The interview went pretty well, though they had to ask Rory to repeat some things in simpler and simpler terms. They got out by ten, though; only fifteen minutes later than they’d expected.
And about two minutes late on the parking meter. Marya saw the big white tow truck from half a block away, checked her watch, and broke into a run.
It was a heavy-duty floater with a bed big enough to hold a large passenger car. It could park parallel to a car and, using a kind of built-in forklift, pick it straight up and haul it aboard in no time.
Marya got to him just as he was raising the car. He was a young black man. Her intuition weighed charm versus indignation as she ran up to the driver’s-side window. “I’m sorry, mister. I got held up just a minute or two.”
The man looked down at her wearily. “You’re gonna get held up, you oughta park on campus. Park on the street and I get the call soon as your time’s up, automatically. You didn’t know that.”
“No. I’m from New York.”
“Well, enjoy the sunshine. You can pick up your car at the police lot anytime after twelve. Bring four hundred bucks and be prepared to spend a couple hours.”
“Oh.” She smiled. “The press card on the windshield doesn’t …”
He gave a little start of recognition. “No, Miz Washington. Nobody escapes the wrath of the Gainesville Police Department.”
The cameraman had caught up with her. “Couldn’t we just pay the fine here, and be on our way?”
“What, is that the way they do it in New York?”
“No,” he said. “In New York we pay a little extra.”
“Like five instead of four,” Marya said. She folded up a single bill and offered it.
The driver looked up and down the street, and then pushed forward on a big lever between the seats, and the car eased back down to the ground. He took the bill and slipped it into his shirt pocket.
He picked up a wand from the dashboard. “Give me dispatch.”