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.”
Chapter 2
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.
Since the cops of the 87th had taken a suspect into custody and intended to question him, Miranda-Escobedo immediately came into play. Captain Frick, who was in charge of the entire precinct, had issued a bulletin to his men shortly after the Supreme Court decision in 1955, a flyer printed on green paper and advising every cop in the precinct, uniformed and plainclothes, on the proper interrogation of criminal suspects. Most of the precinct’s uniformed cops carried the flyer clipped inside their notebooks where it was handy for reference whenever they needed it. The detectives, on the other hand, normally questioned more people than their uniformed colleagues, and had committed the rules to memory. They used them now with easy familiarity, while continuing to look upon them with great distaste.
“In keeping with the Supreme Court decision in Miranda v. Arizona,“ Hal Willis said, “we’re required to advise you of your rights, and that’s what I’m doing now. First, you have the right to remain silent if you choose, do you understand that?”
“I do.”
“Do you also understand that you need not answer any police questions?”
“I do.”
“And do you also understand that if you do answer questions, your answers may be used as evidence against you?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“I must also inform you that you have the right to consult with an attorney before or during police questioning, do you understand that?”
“I understand.”
“And if you decide to exercise that right but do not have the funds with which to hire counsel, you are entitled to have a lawyer appointed without cost, to consult with him before or during questioning. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
“You understand all of your rights as I have just explained them to you?”
“I do.”
“Are you willing to answer questions without the presence of an attorney?”
“Gee, I don’t know,” the suspect said. “Should I?”
Willis and Brown looked at each other. They had thus far played Miranda-Escobedo by the book, warning the suspect of his privilege against self-incrimination, and warning him of his right to counsel. They had done so in explicit language, and not by merely making references to the Fifth Amendment. They had also made certain that the suspect understood his rights before asking him whether or not he wished to waive them. The green flyer issued by Captain Frick had warned that it was not sufficient for an officer simply to give the warnings and then proceed with an interrogation. It was necessary for the prisoner to say he understood, and that he was willing to answer questions without counsel. Only then would the court find that he had waived his constitutional rights.
In addition, however, the flyer had warned all police officers to exercise great care in avoiding language which could later be used by defense attorneys to charge that the officer had “threatened, tricked, or cajoled” the defendant into waiving. The officer was specifically cautioned against advising the suspect not to bother with a lawyer, or even implying that he’d be better off without a lawyer. He was, in short, supposed to inform the defendant of his privilege against self-incrimination and his right to counsel, period. Both Willis and Brown knew that they could not answer the suspect’s question. If either of the two had advised him to answer questions without an attorney present, any confession they thereafter took would be inadmissible in court. If, on the other hand, they advised him not to answer questions, or advised him to consult with an attorney, their chances of getting a confession would be substantially lessened.
So Willis said, “I’ve explained your rights, and it would be improper for me to give you any advice. The decision is yours.”
“Gee, I don’t know,” the man said.
“Well, think it over,” Willis said.
The young man thought it over. Neither Willis nor Brown said a word. They knew that if their suspect refused to answer questions, that was it, the questioning would have to stop then and there. They also knew that if he began answering questions and suddenly decided he didn’t want to go on with the interrogation, they would have to stop immediately, no matter what language he used to express his wishes —”I claim my rights,” or “I don’t want to say nothing else,” or “I demand a mouthpiece.”
So they waited.
“I got nothing to hide,” the young man said at last.
“Are you willing to answer questions without the presence of an attorney?” Willis asked again.
“I am.”
“What’s your name?” Willis said.
“Anthony La Bresca.”
“Where do you live, Anthony?”
“In Riverhead.”
“Where in Riverhead, Anthony?” Brown said.
Both detectives had automatically fallen into the first-name basis of interrogation that violated only human dignity and not human rights, having nothing whatever to do with Miranda-Escobedo, but having everything in the world to do with the psychological unsettling of a prisoner. Call a man by his first name without allowing him the return courtesy and:
(a) You immediately make him a subordinate, and
(b) You instantly rob the familiarity of any friendly connotation, charging its use with menace instead.
“Where in Riverhead, Anthony?” Willis said.
“1812 Johnson.”
“Live alone?”
“No, with my mother.”
“Father dead?”
“They’re separated.”
“How old are you, Anthony?”
“Twenty-six.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“I’m unemployed at the moment.”
“What do you normally do?”
“I’m a construction worker.”
“When’s the last time you worked?”
“I was laid off last month.”
“Why?”
“We completed the job.”
“Haven’t worked since?”
“I’ve been looking for work.”
“But didn’t have any luck, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Tell us about the lunch pail.”
“What about it?”
“Well, what’s in it, first of all?”