tomorrow morning, nine A.M .”
They don’t tell you ahead of time that they’re having a press conference unless there’s some good news—at least their version of good news, which means they’ve got their man, or will sometime soon.
Chuck isn’t what you’d call extremely motivated. He’s having to take a couple of unpaid furlough days, like the rest of the workers, and I know he’s worked at least one of those, because, as he said, somebody’s got to put the damn paper out. But he’s not exactly gung-ho. Five years ago, he might be out there hitting up every source he knows, trying to find out what the police are planning to trot out for their dog-and-pony show tomorrow.
Hell, we both have a pretty good idea of what’s coming, although it would have been good to have nailed it down. It’s always satisfying to a cops reporter to know the police chief is spitting out his cornflakes, reading his day’s itinerary in his morning paper.
“Can’t be but one thing,” Apple says.
I nod. Like Andi said, it sucks being Richard Slade.
CHAPTER SIX
Monday
W hy can’t they ever have press conferences in the afternoon, or at least on a day when I’m paid to work? I don’t have to be here, but if it wasn’t me, it’d be Mark Baer or Handley Pace or some other byline poacher half my age. It’s my story, even if it is my day off.
When I get to city hall, damned if Baer isn’t the first person I see, all spiffy and ready for an easy A1 byline to add to the résumé he still hopes he can convert into a job at the Washington Post.
“I thought this was your day off,” he says.
I tell him to get the fuck out of there, and he does.
There are only six of us there—me, some freelancer from the local entertainment weekly and four TV types. The Post hasn’t deigned to send somebody down. We’re outnumbered by the cops, which seems to piss L. D. Jones off. He shoots me a death-ray glare. He’s still harboring grudges from last year, when my “interference in police matters” led to the uncomfortable revelation that one of his lieutenants was a murderer.
“No smoking,” the chief says, looking at me.
We’re outside, for Christ’s sake, in front of City Hall, freezing our butts off. Am I going to give the birds cancer? But I don’t need any more trouble from L. D. Jones. I stub out my Camel. He’s still glaring at me. I reach down, pick it up and walk fifty feet to the nearest trash can. The chief says something to the flunky next to him. They laugh.
There is little news here that a four-year-old couldn’t have figured out. You free a man on Monday after he’s done twenty-eight years for a rape he didn’t commit, and then the woman who accused him gets shot through the head on Saturday. One plus one equals two. Richard Slade is back behind bars. They got him yesterday. He had six days of open windows and doors that locked from the inside.
The mayor’s there, too, to reassure the people of Richmond that he personally won’t let innocent people get shot to death in their cars. Well, he won’t let folks from Windsor Farms get shot that way, anyhow. He’s probably the one who insisted we do it outside, with City Hall as the backdrop. He must have laryngitis, though, because he lets the chief do the talking. In good health, Hizzoner would only relinquish a microphone when you tore it from his cold, dead hands.
Jones is asked if they’re sure they have the right man.
“We, ah, can’t go into that right now,” the chief says, “but we have strong evidence pointing to the suspect.”
“Do you have the murder weapon?”
Jesus. Whoever shot Alicia Simpson threw the weapon down on Cary Street, which is where the cops found it. No prints. No serial number. It was in the paper, dumb-ass. Can TV reporters not read?
He’s never going to call on me, so I yell it out, loud enough so he has to answer.
“Do you have forensic evidence of any type linking Richard Slade to Alicia Simpson’s
They don’t tell you ahead of time that they’re having a press conference unless there’s some good news—at least their version of good news, which means they’ve got their man, or will sometime soon.
Chuck isn’t what you’d call extremely motivated. He’s having to take a couple of unpaid furlough days, like the rest of the workers, and I know he’s worked at least one of those, because, as he said, somebody’s got to put the damn paper out. But he’s not exactly gung-ho. Five years ago, he might be out there hitting up every source he knows, trying to find out what the police are planning to trot out for their dog-and-pony show tomorrow.
Hell, we both have a pretty good idea of what’s coming, although it would have been good to have nailed it down. It’s always satisfying to a cops reporter to know the police chief is spitting out his cornflakes, reading his day’s itinerary in his morning paper.
“Can’t be but one thing,” Apple says.
I nod. Like Andi said, it sucks being Richard Slade.
CHAPTER SIX
Monday
W hy can’t they ever have press conferences in the afternoon, or at least on a day when I’m paid to work? I don’t have to be here, but if it wasn’t me, it’d be Mark Baer or Handley Pace or some other byline poacher half my age. It’s my story, even if it is my day off.
When I get to city hall, damned if Baer isn’t the first person I see, all spiffy and ready for an easy A1 byline to add to the résumé he still hopes he can convert into a job at the Washington Post.
“I thought this was your day off,” he says.
I tell him to get the fuck out of there, and he does.
There are only six of us there—me, some freelancer from the local entertainment weekly and four TV types. The Post hasn’t deigned to send somebody down. We’re outnumbered by the cops, which seems to piss L. D. Jones off. He shoots me a death-ray glare. He’s still harboring grudges from last year, when my “interference in police matters” led to the uncomfortable revelation that one of his lieutenants was a murderer.
“No smoking,” the chief says, looking at me.
We’re outside, for Christ’s sake, in front of City Hall, freezing our butts off. Am I going to give the birds cancer? But I don’t need any more trouble from L. D. Jones. I stub out my Camel. He’s still glaring at me. I reach down, pick it up and walk fifty feet to the nearest trash can. The chief says something to the flunky next to him. They laugh.
There is little news here that a four-year-old couldn’t have figured out. You free a man on Monday after he’s done twenty-eight years for a rape he didn’t commit, and then the woman who accused him gets shot through the head on Saturday. One plus one equals two. Richard Slade is back behind bars. They got him yesterday. He had six days of open windows and doors that locked from the inside.
The mayor’s there, too, to reassure the people of Richmond that he personally won’t let innocent people get shot to death in their cars. Well, he won’t let folks from Windsor Farms get shot that way, anyhow. He’s probably the one who insisted we do it outside, with City Hall as the backdrop. He must have laryngitis, though, because he lets the chief do the talking. In good health, Hizzoner would only relinquish a microphone when you tore it from his cold, dead hands.
Jones is asked if they’re sure they have the right man.
“We, ah, can’t go into that right now,” the chief says, “but we have strong evidence pointing to the suspect.”
“Do you have the murder weapon?”
Jesus. Whoever shot Alicia Simpson threw the weapon down on Cary Street, which is where the cops found it. No prints. No serial number. It was in the paper, dumb-ass. Can TV reporters not read?
He’s never going to call on me, so I yell it out, loud enough so he has to answer.
“Do you have forensic evidence of any type linking Richard Slade to Alicia Simpson’s
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