I shivered, literally shaking from the cold. An hour in the frigid wind had sucked the heat out of my body. I couldn’t feel my lips or chin and my speech slurred. One of the police asked if I needed medical attention. If I said “yes,” I’d probably go to the hospital, and then jail. If I said, “no,” I’d go straight to jail.
“No,” I said. They didn’t know it, but we needed to talk.
Bystanders recorded the scene with their camera phones. Maybe that’s why theDC cops used the least force necessary to apprehend me.
From the bench seat of a police van facing out the back window, still cuffed, I rode to the station. Once we were there, I saw my property laid on a countertop, shoelaces and all. They wanted my signature for the confiscated property and asked if I’d answer questions without an attorney present. To their visible surprise, I agreed.
I shivered in the hall, handcuffed. Someone draped a set of white coveralls over my shoulders. You can’t put on coveralls while you’re cuffed. After a long wait, three of us took a closet-sized elevator to the fifth floor, me, a uniformed officer, and a lady who I presume was a detective. On the fifth floor, a crowd of detectives in a big office eyeballed me as we went by. I figure they were detectives—they were in civilian clothes and had guns. They ushered me into the next room, a small windowless office dominated by a table and four office chairs. A man and woman were already seated, both dressed in civilian clothes. The lady from the elevator took the lead. At her invitation, I sat. She took the remaining chair to my right and she introduced the pair already seated. No handshakes.
“Would you like a bottled water?” she asked, then continued as if she’d just realized. “It’ll be hard to drink if you’re handcuffed. Maybe if we uncuff one hand and cuff the other to the chair?”
“Let the games begin,” I thought.
“Do whatever you think is safe,” I said.
Obviously, she’d already decided to release my hands. I think she intended for me to feel grateful and obliged. I didn’t see it that way. I’d granted the Washington police department an interview because I wanted the security forces to stand down. The fertile imagination of law enforcement could create chaos in DC defending against a non-threat. Washington National Airport might be shut down, the Capitol Building evacuated, and government offices disrupted. By talking, I’d bring the police to a valid estimate of the non-threat level and save god-knows-how-many man-hours by telling them where to look. The cuffs clicked and rattled, removed by the officer who left. He probably didn’t go far.
The detective across from me would take notes, explained the lead detective whose aura hinted of a shrink. Though friendly and professional my hosts were, I harbored no doubt as my bottled water appeared: I was a minnow in the company of three circling sharks.
They launched a pro forma inquiry, asking me the names, ages, and locations of my parents, current spouse, ex-wife, brothers, sisters, and my birthplace, education, job, yada, yada, yada. Everything but the dog’s name. That the cops spent valuable time on useless details irritated me, but I suppressed my objections. Eventually, we came to my son John. The reaction of shock and sympathy seemed genuine. The investigators continued to gather whatever information a prosecutor might need to hang me, but their attitude shifted when I became a full human being instead of just a suspect.
“What’s a gyrocopter?” began the substantive part of the quiz. I displayed the enthusiasm of an aerial proselyte explaining how a gyro worked. They probed for specifics, how far could it fly, how high I’d flown, and why. There’s a specific section of FAA rules that defines ultralights, I explained, which said I didn’t need a license and my gyro didn’t need to be registered. I neglected to mention my violation of FAR—Part 103, but the Federal Aviation Administration would be consulted.