Deputy Sheriff Quotes

Upon arriving at the murder scene, they saw Deputy Sheriff Peewee Stubblefield pacing back and forth on the front walk. He stopped and smirked as Sheriff Roosevelt Baker braked the patrol car. He emitted a noise sounding more like a groan than a sigh.

The place was packed as we flooded in, all the patrons freezing at the sight of an armed sheriff, two deputies, an Indian, and a construction worker; we probably looked like the Village People.

The voyage from San Francisco to Hawaii had been the most terrifying experience Greer and Cameron had ever gone through, even more terrible than the time they shot a deputy sheriff in Idaho ten times and he wouldn't die and Greer finally had to say to the deputy sheriff, "Please die because we don't want to shoot you again". And the deputy sheriff had said, "Ok, I'll die, but don't shoot me again". "We won't shoot you again", Cameron had said. "Ok, I'm dead", and he was.

The slam of a car door drew her attention to a new arrival. Maxville Deputy Sheriff Zach Manus emerged from his unmarked 2011 Camaro and stalked toward them. Deep sorrow and anger laced across his handsome features. His light-brown hair stood a little more on end than normal. He stopped in front of them, his frown deepening and his golden-brown eyes darkening.

saying, I originally left the door unlocked as a matter of convenience. But pretty soon I realized that whenever the doorbell did ring, it was someone I didn’t know. So the bell became a signal that a stranger was at the door. I’ve learned never to answer it myself when that happens, because it’s likely to be a deputy sheriff wanting to serve me with some kind of paper, and of course I don’t need to be home for that.

See here, son, if a deputy sheriff beats a prisoner to death, it’s sweepstakes odds that the county commissioners didn’t order it, didn’t know it, and wouldn’t have permitted it had they known. At worst they shut their eyes to it—afterwards—rather than upset their own applecarts. But assassination has never been an accepted policy in this country.

When I was being moved, a deputy U.S. Marshal with a Southern accent so thick it sounded like he was doing a bad parody of a Good Ol’ Boy sheriff laughed and said, “You’re the only prisoner we ever had that got booted out of jail!

When I returned, instead of beating swift retreat she suggested we should have fun together. I dunked her a couple of times. Unfortunately, I was pointing a gun at hotel security at the time, and the sheriff's deputies showed up. Raphael ate it up. I was finally acting like a mated shapeshifter : irrationnal, possessive and head over heels in love.

Maybe I shot the sheriff and the deputy.

The sheriffs swore in new deputies and ordered new rifles; and the comfortable people in tight houses felt pity at first and then distaste, and finally hatred for the migrant people.

words of Deputy Sheriff Eddy Walthers “the projectile struck so near the underpass, it was, in my opinion, probably the last shot that was fired and apparently went high and above the president’s car.”8 To

Passengers drank and smoked. Both; a lot. This was a significant source of profit for Cunard. The company laid in a supply of 150 cases of Black & White Whiskey, 50 cases of Canadian Club Whiskey, and 50 of Plymouth Gin; also, 15 cases each of an eleven-year-old French red wine, a Chambertin, and an eleven-year-old French white, a Chablis, and twelve barrels of stout and ten of ale. Cunard stockpiled thirty thousand “Three Castles” cigarettes and ten thousand Manila cigars. The ship also sold cigars from Havana and American cigarettes made by Phillip Morris. For the many passengers who brought pipes, Cunard acquired 560 pounds of loose Capstan tobacco—“navy cut”—and 200 pounds of Lord Nelson Flake, both in 4-ounce tins. Passengers also brought their own. Michael Byrne, a retired New York merchant and former deputy sheriff traveling in first class, apparently planned to spend a good deal of the voyage smoking. He packed 11 pounds of Old Rover Tobacco and three hundred cigars. During the voyage, the scent of combusted tobacco was ever present, especially after dinner.

There were moments of racial unity. Lawrence Goodwyn found in east Texas an unusual coalition of black and white public officials: it had begun during Reconstruction and continued into the Populist period. The state government was in the control of white Democrats, but in Grimes County, blacks won local offices and sent legislators to the state capital. The district clerk was a black man; there were black deputy sheriffs and a black school principal. A night-riding White Man’s Union used intimidation and murder to split the coalition, but Goodwyn points to “the long years of interracial cooperation in Grimes County” and wonders about missed opportunities.

There were leaders here and elsewhere who agreed with the woman, he knew, including an Ohio sheriff who'd recently proposed taking naloxone away from his deputies, claiming that repeated overdose reversals were "sucking the taxpayers dry." Lloyd thought immediately of the answer Jesus gave when his disciple asked him to enumerate the concept of forgiveness. Should it be granted seven times, Peter wanted to know, or should a sinner be forgiven as many as seventy times? In the shadow of the church steeples, Lloyd let Jesus answer the woman's question: "Seventy times seven," he said.

I pulled the phone toward me and punched in the number of the sheriff's office in Flat Mesa. The deputy at the desk put me straight through. The phone made a couple of clicks, and then the sheriff's voice sounded in my ear. "Jones," he said. Dark, biting, laconic. "Hey, Nash. It's Janet." There was a long silence. "Fuck," Nash Jones said clearly, and he hung up on me.

