For a few hours on a recent July afternoon, City Hall was transformed into a rose-strewn, foot-stomping, hand-clapping gospel church.

The City Council chamber was packed with old ladies in straw hats and young people decked in their Sunday best. Politicians and church leaders mingled about, there to honor the memory of Council Member James E. Davis (D-Brooklyn), who was assassinated by a political rival five years ago in the balcony.

“I’m going home,” a five-piece choir sang joyously as the crowd clapped in time. “Since I laid my brother down.”

Davis was in the Council for just 17 months when he was gunned down by Othniel Askew on July 23, 2003. Askew had held a grudge against Davis, blaming him for sabotaging his plans to run for Council. Davis, however, made the fatal move to bring Askew to City Hall with the intention of honoring him by introducing him from the balcony. The councilman and Askew both bypassed the metal detectors on their way in, at the time a courtesy offered to elected officials and their guests.

Minutes later, Askew shot Davis twice in the chest before being shot himself by a plainclothes police officer from the chamber floor.

Five days later, Davis’ body laid in state at City Hall, as 7,000 people came to mourn the former police officer who had founded an antiviolence group before entering into politics.

“He was larger than life,” said Council Member David Weprin (D-Queens), who fondly recalled Council trips to Israel and Puerto Rico with Davis.

Laughingly, Weprin remembered Davis’ sense of style.

“He was always dressed in a three-piece suit,” he said. “Even when we were on the beach.”

Davis, who was considering a run for Congress before his death, was reluctant to let anyone photograph him in a bathing suit should he later decide to run for higher office, Weprin recalled.

Five years later, security is unarguably tighter at City Hall. Everyone from the mayor on down must pass through metal detectors on their way into the building.

Some Council members said that while they felt safer at City Hall since the shooting, their jobs are still largely unpredictable, much like Davis’ death.

“If someone wants to get by, they can always get by,” Weprin said. “Life was a lot easier before we had to worry about all this.”

Letitia James (D-Brooklyn), who was elected to fill Davis’ seat after his death, said she felt conditions at City Hall were much more secure.

“I feel much safer,” she said. “I couldn’t escort anyone in unless they are subject to the scanners.”

Council Member Charles Barron (D-Brooklyn) was slightly more reticent to call the heightened security measures in the wake of Davis’ death a success.

“City Council members have a lot of friends and have a lot of enemies,” Barron said. “The bottom line is there’s no security if someone wants to do something to you.”

Barron cited as an example the shooting of then-President Ronald Reagan (R) by John Hinckley, Jr. in 1981. Even though Reagan was surrounded by Secret Service agents, Hinckley still managed to get off six shots, including one which hit the president.

“Nothing can protect us from someone that really wants to take our lives,” Barron said. “You just got to pray that nothing happens.”

Most Council members have offices at 250 Broadway, a private office building across the street from City Hall. Security there was lax for years after the Davis shooting, though just recently, turnstiles controlled by access cards were installed in the lobby. Visitors to the building are asked to check in at the front desk, but are not subject to any additional screening.

Gary Tempro, the building’s property manager, did not return repeated requests for comment. A City Council spokesperson declined to comment on matters of security.

Some current and former Council members said metal detectors at 250 Broadway would send a negative message about government accessibility.

“I think that’s over the top,” James said.

Weprin agreed, saying he believes the new turnstiles will be adequate.

“We have a basic amount of security. It could always be more protective,” he said. “But at the same time you don’t want to make it too difficult to come and go.”

State Sen. Bill Perkins (D-Manhattan), a former member of the Council who was in the chambers when Davis was shot, said he is reminded of the councilman every time he goes through security at City Hall. Perkins said he saw little need for the amount of fencing surrounding City Hall Park or for metal detectors at 250 Broadway.

“I get a sense there’s a little bit more security and maybe too much security,” Perkins said.

Most of Davis’ friends and family said they hoped that a key piece of his legacy is his strong antiviolence message. The irony, they said, was how Davis spent his whole career trying to work against violence, only to have violence claim his life.

Gregory Davis, the late councilman’s brother, now runs Love Yourself/Stop the Violence, the non-profit organization Davis founded.

“I hear people say ‘love yourself, stop the violence’ all the time,” Davis said. “It caught on like ‘no justice, no peace.’ Or ‘keep hope alive.’”

He stressed the importance of improved security at City Hall, saying it helps protect everyone from Council members to staffers and custodial workers.

“It’s important that everyone comes through the metal detectors,” he said. “I don’t want anyone to experience what I experienced.”

But in February, several families in the St. Louis suburb of Kirkwood, Missouri did, when a gunman stormed the building. He killed five, including two city council members, and wounding the mayor.

Davis said the first thing he did after hearing of the shooting was to get in his car and drive to Kirkwood. When he arrived, he counseled those involved in the shooting.

“I let them know what I experienced here, that you can survive,” he said. “I know it seems like you won’t survive a week, but you can do it.”