Paparazzi waited outside the jail for my release. I tried to think of a literary description of them so they’d seem less a tabloid threat.
They moved like a windstorm across the prairie, throwing muddled questions in the air.
It didn’t work. I almost turned back inside, but Chief Capacasa gave me a taunting wave good-bye, shutting the door behind me.
Benny grabbed my arm and pushed through the thicket of microphones, calling for order. “Give us space. Give us silence. Or no sound.”
That was language the media mob understood. They fell back and quieted, waiting for the reward of a quote or sound bite.
“My client is innocent of all charges.” Benny looked good in a dark lawyer suit. “The victim had numerous enemies. The police have yet to fully investigate this case.”
Now my turn. “I welcome my day in court.” Benny had drafted my line and told me to utter it and nothing else.
When it became clear that was all I was going to say, questions exploded from behind the camera lenses.
“Was it a crime of passion?”
“What about all the forensic evidence?”
“Is the station going to fire you?”
I was curious about that last question myself.
Murder wasn’t part of my job description. Whenever my bosses had praised me for landing a “killer” story, this wasn’t what they meant.
Noreen had come to jail earlier to tell me in person—through the glass visitor window—how badly she felt about my “situation,” yet the station couldn’t help me out with bail money. She insisted that decision had nothing to do with our shrinking ad revenue, and that probably was the truth. Noreen also thought it best I not be photographed leaving jail and climbing into any vehicle with a Channel 3 logo. So I’d need to arrange my own transportation as well as bail.
“It’d be different if you’d been arrested during some freedom-of-the-press stunt,” she said. “Then we’d back you. As it is, the station is still weighing how best to handle your predicament.”
Her words had the same ominous tone she used during job reviews.
Benny ignored all the paparazzi questions, shoving me toward the curb, where a dark sedan pulled up. My attorney opened the front door and pushed me inside. Before he slammed it shut, he warned me—remember, no interviews.
Father Mountain was behind the wheel and my parents were in the backseat. Once the news throng was smaller in the rear-view mirror, I was able to start to relax and thank them for the rescue.
Father Mountain explained he’d always wanted to drive a getaway car. “This way I get to say ‘I’m on a mission from God.’”
If those words had come from Nick Garnett’s mouth, I’d have answered, “Dan Aykroyd. The Blues Brothers, 1980.” Suddenly I felt even lonelier than I had in jail, and I knew our romance was officially over.
“We would have driven ourselves,” Dad said.
“But we get nervous in all the downtown traffic,” Mom said.
“And we worried we might get lost,” Dad explained.
“So we left our car at your place,” Mom said, finishing up.
Clay Burrel and a photographer were sitting on my front steps when we pulled into the driveway. A Channel 3 live truck was front and center. The other stations had vehicles parked along the curb but none of their reporters had the guts to step onto my property. Maybe fear that I really was a murderer had something to do with them keeping their distance.
Clay’s cameraman hoisted his gear to his shoulder. I noticed it was one of the new HD cameras and rued how bad my complexion would look on the air.
Clay held out a wireless microphone for me to clip on. “We can do it out here real fast,” he said, “or inside nice and easy.”
“Sorry, Clay, my attorney told me no media interviews. Not even Channel 3.”
“You just don’t want me to get another exclusive.” He pointed his finger at me like it was a gun. And even though it wasn’t, I worried he might have the real thing tucked in his jacket. “Admit it, Riley. You’ve been threatened by me since the day I started work at the station.”
“That’s not true,” I responded. This was an awkward conversation to have in front of my mom, dad, and especially priest.
Father Mountain spoke on my behalf. “Riley is a good mentor. Perhaps you could learn from her.”
“You’ve never seen her in action,” Clay said. “She hates competition like the devil hates holy water.”
“Competition doesn’t prohibit cooperation,” Father Mountain said. “Catholics and Lutherans compete for souls, but we all love the same God and fear the same hell. That puts us on the same life team. Just like you and Riley are on the same news team.”
“I didn’t come here for a sermon,” Clay said. “I came here for an interview.”
He left without one, heading back to the truck to prepare for his live shot. His parting words: a whiny threat to tell Noreen about my lack of cooperation. I couldn’t imagine she’d be surprised or pleased.
“Is there anything we can do to help?” my mom asked.
“You already have,” I answered. “All of you. Being here means so much.”
For a whole lot of reasons, I was close to tears. And for a whole lot more reasons, I did not want my parents to see me cry. I thought if they saw me cry, it would mean I still had some growing up to do. And no thirty-six-year-old woman wants to feel that way.
“And thank you for the bail money, you didn’t have to do that.” I held my fingers over my eyes because I could feel tears poised to fall.
Mom and Dad gave me a group hug, which was unusual in the normally stoic Spartz family. That gesture was enough to put dampness on my cheeks.
“It’s just signatures on a piece of paper, Riley,” Dad said.
“Father Mountain wanted to help, too,” Mom said, motioning for him to join the hug. “But he has that vow of poverty.”
“How about if we offered to do the media interviews?” Dad asked.
“No.” Zero hesitation from me. That one suggestion immediately halted any need to cry.
I couldn’t be sure, once they were out of my sight, whether my parents would follow my wishes. The last time I had told them I didn’t need their help, they crashed a funeral. Now, if given the chance, I had a hunch they’d show up on Oprah to tell my side of the story.
Father Mountain gave me a good-bye blessing as he headed out the door. I encouraged him to wait until the news crews left, but since no one knew exactly when that might happen, he decided to put his faith in God that none of his parishioners would see his picture on television in connection with a heinous crime. Then he urged me to turn to the Bible for reassurance in how the righteous triumph over the wicked.
A commotion of wicked camera lights, flashes, and microphones followed him to his car. But he drove away in triumph, demonstrating to me that it can be done.
My parents headed for the kitchen, because kitchens are the most normal part of any house, and we needed to feel normal.
“That reporter guy kind of looked familiar,” Mom told Dad. They were talking about Clay.
“Yeah, didn’t we meet him at the funeral?” he answered.
“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe we just saw him on TV.”
Mom opened the refrigerator to see what I had to cook. The pickings were sparse. She moved on to the freezer, disappointed not to see a frozen wild rice hot dish waiting for company.
“You can eat whatever you can find,” I said.
The doorbell rang while she was looking through the cupboards. I went to tell Clay that if he came back again, he was trespassing. I didn’t imagine that threat would carry much clout because, under the circumstances, I couldn’t really call the police.
But instead of my TV colleague, the newspaper’s former political columnist stood under the shadow of my porch light, looking even older than he had in court.
Ends up, Rolf wanted an interview, too.
“No, Rolf. N-O. If I’m not doing an interview with my own newsroom, why would I talk to you?”
“Well, Riley, you were the one who encouraged me to try freelancing for the paper, to see if they’d take me back. My first assignment is to interview you. If I don’t bring back the story, my career is over.”
“Rolf, your career is already over, and mine isn’t far behind.”
Then I slammed the door in his face, not caring whether he had a gun. Or Clay had a gun. Or that I was the only journalist in the state armed only with my wits. Then I found myself wishing neither of them knew where I lived.
In the other room, I heard my parents discussing whether Rolf looked familiar or whether they were just getting old.