You ask me why the I.W.W. is not patriotic to the United States. If you were a bum without a blanket; if you had left your wife and kids when you went west for a job, and had never located them since; if your job had never kept you long enough in a place to qualify you to vote; if you slept in a lousy, sour bunkhouse, and ate food just as rotten as they could give you and get by with it; if deputy sheriffs shot your cooking cans full of holes and spilled your grub on the ground; if your wages were lowered on you when the bosses thought they had you down; if there was one law for Ford, Suhr, and Mooney, and another for Harry Thaw; if every person who represented law and order and the nation beat you up, railroaded you to jail, and the good Christian people cheered and told them to go to it, how in hell do you expect a man to be patriotic? This war is a business man’s war and we don’t see why we should go out and get shot in order to save the lovely state of affairs that we now enjoy.

Steve had cut a deal on the other charges pending against him at the time—the charges associated with his forcing a deputy sheriff’s wife off the road—and he received a six-year sentence for that crime. In other words, he would have spent six of those eighteen years in prison even if he had not been wrongly convicted of the other crime.

As for Deputy Dickface and Sheriff Shithead and all the rest of their merry crew

 I’m . . . concerned. You appear to be upset. What’s wrong?” His voice gentled and his eyes searched mine. “What’s happened? And what can I do to help?” I crossed my arms because my stupid heart was fluttering again. He caught me off guard. I was not at all prepared for Cletus Winston’s concern. “Nothing. Nothing is wrong. I just wanted to bring y’all muffins. Can’t I bring y’all muffins?” He was scrutinizing me again. “No. Something’s off. Is it Jackson James? Do I need to maim him? Because I will. I could give him leprosy, you know. Armadillos are carriers.” My mouth fell open and a bubble of laughter emerged unchecked. “Cletus Winston, you will do no such thing.” “Sheriff’s deputy or not. Just say the word. It might improve him, actually.” “You are terrible.” I laughed, even though he was terrible, and I felt terrible laughing at such a terrible joke. At least, I hope it’s a joke

Den we git hurtee again. Somebody call hisself a deputy sheriff kill de baby boy now. (Over)1 “He say he de law, but he doan come ’rest him. If my boy done something wrong, it his place come ’rest him lak a man. If he mad wid my Cudjo ’bout something den he oughter come fight him face to face lak a man. He doan come ’rest him lak no sheriff and he doan come fight him lak no man. He have words wid my boy, but he skeered face him. Derefo’, you unnerstand me, he hidee hisself in de butcher wagon and when it gittee to my boy’s store, Cudjo walk straight to talk business. Dis man, he hidin’ hisself in de back of de wagon, an’ shootee my boy. Oh, Lor’! He shootee my boy in de throat. He got no right shootee my boy. He make out he skeered my boy goin’ shoot him and shootee my boy down in de store. Oh, Lor’! De people run come tellee me my boy hurtee. We tookee him home and lay him in de bed. De big hole in de neck. He try so hard to ketchee breath. Oh, Lor’! It hurtee me see my baby boy lak dat. It hurtee his mama so her breast swell up so. It make me cry ’cause it hurt Seely so much. She keep standin’ at de foot of de bed, you unnerstand me, an’ lookee all de time in his face. She keep telling him all de time, ‘Cudjo, Cudjo, Cudjo, baby, put whip to yo’ horse!’ “He hurtee so hard, but he answer her de best he kin, you unnerstand me. He tellee her, ‘Mama, thass whut I been doin’!’ “Two days and two nights my boy lay in de bed wid de noise in de throat. His mama never leave him. She lookee at his face and tellee him, ‘Put whip to yo’ horse, baby.’ “He pray all he could. His mama pray. I pray so hard, but he die. I so sad I wish I could die in place of my Cudjo. Maybe, I doan pray right, you unnerstand me, ’cause he die while I was prayin’ dat de Lor’ spare my boy life. “De man dat killee my boy, he de paster of Hay Chapel in Plateau today. I try forgive him.

Deputy sheriffs had always held the power in the jails. They controlled the culture of the place. if they didn't like you or what you were doing in the programs, then you weren't going to succeed. It didn't matter if you had developed a pill that would solve all the prisoners' problems in one swallow. If they thought prisoners were animals who deserved to be treated like garbage, then that's how they were treated.

The U.S. government decided it would become the world sheriff. No one forced it to take on the role. Yet ever since it strapped on its six-guns, the actions of its senior deputies have trivialized the process by rewarding recalcitrance. The Victims of Trafficking and Violence Protection Act was an extraordinary opportunity to promote actions that could save the lives and health of many women and girls. That opportunity has been largely squandered.

