"You think anybody's crazy enough to be out in this weather?" Willis said.
"Cheer up," Kling said, "I hear the boss is sending you both to Jamaica when this is over."
"Fat Chance Department," Willis said. "Hold it!"
There was silence in the squadroom. Hawes and Kling waited. At last, Willis' voice erupted from the speaker on Kling's box.
"Just a kid," Willis said. "Stopped at the bench, looked over the lunch pail, and then left it right where it was."
"Stay with it," Kling said.
"We have to stay with it," Brown's voice cut in. "We're frozen solid to this goddamn rock."
There were people in the park now.
They ventured into the bitch city tentatively, warned by radio and television forecasters, further cautioned by the visual evidence of thermometers outside apartment windows, and the sound of the wind whipping beneath the eaves of old buildings, and the touch of the frigid blast that attacked any exploratory hand thrust outdoors for just an instant before a window slammed quickly shut again. They dressed with no regard to the dictates of fashion, the men wearing ear muffs and bulky mufflers, the women bundled into layers of sweaters and fur-lined boots, wearing woolen scarves to protect their heads and ears, rushing at a quick trot through the park, barely glancing at the bench or the black lunch pail sitting in the center of it. In a city notorious for its indifference, the citizens were more obviously withdrawn now, hurrying past each other without so much as eyes meeting, insulating themselves, becoming tight private cocoons that defied the cold. Speech might have made them more vulnerable, opening the mouth might have released the heat they had been storing up inside, commiseration would never help to diminish the wind that tried to cut them down in the streets, the saberslash wind that blew in off the river and sent newspapers wildly soaring into the air, fedoras wheeling into the gutter. Speech was a precious commodity that cold March day.
In the park, Willis and Brown silently watched the bench.
The painters were in a garrulous mood.
"What have you got going, a stakeout?" the first painter asked.
"Is that what the walkie-talkie's for?" the second painter asked.
"Is there gonna be a bank holdup?"
"Is that why you're listening to that thing?"
"Shut up," Kling said encouragingly.
The painters were on their ladders, slopping apple green paint over everything in sight.
"We painted the D.A.'s office once," the first painter said.
"They were questioning this kid who stabbed his mother forty-seven times."
"Forty-
"In the belly, the head, the breasts, everyplace."
"With an icepick."
"He was guilty as sin."
"He said he did it to save her from the Martians."
"A regular bedbug."
"Forty-
"How could that save her from the Martians?" the second painter said.
"Maybe Martians don't like ladies with icepick holes in them," the first painter said, and burst out laughing. The second painter guffawed with him. Together, they perched on their ladders, helpless with laughter, limply holding brushes that dripped paint on the newspapers spread on the squadroom floor.
The man entered the park at ten A.M.
He was perhaps twenty-seven years old, with a narrow cold-pinched face, his lips drawn tight against the wind, his eyes watering. He wore a beige car coat, the collar pulled up against the back of his neck, buttoned tight around a green wool muffler at his throat. His hands were in the slash pockets of the coat. He wore brown corduroy trousers, the wale cut diagonally, and brown high-topped workman's shoes. He came onto the Clinton Street footpath swiftly, without looking either to the right or the left, walked immediately and directly to the third bench on the path, picked up the lunch pail, tucked it under his arm, put his naked hand back into his coat pocket, wheeled abruptly, and was starting out of the park again, when a voice behind him said, "Hold it right there, Mac."
He turned to see a tall burly Negro wearing what looked like a blue astronaut's suit. The Negro was holding a big pistol in his right hand. His left hand held a wallet which fell open to reveal a gold and blue shield.
"Police officer," the Negro said. "We want to talk to you."
Miranda-Escobedo sounds like a Mexican bullfighter.
It is not.
It is the police shorthand for two separate Supreme Court decisions. These decisions, together, lay down the ground rules for the interrogation of suspects, and cops find them a supreme pain in the ass. There is not one working cop in the United States who thinks Miranda-Escobedo is a good idea. They are all fine Americans, these cops, and are all very concerned with the rights of the individual in a free society, but they do not like Miranda-Escobedo because they feel it makes their job more difficult. Their job is crime prevention.
