Clarence Sims considered, briefly, the difference in size between them, and his options, and then threw theJohn Wanamaker amp; Sons shopping bag at Jesus Martinez and started running.
He got as far as the Buick's bumper when he stumbled over something. The next thing Clarence Sims knew he was flat on the ground, with an enormous honky sitting on him, and painfully twisting his arms behind him. He felt a steel handcuff snap shut around one wrist, and then around the other.
And the little spick was in his face, the spick and a gun, shoved hard against his nostrils.
"Don't youever call me motherfucker, you motherfucker!" Officer Jesus Martinez said, furiously. "I ought to blow your fucking brains out, cocksucker!"
"Hay-zus," the enormous honky said, "cool it!"
"I don't like that shit!" Officer Martinez replied, still angry. But the revolver barrel withdrew from Clarence Sims's nostril.
Clarence Sims felt hands running over his body. From one hip pocket a switchblade was removed, from the other his wallet. His side pockets were emptied, spilling a collection of coins and chewing gum wrappers onto the macadam of the parking lot. His groin was probed dispassionately, and then he felt the hands moving down his legs. From his right sock, fingers removed a joint of marijuana, a small plasticine bag of marijuana-known on the street as a "nickel bag," because they sold for five dollars-and a book of matches.
"Oh, my God!" a female voice said, in shock.
"It's all right, ma'am," Clarence heard the spick say, "we're police officers. Is this your car, ma'am?"
"Yes, it is," the female voice said, and then she spotted the shopping bags, and a tone of indignation came into her voice. "Those are my things!"
"Somehow, I didn't think they were his," Martinez said.
Clarence felt the weight of the man kneeling on his back go away.
"Your name Clarence Sims?" Martinez asked.
"Go fuck yourself!"
Clarence Sims's face, which he had raised off the macadam of the parking lot, suddenly encountered it again, as if something-a foot, say-had pushed the back of his head.
"You're under arrest, Clarence," the honky said.
"What happened here?" the female voice asked.
"I saw him taking those bags out of the backseat," Martinez said. " Ma'am, can you tell me how much the stuff in them is worth?"
The victim thought about that a moment. "Two hundred dollars," she said, finally. "Maybe a little more."
"It would help if you could tell us if it'sfor sure worth more than two hundred dollars," Martinez pursued.
The victim considered that for a moment, then said, "Now that I've had a chance to think, it's all worth closer to three hundred dollars than two."
"Bingo," Charley McFadden said. "M-l."
The victim looked at him strangely.
The crime of which Clarence Sims now stood accused,theft from auto, was a misdemeanor. There were three sub-categories: M-3, where the stolen property is worth less than fifty dollars; M-2, where the property is worth between fifty and two hundred dollars; and M-l, where the property is worth more than two hundred dollars.
Like most police officers, Charley McFadden was pleased that the critter he had arrested was not as unimportant as he might have been. An M-l thief was a better arrest than an M-3.
A faint but growing glimmer of hope that he might be able to extricate himself from his current predicament came into Clarence Sims's mind: The fucking pigs had not read him his goddamned rights. Like most people in his line of work, Clarence Sims was well aware of what had come to be known as theMiranda Decision. If the fucking pigs didn't read you the whole goddamned thing, starting with "You have the right to remain silent" and going through the business about them getting you a lawyer if you couldn't afford one, and could prove it, then you told the judge and the judge let you walk.
Clarence Sims erred. Under the law it is necessary to advise a suspect of his rights underMiranda only when the suspect is to be questioned concerning a crime. Since it was not the intention of the arresting officers to ask him any questions at all about the crime, it was not necessary for them to inform Mr. Sims of his rights underMiranda.
The man Clarence Sims thought of as the big honky, who was a twentytwo-year-old police officer named Charles McFadden, opened the door of a battered old Volkswagen, and picked up a small portable radio.
The battered old Volkswagen was his personal automobile. He had been authorized to use it on duty. Authorized, but not required. Since he had chosen to use it, he had been issued sort of a Police Department credit card, which authorized him to gas up at any Police Department gas pump-there is one at every District Headquarters-up to a limit of one hundred gallons per month, no questions asked. If he had not elected to use his personal vehicle on duty, he could have performed that duty on foot.
"Twelfth District BD," Charley McFadden said into the radio. (Burglary Detail.)
"Twelfth District BD," Police Radio promptly responded.
"Twelfth District BD," Charley McFadden said. "I need a wagon for a prisoner. We're in the parking lot of the Penrose Plaza at Island Road and Lindbergh."
Police Radio did not respond to Officer McFadden directly, but instead, after checking the board to see what was available, called the Emergency Patrol Wagon directly:
"Twelve Oh One."
"Twelve Oh One," the wagon replied.
"Meet the burglary detail at the parking lot of Penrose Plaza, Island at Lindbergh, with a prisoner."
"Twelve Oh One, okay," EPW 1201 replied.
Charley McFadden put the portable radio back on the seat of his Volkswagen.
When the two police officers assigned to 1201, the Twelfth District wagon responding to the call to transport a prisoner, arrived at the scene, they found that the arresting officers were having more trouble with the victim than with the prisoner.
The prisoner was on his feet, his hands cuffed behind him, leaning on the victim's car and apparently resigned to his fate. Even, to judge by the look on his face, a little smug about it.
The victim, having been informed that her two packages had become evidence, and could not be returned to her until released by proper authority, was engaged in a heated conversation with Officer McFadden, telling him that she had to have the shopping bags, at least the one fromJohn Wanamaker amp; Sons which contained a formal dress shirt for her husband, a shirt he absolutely had to have for a dinner party that night.
"Ma'am, if you'll just go the West Detectives, at Fifty-fifth and Pine, and sign the Property Receipt, they'll give you your stuff right back."
"What I don't understand is why I can't sign whatever it is I have to sign right here," she said.
"I don't have the form, lady; you have to do it at West Detectives," Charley McFadden said. "That's the rules."
That was not the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. But it had been Officer McFadden's experience that if he gave the victim back her property here and now, that would be the last he, or more importantly, the criminal justice system, would ever see of her. It had been his experience that the ordinary citizen's interest in law enforcement ended when they had to make their own contribution, like showing up in court and swearing under oath that the stuff the critter had stolen belonged to her.
The chances of her showing up in court, and thus perhaps aiding in sending Mr. Sims off to jail, would be aided if she got the idea, by signing a Property Receipt, that she was already involved andhad to show up in court.
"And what if I refuse to press charges?" the victim said, finally, in desperate exasperation.
"Lady, I'm pressing charges," Charley McFadden said, equally exasperated. "Or Hay-zus is. Thecity is. Wecaught him stealing that stuff from your car."
"Well, we'll see about that, young man," the victim said. "We'll just see about that. My brother-in-law just happens to be a very prominent attorney."