Sheriff Root: "Ask Me, I reckon it was niggers" Deputy: "How you reckon that, Sheriff Root?" Sheriff Root: "Kinda thing they do" Deputy: "What, burn two hundred people to death, right down to the bone? They do that?" Sheriff Root: "MARTIAN niggers

Ingram was, in 1988, Chairman of the Republican Party in Olympia, Washington, the chief civil deputy in the local sheriffs department, well-regarded, highly religious, and responsible for warning children in school assemblies of the dangers of drugs. Then came the nightmare moment when one of his daughters—after a highly emotional session at a fundamentalist religious retreat—leveled the first of many charges, each more ghastly than the previous, that Ingram had sexually abused her, impregnated her, tortured her, made her available to other sheriff’s deputies, introduced her to satanic rites, dismembered and eaten babies

Else what was happening was, I was going to be beaten up every time I was in town. It was English kept me from that. Some straggly farmhand might look at you and see the dark skin and the black hair and think that gave him a right to knock you down and kick you. No one saying boo to him for that. No sheriff or deputy neither.

a tragic roster of activists and innocents had died for the crime of being black or supporting blacks in their state. There was Willie Edwards Jr., the truck driver forced off a bridge to his death by four Klansmen in Montgomery. There was William Lewis Moore, the man from Baltimore shot and killed in Attalla while trying to walk a letter denouncing segregation 385 miles to the governor of Mississippi. There were four young girls, Addie Mae Collins, Denise McNair, Carole Robertson, and Cynthia Wesley, killed by the bombing of the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church in Birmingham. There was thirteen-year-old Virgil Lamar Ware, shot to death on the handlebars of his brother’s bicycle in the same city. There was Jimmie Lee Jackson, beaten and shot by state troopers in Marion while he tried to protect his mother and grandfather during a protest. There was the Reverend James Reeb, the Unitarian minister beaten to death in Selma. There was Viola Gregg Liuzzo, shot by Klansmen while trying to ferry marchers between Selma and Montgomery. There was Willie Brewster, shot to death while walking home in Anniston. There was Jonathan Myrick Daniels, a seminarian registering black voters who was arrested for participating in a protest and then shot by a deputy sheriff in Hayneville. There was Samuel Leamon Younge Jr., murdered by a gas station owner after arguing about segregated restrooms.

Bill Clinton’s Mena Airport drug operation spawned more deaths than just the infamous murder of drug dealer Barry Seal1. Two teenage boys, Kevin Ives and Don Henry, were murdered after apparently stumbling onto the Mena drug operation2. Their remains were found on the railroad tracks in accordance with Wayne Cox’s m.o.3 At least six people investigating or attempting to expose this horrendous crime were murdered, still in accordance with Cox’s m.o.4 I had already reported to law enforcement that I had witnessed Cox murdering people on the same pivotal stretch of railroad tracks in the course of Bill Clinton’s Mena CIA drug ops. At great risk to his life, Arkansas Deputy Sheriff John Brown confirmed those murders and more around Mena. Few survived the Mena massacres until pertinent documentation circulated among the people5 thanks to the efforts of concerned civil servants like John Brown. Since then, John Brown has become an elected Sheriff.

The fact, too, that he was able, on a ten-speed, to evade an armed FBI agent pursuing him in a car, with a fleet of sheriff’s deputies on their way? Stan Los, the FBI agent who chased him, would later catch shit from local cops about why he didn’t shoot the guy. Los bristled at the taunt but remained resolute about his decision. All he had was a woman screaming and an ordinary white male on a bike who accelerated every time Los hollered or honked at him. He lacked the necessary context to shoot.

As the move went on, the woman slowed down. At first, she had borne down on the emergency with focus and energy, almost running through the house with one hand grabbing something and the other holding up the phone. Now she was wandering through the halls aimlessly, almost drunkenly. Her face had that look. The movers and the deputies knew it well. It was the look of someone realizing that her family would be homeless in a matter of hours. It was something like denial giving way to the surrealism of the scene: the speed and violence of it all; sheriffs leaning against your wall, hands resting on holsters; all these strangers, these sweating men, piling your things outside, drinking water from your sink poured into your cups, using your bathroom. It was the look of being undone by a wave of questions. What do I need for tonight, for this week? Who should I call? Where is the medication? Where will we go? It was the face of a mother who climbs out of the cellar to find the tornado has leveled the house.

He complained that his new job took him away from his ranch too much. His wife complained even more, but the truth of the matter was that nothing much had happened in a criminal way since Horace had been deputy. He had seen himself making a name for himself and running for sheriff. The sheriff was an important officer. His job was less flighty than that of district attorney, almost as permanent and dignified as superior court judge. Horace didn’t want to stay on the ranch all his life, and his wife had an urge to live in Salinas where she had relatives.

Well, if it ain’t Meri Hayes. Come to ask me to the church social?” Hiram Ellis. Of all the rotten luck. The fellow was just as obnoxious grown as he’d been as a kid. “I’m looking for Sheriff Randall.” Meredith ignored Hiram’s cocky smirk and glanced around the office as if he were beneath her notice. “Do you know where I might find him?” “Still as contrary as ever, I see.” Hiram slowly rose to his feet, puffing out his chest as if to emphasize the deputy’s star pinned to his coat. “The sheriff’s transportin’ a prisoner over to Rusk County to stand trial, so it looks like you’re stuck with me, darlin’.” Could this day get any worse? Hiram Ellis was the last person she’d trust with her troubles. But then, they weren’t her troubles.

Feminist-dominated administrations in the United States have elevated child protection to a paramilitary operation. In 1993, US Attorney General Janet Reno used unsubstantiated child abuse rumors to launch military operations against American citizens in Waco, Texas, resulting in the deaths of 24 children that she was ostensibly protecting. The militarization of child protection was seen again in the largest seizure of children in American history, when almost five hundred children were seized from their polygamous parents in the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints without any evidence of abuse. “A night-time raid with tanks, riot police, SWAT teams, snipers, and cars full of Texas Rangers and sheriff’s deputies—that is the new face of state child protection,” writes attorney Gregory Hession, “social workers backed up with automatic weapons.

