[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/zGCIHbd.png[/img][/center] [center][i]"Never miss a good chance to shut up."[/i] -- Will Rogers[/center] Here's how it goes: You are a citizen of a free nation. Having lived your adult life in a land of guaranteed civil liberties, you commit a crime of violence. Whereupon you are arrested -- "jacked up" in the parlance of the street-- and find yourself here; in an interrogation room complete with brick walls, three chairs and a metal table. There you sit for almost an hour until a police detective, a man who is clearly not your friend, comes in with a smile and offers you a cigarette. The detective also brings with him a notepad and pen and a digital voice recorder. After you take the aforementioned smoke, he launches into a non-stop monologue that goes back and forth, back and forth, but comes to rest... in a very familiar place. "You have the right to remain silent." And you do. You're a criminal. Criminals always have the right to remain silent. You've seen Law & Order, right? Your Fifth Amendment rights prevent you from self-incrimination. If it was good enough for all those greedy CEOs and juicing athletes who testified in front of congress, who the fuck are you to argue? Let's get some prespective, shall we? A police detective -- a man paid by the government to put you into prison -- is explaining that you have the right to shut up before you say anything stupid. Think about that for a moment. Also think about your right to an attorney. The man with the smile and the tired eyes tells you that you have the right to talk to an attorney anytime. Be it before questioning, after questioning, or during any questioning sessions. The man who wants to arrest you for violating the peace of the great city of New York is telling you that you can talked to a person who is a trained professional in legal matters, someone who has read the relevant code... or, he's gotten his hands on some Cliff Notes. Either way, he is sure as hell more up on his shit than you are. Let's face it, pal. You just shot a man in the head behind 112th Street Bar. You are many things, but a legal genius you ain't. You're going to need the help of an expert. Take whatever you can get. After his long speech and informing you of your rights, the detective says that he wants you to be adequately informed of your rights. Right now, there is nothing he wants more than to help you out in this very confusing and stressful time in your life. He also wants you to know, and you can take it from him because he's been doing this for awhile, your right to an attorney isn't all that it's cracked up to be. He says that once you call for that lawyer, there isn't a thing in the world he can do to help you. Nope, once that bell is rung it can't be unrung and your good friends here at the 18th Precinct won't be able to lend you a hand. The next authority figure to get their hands on your case will be a no nonsense prosecutor from the District Attorney's office. And God help you if a three-piece suit wearing bloodsucker like that gets a whiff of your case. You'll be halfway to the Attica on a ten to life bid before you can even fucking blink. You ever been to Attica? They say Ryker's is the roughest prison in the state, but my money is on Attica. They'd eat you alive in a place like that. Your best bet is to speak up. Speak up now. With that little tidbit, the detective leaves the room and lets you think on it. Suddenly you realize how small this room, how without windows its a lot like a prison cell. That gets to you as you finish off you smoke and wish you had another. The detective returns minutes later, this detective who is not your friend, and smiles at you as he sits down at the table across from you with two cups of coffee. "I got the coffee right? Two sugars, no cream?" "Yeah, the coffee's fine, man." You say with a nervous twitch. "But, uhh...what happens if I want a lawyer?" "We'll get you a lawyer!" The detective springs up from his seat and heads towards the door. "No problem, we got a line of lawyers waiting outside." A few feet away from the door, he spins on his heels and looks back at you with his hands clasped together. "But! Maybe you should think first." He walks back towards the table and leans over it. He's crowding you, but not in a threatening way. Kind of like how your mom or dad would get in close when you were a kid. There's a warmness there. This man, this man who you have been taught would just as soon beat you than look at you, genuinely cares about your well being. "Like I said, once that lawyer is called we can't do anything. This will be your only time to speak, remember that. So... he came at you, didn't he? It was self-defense." You look down into the coffee and then back at his face. Swallowing hard, you answer. "Uh-huh." You say cautiously. "Wait one minute." The detective says as he slides you a piece of paper. "Might want to read that first." The form reads "I do not wish for an attorney right now, and I am willing to answer questions without an attorney present, and I do all this voluntarily on my part." You sign the paper, initial it to be sure. The detective looks at you, his eyes dripping with innocence, and says: "He came at you didn't he?" "Yeah. He... uh, he came at me," you whisper. That's it. You're done. If the detective wasn't too busy taking down your statement and writing a murder warrant, he'd tell you as much. He'd say something about your ignorance and the fact that you just admitted to killing another human being. He'd also mention that, in all his years of working murders, he's still amazed that even works. Stop and think. When you came through those doors what did it say? That's right, Homicide. Who lives in a Homicide Unit? Homicide Detectives, so far so good. And what does a Homicide Cop do for a living? You got it. You took a human being's life tonight. So, when you opened your mouth, what the fuck were you thinking? Bar none, the homicide detective is the best salesman on the face of the earth. He sells life sentences in prison to a customer base who has no need or want for them. And he's damn good at it too. Through lies, half-truths, and cajoling he gets the truth -- or enough of it to build a murder case -- from you. And it's all entirely legal. His weapon isn't violence anymore, it's his prey's own stupidity. There is a thing in interrogations known as The Out. Every suspect who opens their mouth in an interrogation pictures The Out. The right series of answers, the right amount of charm, the right bit of an alibi that will allow them to stroll out of the interrogation room and head home unscathed. It is a lie, as blatant as any lie that detectives can use in their interrogations. Once you are in this room, there is no amount of words that can lead to your freedom. Only silence. Only asking for a lawyer can get you out of this room. You go to a jail cell, yes, but you do not willingly sign your life away in search of The Out. The truth is