to leave and was confronted with a half-dozen reporters and photographers who’d congregated on the sidewalk in front of his house. A television remote truck was parked across the street. Smith wasn’t sure what to do. His options were to remain inside, give them a statement, or simply walk past without saying anything. The last option seemed the only sensible course, and that’s what he did, waving off their questions, saying only to the most persistent, “No comment.”
He decided to leave his car in his garage and to walk until he found a cab. The reporters trailed him, but only one continued to match him stride for stride as he put blocks between him and the house. It was a young man carrying a Marantz portable tape recorder and a microphone with the call letters of a station Smith did not know. The young man eventually stopped asking questions and simply continued walking a few paces behind Smith. They reached an intersection where the light was against them. Smith turned and said as pleasantly as possible, “I don’t have any comment at this time.”
The young man, whose hair was blushing and whose face sported the predictable accompanying freckles, grinned and said, “All I’m asking, Mr. Smith, is whether you’re PaulEwald’s attorney. There shouldn’t be any mystery about that.”
Smith sighed and nodded. “No, there is no mystery about that. Yes, I am representing Paul Ewald in this matter.”
The light changed. They looked at each other. Smith narrowed his eyes and said, “You can follow me to Chesapeake Bay, but you won’t hear another word.”
“Okay,” the young red-haired reporter said. “Thanks for answering at least one question.”
A few blocks later, Smith found a taxi and had the driver take him to MPD headquarters at Third and C Streets, where, after navigating a maze of members of the press and squinting against flashes from strobe lights, he reached Detective Joe Riga’s office. Riga was seated behind his desk, a telephone wedged between ear and shoulder. He was partly obscured by piles of paper and file folders. He saw Smith at the door, waved him in, and resumed his conversation.
Smith went to a window that desperately needed cleaning and looked down to the street. He heard Riga say, “I don’t give a goddamn what he wants, the report isn’t leaving this office until I get the word from my authorities. Look, I … evidently you don’t speak English.” He slammed the phone down.
Smith leaned against the windowsill and said, “Good morning, Joe. Still in the State Department? You just flunked diplomacy. You sound angry.”
Riga picked up a half-smoked cigar and wedged the soggy end between his teeth. “Yeah, I’m angry at all the wahoos who try to pull rank with me, and I have a feeling you’re not here to make me any happier. You’re officially Ewald’s attorney?”
“Yes.”
Riga cackled and put the cigar in the ashtray. “Jesus, Mac, I never figured I’d see you back in the saddle as a criminal attorney.” Smith started to say something, but Riga continued. “You know something, you should’ve stayed at the university. Do you know what you’re walking into?”
“Probably not, but that doesn’t matter at the moment.You’ve arrested Paul Ewald. Is he charged with Andrea Feldman’s murder?”
“Mac, get your facts straight. We haven’t
arrested
Paul Ewald. We brought him in for questioning.”
“In the middle of the night.”
“Yeah. People tend to be home then.”
“You didn’t have to detain him to question him, Joe.”
“In this case, I figured it might be a good idea.” Riga shrugged, grimaced, picked up his cigar again. “His wife cuts out, which makes me a little uneasy, you know? I feel better having him cozied up here.”
“I don’t give a damn what you feel better with, Joe. You have no right to detain him unless you’re ready to charge and indict him.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, but
you
know I’ve got a little
He decided to leave his car in his garage and to walk until he found a cab. The reporters trailed him, but only one continued to match him stride for stride as he put blocks between him and the house. It was a young man carrying a Marantz portable tape recorder and a microphone with the call letters of a station Smith did not know. The young man eventually stopped asking questions and simply continued walking a few paces behind Smith. They reached an intersection where the light was against them. Smith turned and said as pleasantly as possible, “I don’t have any comment at this time.”
The young man, whose hair was blushing and whose face sported the predictable accompanying freckles, grinned and said, “All I’m asking, Mr. Smith, is whether you’re PaulEwald’s attorney. There shouldn’t be any mystery about that.”
Smith sighed and nodded. “No, there is no mystery about that. Yes, I am representing Paul Ewald in this matter.”
The light changed. They looked at each other. Smith narrowed his eyes and said, “You can follow me to Chesapeake Bay, but you won’t hear another word.”
“Okay,” the young red-haired reporter said. “Thanks for answering at least one question.”
A few blocks later, Smith found a taxi and had the driver take him to MPD headquarters at Third and C Streets, where, after navigating a maze of members of the press and squinting against flashes from strobe lights, he reached Detective Joe Riga’s office. Riga was seated behind his desk, a telephone wedged between ear and shoulder. He was partly obscured by piles of paper and file folders. He saw Smith at the door, waved him in, and resumed his conversation.
Smith went to a window that desperately needed cleaning and looked down to the street. He heard Riga say, “I don’t give a goddamn what he wants, the report isn’t leaving this office until I get the word from my authorities. Look, I … evidently you don’t speak English.” He slammed the phone down.
Smith leaned against the windowsill and said, “Good morning, Joe. Still in the State Department? You just flunked diplomacy. You sound angry.”
Riga picked up a half-smoked cigar and wedged the soggy end between his teeth. “Yeah, I’m angry at all the wahoos who try to pull rank with me, and I have a feeling you’re not here to make me any happier. You’re officially Ewald’s attorney?”
“Yes.”
Riga cackled and put the cigar in the ashtray. “Jesus, Mac, I never figured I’d see you back in the saddle as a criminal attorney.” Smith started to say something, but Riga continued. “You know something, you should’ve stayed at the university. Do you know what you’re walking into?”
“Probably not, but that doesn’t matter at the moment.You’ve arrested Paul Ewald. Is he charged with Andrea Feldman’s murder?”
“Mac, get your facts straight. We haven’t
arrested
Paul Ewald. We brought him in for questioning.”
“In the middle of the night.”
“Yeah. People tend to be home then.”
“You didn’t have to detain him to question him, Joe.”
“In this case, I figured it might be a good idea.” Riga shrugged, grimaced, picked up his cigar again. “His wife cuts out, which makes me a little uneasy, you know? I feel better having him cozied up here.”
“I don’t give a damn what you feel better with, Joe. You have no right to detain him unless you’re ready to charge and indict him.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, but
you
know I’ve got a little
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