I am revoking the defendant’s bail and remanding him to the county prison, to remain there until and through the duration of his trial.” With that he nods to the two deputies, who walk to the front of the courtroom, cuff David, and lead him out the side door, their destination the holding cells in the subbasement. David will stay there until five o’clock, at which time he will be loaded into the sheriff’s bus and transported to the Curran-Fromhold Correctional Facility in Northeast Philadelphia. I watch David’s exit, watch him hold his head high, keep his back straight, trying to retain as much dignity as he can. Before the deputies close the door behind them, David glances back into the courtroom. I’ve seen the “last glance” from dozens of defendants, seen the guilt, sorrow, regret, fear, numbed disbelief plastered all over their faces as they take in a final look at the loved ones they’re leaving behind, sometimes for good. But David isn’t looking back in sadness or distress. And he isn’t looking at Marcie. His eyes hold only hatred for his real enemy. For Edwin. According to David, it was Edwin who placed the anonymous call to the DA’s office. Somehow,

A mover started in on a girl’s bedroom, painted pink with a sign on the door announcing THE PRINCESS SLEEPS HERE. Another took on the disheveled office, packing Resumes for Dummies into a box with a chalkboard counting down the remaining days of school. The eldest child, a seventh-grade boy, tried to help by taking out the trash. His younger sister, the princess, held her two-year-old sister’s hand on the porch. Upstairs, the movers were trying not to step on the toddler’s toys, which when kicked would protest with beeping sounds and flashing lights. As the move went on, the woman slowed down. At first, she had borne down on the emergency with focus and energy, almost running through the house with one hand grabbing something and the other holding up the phone. Now she was wandering through the halls aimlessly, almost drunkenly. Her face had that look. The movers and the deputies knew it well. It was the look of someone realizing that her family would be homeless in a matter of hours. It was something like denial giving way to the surrealism of the scene: the speed and violence of it all; sheriffs leaning against your wall, hands resting on holsters; all these strangers, these sweating men, piling your things outside, drinking water from your sink poured into your cups, using your bathroom. It was the look of being undone by a wave of questions. What do I need for tonight, for this week? Who should I call? Where is the medication? Where will we go? It was the face of a mother who climbs out of the cellar to find the tornado has leveled the house.

Chad made a sour face. He turned to Shadow. “Okay,” said Chad. “Through that door and into the sally port.” “What?” “Out there. Where the car is.” Liz unlocked the doors. “You make sure that orange uniform comes right back here,” she said to the deputy. “The last felon we sent down to Lafayette, we never saw the uniform again. They cost the county money.” They walked Shadow out to the sally port, where a car sat idling. It wasn’t a sheriff’s department car. It was a black town car. Another deputy, a grizzled white guy with a mustache, stood by the car, smoking a cigarette. He crushed it out underfoot as they came close, and opened the back door for Shadow. Shadow sat down, awkwardly, his movements hampered by the cuffs and the hobble. There was no grille between the back and the front of the car. The two deputies climbed into the front of the car. The black deputy started the motor. They waited for the sally port door to open. “Come on, come on,” said the black deputy, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel. Chad Mulligan tapped on the side window. The white deputy glanced at the driver, then he lowered the window. “This is wrong,” said Chad. “I just wanted to say that.” “Your comments have been noted, and will be conveyed to the appropriate authorities,” said the driver. The doors to the outside world opened. The snow was still falling, dizzying into the car’s headlights. The driver put his foot on the gas, and they were heading back down the street and on to Main Street. “You heard about Wednesday?” said the driver. His voice sounded different, now, older, and familiar. “He’s dead.” “Yeah. I know,” said Shadow. “I saw it on TV.” “Those fuckers,” said the white officer. It was the first thing he had said, and his voice was rough and accented and, like the driver’s, it was a voice that Shadow knew. “I tell you, they are fuckers, those fuckers.” “Thanks for coming to get me,” said Shadow. “Don’t mention it,” said the driver. In the light of an oncoming car his face already seemed to look older. He looked smaller, too. The last time Shadow had seen him he had been wearing lemon-yellow gloves and a check jacket. “We were in Milwaukee. Had to drive like demons when Ibis called.” “You think we let them lock you up and send you to the chair, when I’m still waiting to break your head with my hammer?” asked the white deputy gloomily, fumbling in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. His accent was Eastern European. “The real shit will hit the fan in an hour or less,” said Mr. Nancy, looking more like himself with each moment, “when they really turn up to collect you. We’ll pull over before we get to Highway 53 and get you out of those shackles and back into your own clothes.” Czernobog held up a handcuff key and smiled. “I like the mustache,” said Shadow. “Suits you.” Czernobog stroked it with a yellowed finger. “Thank you.” “Wednesday,” said Shadow. “Is he really dead? This isn’t some kind of trick, is it?” He realized that he had been holding on to some kind of hope, foolish though it was. But the expression on Nancy’s face told him all he needed to know, and the hope was gone.