that The Out leads in. You better get used to these small spaces, son. You're gonna be calling them home for at least the next thirty years. ---- [b]Manhattan Criminal Courthouse Part 21 Lower Manhattan 11:21 AM [/b] "Mr. Murdock, do you plan on a lengthy cross-examination of the witness?" "No, Your Honor," I said as I stood. "I'll be brief." I couldn't see it, but I could hear the muscles in Judge Sandra Young's face form into a smile. Noon was fast approaching and Judge Young likes her smoke breaks. I was honestly surprised that she had allowed the current session to run now for over three hours without breaking. "You may proceed," she said. I made my way from the defense table, passing by Assistant DA Blake Tower on my way towards the lectern facing the witness box and the jury. I heard Tower's right eyelid flip in a wink at me, a force of habit I assume. His gait was that of a man who was confident on the point of cocky. And who wouldn't be cocky after the testimony he had just withdrawn from his witness? With Tower holding his hand, Detective Sergeant Michael Tork had just delivered an hour's worth of testimony that guided the jury through his investigation. Working out of the NYPD's 33rd Precinct, Tork and his four-man narcotics unit conducted a two month investigation into the suspected drug dealing activities of one Jesus Reuben Martinez, resident of Washington Heights and a known member of the Puerto Rican Army. Jesus sat at the defense table, looking on while his heart raced a mile a minute. I could probably have smelled the sweat beading on his forehead from outside the court room it was so pungent. He had every reason to be worried. Tork's testimony was solid. He had explained in that clear and clipped cop-speak that his unit had observed Martinez in and around the Wilson Terrace Housing Projects where he lived, but they could never get concrete proof that he was dealing. He was careful on the street, conducting his business in the housing project where the cops couldn't go without arousing suspicion. Martinez would take the train somewhere downtown, but they always lost him in the shuffle of the commute. Close to packing up the case, they turned instead to the eye in the sky. Jesus Mendez had the honor to be among the first targets of the NYPD's new drone surveillance program. The drone in question caught Jesus taking a re-up from a supplier and then meeting with the dealers who worked for him to move his product. Jesus had alluded police ground surveillance thanks to his keen observations. But he hadn't thought to look up into the sky. "Thank you for taking the time to be here, Sergeant Tork," I said a I prepared for the cross. "You're welcome," Tork said tightly. A genuine hater. I figured the cop for one of those right off the bat. Now my suspicions were confirmed by the stand-offish answer and the increase in his pulse. A lot of cops make no effort to hide their contempt for defense attorneys. Instead of seeing what we do as a necessary check on the system, they instead see us as quasi-criminals who are just a few steps above the scumbag clients were represent. Not that he would be completely wrong in that assessment. But if he hated defense lawyers now, he sure as hell was about to hate them after I was through with him. "Sergeant Tork," I said with little to no delay. "Who operated the drone that took the surveillance photos of Mr. Martinez?" "Officer Pierce," said Tork. "And he's a member of your narcotics unit?" "Yes, he is." "I've been told that the photos you took are of good quality." I turned towards the jury with a half smirk. "I wouldn't know for myself." I've found that self-deprecating humor can go a long way to disarm juries. Especially given my reputation over the years, playing up my blindness offsets my other less desirable qualities. "They can clearly make out your client dealing drugs," Tork replied. "Move to strike that from the record," I asked the judge. "It's inflammatory." "So noted," said Judge Young. She looked down at Tork from her perch. "And I would remind Sergeant Tork to stick to simpler answers." "Sergeant Tork, did you write the warrant that led to the use of the drone on my client?" "No," said Tork. "We didn't have to write a warrant." I smirked and squared my glasses up. Tork's heartbeat was steady, but starting to rise. He was telling the truth -- a refreshing departure from a lot of cops on the stand -- but he was beginning to get nervous. He knew something was up. With this cross, I was setting the fuse on the bomb that would destroy the prosecution's case. "Drones and the use of them are relatively new in law enforcement, Sergeant. Are you up to date with all the rules and regulations?" "I know how to do my job if that's what you're asking." "Oh, so you know about the rules on surveillance distance with drones? They're much more restrictive with them than they are with planes and helicopters. If you're less than a thousand feet away from the target, you need a warrant. Anything without a warrant is considered and illegal search." I held up the photographs, making sure they were the right side up and facing Tork. "From how far would you say these photos were taken, Sergeant Tork?" Now Tork's heart was racing. I could smell the sweat on him. Along with his change, I heard Tower groan under his breath from the prosecution table and Juror #4 laugh under his breath. "I'm not an expert on distances," he said defensively. "No, you're not," I said with a nod. "I'll have one of those come up when the defense presents. No more questions for Sergeant Tork, your honor." And just like that, the seeds of acquittal have been sewn. Is Jesus Martinez guilty? Of course. The photos prove that. But they weren't obtained legally. That, more than anything, is my job. I have to make sure the cops play fair. I have to test the state's evidence and make sure it holds up. I am a necessary part of the threshing maw that is the American criminal justice system. I poke and prod and pull threads. Better that a guilty man go free on a technicality than an innocent man be convicted on faulty evidence. At least, that's what I tell myself to make it through the day. At night I cope a different way. --- [b]Williamsburg, Brooklyn 2:15 PM[/b] Yussel Goren had never seen so much blood in his life. It seemed to coat the floor and walls of the small Brooklyn apartment. It covered his hands and arms. The thighs of his navy blue pants were a deep crimson now due to the blood. Neta was face down in the carpet, her blood pooled out from the spot where she had fallen and oozing out through the rest of the room. Yussel stumbled forward. He took his yarmulke off with his blood-stained hands and stuttered out some words in Yiddish. He fell to his knees and began to weep. His free hand found a bloody knife buried in the carpet. He held it up and looked at it just as the door to the apartment burst open. "NYPD," the heavyset uniformed officer said, his gun out and aimed at Yussel. "Drop the weapon!"