At that exact moment, the heavy wooden doors at the back of the courtroom swung open again.

A young woman in a police uniform stood in the doorway, her face flushed and out of breath.

She looked around the room, her eyes landing on the judge.

“Your Honor,” the officer called out, ignoring the formal decorum of the court.

Everyone turned to look at her.

“We have an emergency situation,” the officer said, stepping into the center aisle.

The courtroom went completely silent.

I gripped the edge of the defense table, my fingernails digging into the polished oak.

Judge Miller leaned forward over her bench, her brow furrowing.

“Step up to the bar, officer,” the judge commanded, her voice cutting through the sudden murmurs in the gallery.

The young officer hurried down the carpeted aisle, her utility belt clicking with every step.

“Your Honor, we just received a dispatch from airport police at John C. Tune Airport,” she said, her breathing still heavy.

“Go on,” Judge Miller said, waving her hand to silence the whispering attorneys.

“A man identifying himself as Grant Whitmore is currently at the private terminal,” the officer said.