… This was chronicled in a harsher book and McCaslin, fourteen and fifteen and sixteen, had seen it and the boy himself had inherited it as Noah’s grandchildren had inherited the Flood although they had not been there to see the deluge: that dark corrupt and bloody time while three separate people had tried to adjust not only to one another but to the new land which they had created and inherited too and must live in for the reason that those who had lost it were no less free to quit it than those who had gained it were: – those upon whom freedom and equality had been dumped overnight and without warning or preparation or any training in how to employ it or even just endure it and who misused it not as children would nor yet because they had been so long in bondage and then so suddenly freed, but misused it as human beings always misused freedom, so that he thought Apparently there is a wisdom beyond even that learned through suffiring necessary for a man to distinguish between liberty and license; those who had fought for four years and lost to preserve a condition under which that franchisement was anomaly and paradox, for the old reasons for which man (not the generals and politicians but man) has always fought and died in wars: to preserve a status quo or to establish a better future one to endure for his children; and lastly, as if that were not enough for bitterness and hatred and fear, that third race even more alien to the people whom they resembled in pigment and in whom even the same blood ran, than to the people whom they did not, – that race threefold in one and alien even among themselves save for a single fierce aged Quartermaster lieutenants and Army sutlers and contractors in military blankets and shoes and transport mules, who followed the battles they themselves had not fought and inherited the conquest they themselves had not helped to gain, sanctioned and protected even if not blessed, and left their bones and in another generation would be engaged in a fierce economic competition of small sloven farms with the black men they were supposed to have freed and the white descendants of fathers who had owned no slaves anyway whom they were supposed to have disinherited and in the third generation would be back once more in the little lost country seats as barbers and garage mechanics and deputy sheriffs and mill- and gin-hands and power-plant firemen, leading, first in mufti then later in an actual formalized regalia of hooded sheets and passwords and fiery Christian symbols, lynching mobs against the race their ancestors had come to save: and of all that other nameless horde of speculators in human misery, manipulators of money and politics and land, who follow catastrophe and are their own protection as grasshoppers are and need no blessing and sweat no plow or axe-helve and batten and vanish and leave no bones, just as they derived apparently from no ancestry, no mortal flesh, no act even of passion or even of lust: and the Jew who came without protection too since after two thousand years he had got out of the habit of being or needing it, and solitary, without even the solidarity of the locusts and in this a sort of courage since he had come thinking not in terms of simple pillage but in terms of his great-grand-children, seeking yet some place to establish them to endure even though forever alien: and unblessed: a pariah about the face of the Western earth which twenty centuries later was still taking revenge on him for the fairy tale with which he had conquered it. …

Lon coughed. An AI didn’t need to cough.

The thing about living in a town of roughly 16,000 residents is that you tend to know everybody. I don't mean that you know their name, exactly, or have had a conversation with them. I mean that you see the same people at Target a lot. You “know” the woman who slices up a pound of smoked turkey for your mother at the deli counter every week. You “know” who Barry Jennings is because your dad used to work at the glove compartment lightbulb factory with him. His son, Wyatt, is in your class at school and has the lead in the spring musical. Now your dad runs a construction crew for a developer and Mr. Jennings is a deputy for the county sheriff's department.

he lined them up in the front yard and took aim like an executioner, all of them—Gigi, my dad, and my aunt Anne. He terrorized them until the sheriff’s deputy rolled up. Then it turned to humiliation, Gigi standing in the damp grass of her front yard in a nightgown with her children as the deputy told my father’s father to go on inside and sleep it off.

Dispatch, I’m 10-8 leaving the Berglund place up on Little Birch,” Sheriff’s Deputy Ed Gregerson reported, noting his availability for service, having addressed the noise complaint. Once he was around the front of the cabin, he chuckled to himself. The two mid-twenties couples were still going strong with the bonfire blazing. The empty beer cans were plentiful on the ground, and the country rock music—along with their boisterous voices—was just a bit too loud for the cabins tucked in along Little Birch Lake.

opened fire on the sheriff's office and jail while the others shot through the bank's front windows until everybody inside was either dead or wounded. They went in then and cleaned out the cash drawers and the vault and...and finished off the wounded." "The vault was open?" Braddock asked. Deputy Bell shrugged and said, "This is a little town. Nothing like this ever happened here. Nobody figured it ever would." Bell paused and swallowed hard. "They didn't have to kill everybody. They could have gone in, held up the place at gunpoint, and gotten the money if that was all they were after. It was like they...they wanted to slaughter innocent people." "This gang...was the leader named Fenner? Clete Fenner?" Bell's shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. "Mister, I just couldn't tell you. I don't know if anybody heard any of them call the others by name. I've been askin' questions, but it all happened so fast, and like I told you, nobody ever expected anything like this..." Braddock held up a hand to stop Bell before the deputy could force himself to go on. Bell might be fine for serving legal papers or guarding prisoners, but when faced with a real catastrophe, he didn't seem like much of a lawman. But maybe he shouldn't judge people, Braddock told himself. After all, at least Bell had a legal right to wear his badge. "You say the sheriff was killed?" "Yes, sir. When he heard the commotion going on outside, he stepped through the door to find out what it was all about and caught a couple of slugs in the chest right away. He fell in the doorway and I was able to get hold of his shirt and drag him the rest of the way back inside without getting shot myself." Bell shook his head. "Wasn't anything I could do for him, though. He was already gone. All I could do was fort up at one of the windows and try to wing some of that bunch, but I don't know if I did or not. They made it pretty hot for me." "Who else was killed?" "Like I said, the folks in the bank. Mr. McLemore, the president, and Ben Horton,

