The sky was darkening; the smell of snow was in the air. I crossed Market to Memorial Plaza, where the Gremlin was parked by a young tree.
"I'll call you," my lawyer said.
Up the road, a light had turned green and cars were pouring across Market Street, leaving what was left of the reporters stranded on the other side. I pulled out, driving west, away from the river.
I rubbed my hands together and switched on the heat. The old fan flapped and rumbled, coughing out warm air. A light snow had begun to fall, melting on the windshield, and the Gremlin filled with the smell of engine oil, as it had those winter mornings when I set out in darkness to deliver the news.