time.”
“Damn little. Why wasn’t I called immediately?” Smith asked.
“We told him he had a quarter to call his attorney, but he didn’t. Maybe he doesn’t want you.”
“I don’t think that’s the case, Joe. His rights were read to him, I assume.”
Riga laughed. “Yeah, we read him his rights. We read them a couple of times, because of who he is.”
“With the video running.”
“Yeah. We made sure we shot his best side.”
“Did he make any statements?”
“Just that he didn’t kill her.”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing important. They all sound the same when you pick them up and question them about a murder. They go through their shocked routine, then get angry at the outrage of it all, and then they clam up. He followed the pattern. You wanna see him?”
“Of course. Before I do, though, let me ask you a question.”
“Shoot.” The phone rang and Riga picked it up, scowled at what he heard, and hung up.
“Joe, doesn’t it strike you as a little strange that the son of a prominent senator and presidential candidate sleeps with a member of his father’s staff, then chooses to shoother, of all places, in front of the Kennedy Center and with a weapon that belongs to his father?”
Another shrug from the detective. “Maybe twenty years ago. Nothing surprises me in this looney-tune society.”
Smith pushed away from the windowsill and took a chair across the desk. “There still has to be some question in your mind about the probability of all this. Paul Ewald isn’t a nut by any stretch of the imagination. He’s well educated, has a successful import-export business, and has never been in trouble in his life.”
“Come on, Mac, what the hell does that mean? What we’ve got here is a guy who’s been importing and exporting with some chick with a body and brains. He’s cheating on his old lady. The broad threatens to bust up his marriage, which, because he happens to be the son of maybe our next president, could screw up his father, too. He tells her to back off. She won’t back off. He pulls out the gun and figures that’ll get her attention, get her to listen. She doesn’t. Boom! Another crime of passion, just like in the good old-fashioned murder mysteries. Nothing new. The strength of a single pubic hair is stronger than ten thousand mules.”
Riga laughed at his own joke. “I think Freud said that,” he said.
Smith realized he was wasting time trying to get Riga to at least acknowledge some doubt about Paul Ewald’s guilt. “Yes,” he said, “Willie Freud from Anacostia.” The phone rang again, and Riga picked it up. Smith stood and pointedly looked at his watch. Riga put his hand over the mouthpiece and said, “All right, I’ll get somebody to take you down.” He pushed a button on his intercom: “Send Ormsby in here.” Riga went back to his telephone conversation. A sergeant entered the office. Again cupping a hand over the mouthpiece, Riga told him, “This is Mackensie Smith, Paul Ewald’s lawyer. Take him down to see his client.”
Twenty minutes later, Smith sat with Paul Ewald in a room reserved for lawyer-client meetings. It was furnished in pure postmodern police station: a long wooden table and four wooden chairs without arms. At least all four legs on the chairs were the same length. In the interrogation rooms, a half inch of the front legs was sawed off to keep suspectsconstantly leaning forward. A bright bulb covered by a green metal shade hung above the table. Heavy wire mesh covered the windows, as well as a small window in the door. A uniformed officer could be seen through the window.
Smith and Ewald shook hands. “Thanks for coming, Mac,” Ewald said.
“Sorry you’re going through this, Paul. You won’t have to much longer.” They sat at the table, Smith at the head of it, Ewald to his left.
“Let me say a few things at the outset, Paul. I don’t know what evidence the district attorney thinks he has to make a case against you,
“Damn little. Why wasn’t I called immediately?” Smith asked.
“We told him he had a quarter to call his attorney, but he didn’t. Maybe he doesn’t want you.”
“I don’t think that’s the case, Joe. His rights were read to him, I assume.”
Riga laughed. “Yeah, we read him his rights. We read them a couple of times, because of who he is.”
“With the video running.”
“Yeah. We made sure we shot his best side.”
“Did he make any statements?”
“Just that he didn’t kill her.”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing important. They all sound the same when you pick them up and question them about a murder. They go through their shocked routine, then get angry at the outrage of it all, and then they clam up. He followed the pattern. You wanna see him?”
“Of course. Before I do, though, let me ask you a question.”
“Shoot.” The phone rang and Riga picked it up, scowled at what he heard, and hung up.
“Joe, doesn’t it strike you as a little strange that the son of a prominent senator and presidential candidate sleeps with a member of his father’s staff, then chooses to shoother, of all places, in front of the Kennedy Center and with a weapon that belongs to his father?”
Another shrug from the detective. “Maybe twenty years ago. Nothing surprises me in this looney-tune society.”
Smith pushed away from the windowsill and took a chair across the desk. “There still has to be some question in your mind about the probability of all this. Paul Ewald isn’t a nut by any stretch of the imagination. He’s well educated, has a successful import-export business, and has never been in trouble in his life.”
“Come on, Mac, what the hell does that mean? What we’ve got here is a guy who’s been importing and exporting with some chick with a body and brains. He’s cheating on his old lady. The broad threatens to bust up his marriage, which, because he happens to be the son of maybe our next president, could screw up his father, too. He tells her to back off. She won’t back off. He pulls out the gun and figures that’ll get her attention, get her to listen. She doesn’t. Boom! Another crime of passion, just like in the good old-fashioned murder mysteries. Nothing new. The strength of a single pubic hair is stronger than ten thousand mules.”
Riga laughed at his own joke. “I think Freud said that,” he said.
Smith realized he was wasting time trying to get Riga to at least acknowledge some doubt about Paul Ewald’s guilt. “Yes,” he said, “Willie Freud from Anacostia.” The phone rang again, and Riga picked it up. Smith stood and pointedly looked at his watch. Riga put his hand over the mouthpiece and said, “All right, I’ll get somebody to take you down.” He pushed a button on his intercom: “Send Ormsby in here.” Riga went back to his telephone conversation. A sergeant entered the office. Again cupping a hand over the mouthpiece, Riga told him, “This is Mackensie Smith, Paul Ewald’s lawyer. Take him down to see his client.”
Twenty minutes later, Smith sat with Paul Ewald in a room reserved for lawyer-client meetings. It was furnished in pure postmodern police station: a long wooden table and four wooden chairs without arms. At least all four legs on the chairs were the same length. In the interrogation rooms, a half inch of the front legs was sawed off to keep suspectsconstantly leaning forward. A bright bulb covered by a green metal shade hung above the table. Heavy wire mesh covered the windows, as well as a small window in the door. A uniformed officer could be seen through the window.
Smith and Ewald shook hands. “Thanks for coming, Mac,” Ewald said.
“Sorry you’re going through this, Paul. You won’t have to much longer.” They sat at the table, Smith at the head of it, Ewald to his left.
“Let me say a few things at the outset, Paul. I don’t know what evidence the district attorney thinks he has to make a case against you,
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