Sheriff Gideon Johann of Last Stand, Colorado and his part–time deputy, Zack Barlow, were finishing a breakfast of salt pork and hardtack after their first night on the trail. They were traveling west towards Silverton after Gideon had received a telegram from that town’s sheriff requesting help with a gang of outlaws headed towards Last Stand. The thieves had robbed the mine’s pay wagon, killing two men in the process. The

Tragedy never visited the Paladin’s doorstep, and she ended up a backwoods sheriff’s deputy; that one needs pain to drive her ambition. The Scribe met his death at the bottom of a vodka bottle. The Witch never found her Knight; they’re supposed to be unstoppable, united…but only for a little while. I could go on: the Thief, the Killer, all the others…” She looked back toward me. Her eyes downcast. “And as for the Prophet,” she said with a bitter little laugh, “she was just an old bag lady with a shopping cart full of cans. And nobody listened to her until it was much, much too late.

What the hell were you up to?” Jordie waited for the voice to give him instructions, tell him what to do or say, but the voice was gone. He looked the deputy sheriff in the face and grinned. “I was just gonna kill ’em, is all.

He slid his hand into his vest pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He then opened it and held it before her. “I’ve been charged with capturing Velvet Grace.” The poster had haunted her every move in town, pasted on the wall at the bank, the post office, Jupiter’s, wherever she’d went. Her pulse kicked into a stampede seeing it in the new sheriff ’s hand. “W-what does this have to do with me?” He refolded the paper and returned it to his clothing. “I figured you might be able to give me a few possible names to begin with. It’s rather extraordinary, a woman who shot a sheriff and fired at the deputy? She wouldn’t be any regular homesteader’s wife, I imagine.” She played with a curl that had fallen to her shoulder and forced a laugh. “Do you think I know any women besides the ones who work for me? Really? You should ask me about the men of Fort McNamara, Sheriff. The only other females I see are the wives who come around here looking for their husbands.” He laughed. “I guess you’re right.” “You’re on your own. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.” She skirted around him, intending to open the door for him to leave, but he caught her elbow. “Cora—” His grip was loose, but he captivated her with the appeal in his gaze and the tender stroke of his thumb on her arm. “What?” She fell under the spell of his azure gaze as his touch sent a ripple of pleasure deep within her. “I really would like another night with you. One I can remember.

No one beats Steven Seagal, though. He’s not here with any group. I saw him late one night dressed in a cop uniform, out on patrol with some deputies from the Jefferson Parish Sheriff’s Department. He’s been going out with their SWAT team. We talk a bit, and when he leaves he puts his palms together in front of his face and bows briefly. Then he hops in a cop car and speeds off.

Mrs. Phelps, sixty-two years old, was overweight, dowdy, and a retired sheriff’s deputy from Riverside, California. She had moved to Culver City with her new husband, a retired Los Angeles police officer named Steven Earl Phelps, and had been a customer at this branch for only eight days. She was unarmed, but would not have reached for her weapon if she had been carrying it. Lynn Phelps knew the two A-holes robbing her bank were not professionals by the way they wasted time waving their guns and cursing rather than getting down to the business of stealing money. Professionals would have immediately grabbed the managers and had the tellers dump their drawers. Professionals knew that speed was life. These A-holes were clearly amateurs. Worse, they were amateurs who were armed to the teeth. Professionals wanted to get out alive; amateurs would kill you. Lynn Phelps checked the time again. Three-ten. One minute had passed, and these two idiots were still waving their guns. Amateurs. •

