down. Artie and Oscar are waiting for medics.”

I walked to counsel’s table and slipped my jacket off the back of the chair. I brought it over to where Elsie lay and covered her head and upper body with it. There would be no shelter from the way the media pundits would blame her for her own death-for allowing Quillian to overpower her, take her gun, kill her, and endanger everyone else, as well as possibly make his escape from the massive building with its dozens of entrances and exits.

I could only offer her a bit of dignity now, in case the reporters and photographers flooded the room when we admitted the rescue team.

“Lockdown?” Gertz shouted. “I want to get out of here now. Right now.”

“I’d like you in that last row,” the officer said, “so they can remove you as soon as they deal with Artie.”

“Not that way. I’m going through my chambers,” Gertz said, resisting and pointing to his own exit. “I don’t need an ambulance. I don’t want any of those people to see me.”

The deep red blood stained through the turquoise of the fabric of my suit jacket, turning it to cobalt blue as the silk quickly absorbed it.

As much as the sight of Elsie’s gaping head wound had revolted Jonetta, she had not been able to stop staring at it. Her sobs subsided as I put my arm around her and guided her out of the well to a seat closer to the main hallway entrance.

Lem was crouched beside Artie, trying to keep him calm. He was writhing in pain, sweat dripping from his face, drenching his hair and his mustache. The more he rolled around, the more the blood spread through the tear in his dingy shirtsleeve.

I squatted behind Lem’s back.

“The great white whale,” Lem said.

Artie mustered a laugh.

“That’s why he got away, Artie. Brendan Quillian is the great white whale in this friggin’ criminal justice system. Damn, if he’d been a brother-or just a lowlife from the Bowery-you’d have been on his ass like every other prisoner. That whole Upper East Side rich-boy attitude was just a veneer. Nobody took him seriously. Nobody saw the risk.”

Artie opened his eyes. “Make me a promise, Lem. Tell me you’re not gonna represent that bastard for shooting me. For killing Elsie, okay?”

“I think Alex and I are grounded on that one. We’re gonna be your star witnesses.”

There was a loud banging again, this time from the hallway. The walkie-talkie crackled in my hand. “Open up in there, Part 83. Artie, can you hear me?”

I held the device in front of Tramm. He gulped for breath and answered with a weak “Yeah.”

“Open up, dammit. I got four cops and some EMTs here.”

“You know who that is? Recognize the voice?” Lem asked.

Artie nodded.

Lem walked to the door and unlocked the large brass bolts.

Two of the medics got right to work on Artie, one ripping open the polyester uniform shirt to examine the wound as the other started taking his vital signs.

The next two asked if we were okay, and we signaled them on to Elsie’s body and to Oscar, who still seemed dazed and disoriented.

The four cops, dressed in flak jackets and helmets, positioned themselves around the other door, relieving the court officer who had been the first to arrive. The knocking started again.

“Who’s there?” one asked.

“Blakely. Captain Blakely, for chrissakes. Lemme in.”

The cops turned to us. Artie nodded again at Lem.

“You alone?” one cop asked, while another motioned to Lem, Jonetta, and me to get down on the floor, in case Blakely had been taken hostage by the escapee.

“Yeah.”

Another unlocked the door, and as Blakely entered, we got the all clear to get up.

“Where’s Artie?”

They pointed Blakely back to the cluster of people in the aisle of the courtroom, and the crusty, white-haired captain barely stopped to look down as he passed Elsie’s body.

“We owe this to you?” Blakely said to Lem Howell. “You the brains behind this operation?”

“I appreciate the thought, Captain. But I was about to whip Ms. Cooper’s tail fair and square at the end of this trial, so, the answer to that would be no.”

“Has Quillian been caught?” I asked.

Blakely raised his thick, white eyebrows and frowned at me.

“The prisoners’ elevator must have been very busy at this hour,” Lem said. “I kept thinking he’d be trapped because of that. I was waiting for him to burst back in here.”

“Forget the elevator. He used the stairwell. Nobody else seems to have gone that way. He must have run down a few flights. Probably reentered the main corridor on four or five,” Blakely said.

The rooms in which misdemeanor cases were heard were on the lower levels of the courthouse. The sixth through ninth floors, in the bizarre architectural scheme of the WPA building, were occupied by the District Attorney’s Office. No access was possible from the courts except where they connected on the seventh floor.

“Then he’s somewhere in the building?” I asked. “You know he’s still got a fully loaded piece-he took Oscar Valenti’s gun with him, too.”

“Too bad there are no metal detectors when you exit the damn place,” Blakely said.

“Why? You think he can escape? There are hundreds of cops and court officers around at this hour of the day,” I said.

“He was out before the word spread-out before any of them knew.”

“What do you mean?”

“If Quillian crossed over on the fourth or fifth floors, he must have gone down on the public elevators from there, passing off like a lawyer with the rest of you suits,” Blakely said, fingering the lapel of Lem’s jacket.

“What makes you think he got away?” I was shocked that a breakout of this magnitude could happen at 100 Centre Street.

“’Cause a man fitting his description just hijacked a car on the corner of White Street, opposite the courthouse steps. Shot the guy who was putting his money in the meter and drove off in a black Toyota,” Blakely said. “Brendan Quillian’s on the loose.”

Flashbulbs popped as Captain Blakely swung back the wooden door to lead us into the corridor, still full of reporters and press photographers held there since the lockdown two hours earlier. The EMTs had treated the injured court officers, and a deputy medical examiner had declared Elsie dead-long after the fact-before she was loaded into a body bag and removed from the courtroom.

Lem took off his suit jacket. He held it open, and I slipped my arms into it, wrapping it around my dress to cover the bloodstains and the long tears in the fabric. He put his arm around my shoulders as we entered the gauntlet formed by the eager press hounds.

“Hey, Alex! Who’d he shoot at first-you or the judge?” a voice called out.

Court officers and cops formed a human chain, holding back the impatient spectators.

“Lem! Hey, Howell!” It was Mickey Diamond’s voice. “Give me three words, Lem. We’ll make the headline your signature triplicate.”

We both stared straight ahead as we walked, counting the steps left to the elevator doors, half a corridor away.