It was worse than she’d expected. “None?” she asked. “No fresh boot prints anywhere around the perimeter of the house,” Sheriff Coughlin confirmed. “It was windy last night. Maybe the drifting snow filled in the prints?” Even before she finished speaking, the sheriff was shaking his head. “With the warm temperatures we’ve been having, the snow is either frozen or wet and heavy. If someone had walked through that yard last night, there would’ve been prints.” Daisy hid her wince at his words, even though they hit as hard as an elbow to the gut, and struggled to keep her voice firm. “There was someone walking around the outside of that house last night, Sheriff. I don’t know why there aren’t any boot prints, but I definitely saw someone.” He was giving her that look again, but it was worse, because she saw a thread of pity mixed in with the condescension. “Have you given more thought to starting therapy again?” The question surprised her. “Not really. What does that have to do…?” As comprehension dawned, a surge of rage shoved out her bewilderment. “I didn’t imagine that I saw someone last night. There really was a person there, looking in the side window.” All her protest did was increase the pity in his expression. “It must get lonely here by yourself.” “I’m not making things up to get attention!” Her voice had gotten shrill, so she took a deep breath. “I even said there was no need for you to get involved. I only suggested one of the on-duty deputies drive past to scare away the kid.” “Ms. Little.” His tone made it clear that impatience had drowned out any feelings of sympathy. “Physical evidence doesn’t lie. No one was in that yard last night.” “I know what I saw.” The sheriff took a step closer. Daisy hated how she had to crane her neck back to look at him. It made her feel so small and vulnerable. “Do you really?” he asked. “Eyewitness accounts are notoriously unreliable. Even people without your issues misinterpret what they see all the time. The brain is a tricky thing.” Daisy set her jaw as she stared back at the sheriff, fighting the urge to step back, to retreat from the man looming over her. There had been someone there, footprints or no footprints. She couldn’t start doubting what she’d witnessed the night before. If she did, then that meant she’d gone from mildly, can’t-leave-the-house crazy, to the kind of crazy that involved hallucinations, medications, and institutionalization. There had to be some other explanation, because she wasn’t going to accept that. Not when her life was getting so much better. She could tell by looking at his expression that she wasn’t going to convince Coughlin of anything. “Thank you for checking on it, Sheriff. I promise not to bother you again.” Although he kept his face impassive, his eyes narrowed slightly. “If you…see anything else, Ms. Little, please call me.” That wasn’t going to happen, especially when he put that meaningful pause in front of “see” that just screamed “delusional.” Trying to mask her true feelings, she plastered on a smile and turned her body toward the door in a not-so-subtle hint for him to leave. “Of course.” Apparently, she needed some lessons in deception, since the sheriff frowned, unconvinced. Daisy met his eyes with as much calmness as she could muster, dropping the fake smile because she could feel it shifting into manic territory. She’d lost enough credibility with the sheriff as it was. The silence stretched until Daisy wanted to run away and hide in a closet, but she managed to continue holding his gaze. The memory of Chris telling her about the sheriff using his “going to confession” stare-down on suspects helped her to stay quiet. Finally, Coughlin turned toward the door. Daisy barely managed to keep her sigh of relief silent. “Ms. Little,” he said with a short nod, which she returned. “Sheriff.” Only when he was through the doorway with the door locked behind him did Daisy’s knees start to shake.

Phoebe stared into his blue eyes. "What would you do if you ran away from a wedding in a car that didn't belong to you and discovered a body in the trunk about the time a sheriff's deputy rolled up behind you?" She flung her hand in the air, and assumed a high-pitched, sarcastic tone. "Hi, I'm a rich man's daughter with a dead man in my trunk. Could you help me get him out so I can be on my merry way?

For years, Crittenden County had opted not to participate in the state’s network of county drug task forces, which shared all drug monies seized. Sullivan reported that, in 2000, Crittenden County’s independent drug task force had seized $5.43 million on the highways that passed through West Memphis and Marion. That constituted more than half the total amount of drug money seized during that year in the entire state. In 2001, FBI agents conducted at least two sting operations. Those led to indictments the following year.121 As Sullivan reported, “It may have been the recent, sudden improvement in the livelihoods of some of the officers—fancy motorcycles, big houses—that made neighbors and fellow officers suspicious.” Some of the flash points that caught investigators’ attention were a sheriff ’s deputy who lived with his schoolteacher wife in a quarter-million-dollar house, two deputies who flew private airplanes, one who’d reportedly paid $18,953 in cash for a Harley-Davidson motorcycle, and another who was said to have paid for a $26,500 ski boat with $100 bills.

The hunters exchanged looks, then slowly stood. They began to move away from the table, having left no money to pay for their drinks, which was a sure clue trouble was coming. The one in the group closest to Mike whirled suddenly, landing a blow right to Mike’s face. It sent him skittering backward, his hand to his lip, ending up against the bar. He said, “Oh, you’re going to hate yourself.” He wound up and hit back, left-handed, sending his assailant flying into his boys, knocking two of them off balance. It started. Preacher and Jack were around the bar before Mike even delivered his first blow. Preacher knocked two heads together, Jack landed a blow to one gut, another jaw. Mike grabbed up his attacker, decked him again and then sent him into another guy, downing them both. Someone came at Jack with a ready fist, which Jack caught easily, twisted his assailant’s arm around his back and shoved him into his boys. In less than two minutes, six partially inebriated young hunters were on the bar floor, spread over some broken glasses and amidst toppled chairs and two tables. All of them were moaning. Besides that first blow to Mike’s face, they hadn’t even managed contact. The heartiest of the bunch got back on his feet and Preacher grabbed him by the front of his jacket, lifted him off the floor and said, “You really wanna be this stupid?” He instantly put up his hands and Preacher dropped him. “Okay, okay, we’re out of here,” he said. “It’s too late for that, guys,” Mike said. He yelled, “Paige!” She stuck her head into the bar. “Rope!” “Aw, come on, man,” someone said. “Just get ’em the hell out of here,” Jack said, disgusted. “Can’t,” Mike returned. Then to the hunters, “Hell, I tried to warn you. You don’t want to mess with the women. You don’t want to fight. Not around here. Jesus,” he said in disgust. “Shit for brains.” Mike explained to Jack that not only were these boys too drunk to drive down the mountain, they might get down the road and claim they’d been jumped. Since they had all the bruises and the home team had only sore knuckles, it just wouldn’t be smart to take that kind of chance. Better to let the police handle things now. Fifteen minutes later each one of them was tied to a porch rail out front, and a half hour after that three sheriff’s deputies were standing around the front of the bar, assessing the damage. “Merciful God,” Deputy Henry Depardeau said. “Every time I turn around, somebody’s getting beat up or shot around here!” “Yeah,

Cuban Aircraft are Seized During the early 1960’s, Erwin Harris sought to collect $429,000 in unpaid bills from the Cuban government, for an advertising campaign promoting Cuban tourism. Holding a court order from a judge in Florida and accompanied by local sheriff’s deputies, he searched the East Coast of the United States for Cuban property. In September 1960, while Fidel was at the United Nations on an official visit, Harris found the Britannia that Castro had flown in to New York. That same day the front page of The Daily News headlined, “Cuban Airliner Seized Here.” Erwin Harris continued by seizing a C-46, which was originally owned by Cuba Aeropostal and was now owned by Cubana, as well as other cargo airplanes. He seized a Cuban Naval vessel, plus 1.2 million Cuban cigars that were brought into Tampa, Florida, by ship. In Key West, Harris also confiscated railroad cars carrying 3.5 million pounds of cooking lard destined for Havana. All of these things, excepting the Britannia, were sold at auction. Nikita S. Khrushchev, the Soviet premier, replaced the airplane that had been confiscated. On September 28th, Castro boarded the Soviet aircraft at Idlewild Airport smiling, most likely because he knew that his Britannia airplane would be returned to Cuba due to diplomatic immunity.

Sheriff Dawson came with another man, a round, pasty-faced, red-haired deputy that couldn’t have been much older than me. The younger man sneered at me, clearly playing the part of the nasty sidekick on his favorite cop show. With his powdery complexion and his flaming hair, he reminded me of a scowling jelly donut.

He stopped for a moment. The dark woods had taken on an eerie quality. The dense trees didn't allow him to see but only a few yards ahead of him. Maybe it was the approaching storm. Or maybe it was all his years of being a lawman, but he had a spooked feeling even before he heard the soft rustling sound ahead in the trees. He'd often listened to other lawmen talk about the things that had spooked them. Being spooked was different from being scared. Scared was healthy since lawmen were often putting themselves into the path of danger with people who were violent. "I think evil stays in places where something horrible has happened," he recalled a deputy sheriff saying one time. "I've felt it. It takes on a life of its own. That's why when you return to a place where something horrendous has happened, you get goose bumps. I've felt it and it spooked the hell out of me. Reaching for his weapon, he moved toward the sound as the first drops of rain began to fall. He hadn't gone far when he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. He spun to his right, his heart drumming and weapon drawn...

You can now interact with Sheriff Derrick Decker on Facebook. Just look up Derrick Decker!

I did know that. Ned Warnick, bein’ duly sworn by the Sheriff a this magnificent town I christen thee deputy and savior. With all the rights and responsibilities therewith. Now please go out and stop drunk people from killin’ themselves. Pretty please.

The Executioner On the night of the execution a man at the door mistook me for the coroner. “Press,” I said. But he didn’t understand. He led me into the wrong room where the sheriff greeted me: “You’re late, Padre.” “You’re wrong,” I told him. “I’m Press.” “Yes, of course, Reverend Press.” We went down a stairway. “Ah, Mr. Ellis,” said the Deputy. “Press!” I shouted. But he shoved me through a black curtain. The lights were so bright I couldn’t see the faces of the men sitting opposite. But, thank God, I thought they can see me! “Look!” I cried. “Look at my face! Doesn’t anybody know me?” Then a hood covered my head. “Don’t make it harder for us,” the hangman whispered.

A serial killer had to save me from a sheriff’s deputy. The world is officially upside down.

After three days behind bars, twenty-two-year-old Cottenham was found guilty in a swift appearance before the county judge and immediately sentenced to a thirty-day term of hard labor. Unable to pay the array of fees assessed on every prisoner—fees to the sheriff, the deputy, the court clerk, the witnesses—Cottenham's sentence was extended to nearly a year of hard labor.

When utilizing the Intensity Trail as the initial starting exercise, have your trail layer tease the dog with the reward and verbally entice him to follow. If you are employing a food reward make sure the trail layer allows the dog to smell it so he knows what delicious tidbits are at the end of the trail. The trail layer then quickly runs away while still verbally teasing the dog. The scent article should be introduced or utilized during this exercise, so have your trail layer take an article of clothing (a hat or shirt) and drop it in front of the dog as they leave. Retired Instructor Paul Rice faces his dog the wrong direction The dog handler also needs to verbally entice the dog while making sure the trail layer quickly disappears from sight. This disappearing act is accomplished by using anything that blocks the dog’s vision, such as the corner of a building, a vehicle, etc. Do not allow the dog to watch the trail layer run for a long time, because it will learn to sight hunt rather than use its nose. Instructor/VA Deputy Sheriff Mike Szelc working an Intensity Trail Also, you do not want to inadvertently teach the dog that the trail will always be in front of them. To avoid making that mistake, the handler should always turn the dog so that it is facing a different or wrong direction. The dog will obviously try to swing around towards the correct direction, before and during the presentation of the scent article. The act of making the dog turn after the scent article is presented (instead of allowing him to bolt straight ahead) will avoid creating that weakness in the dog. Shortly after the trail layer has run away, present the scent article by bringing it up to the dog’s nose or pointing to it while saying, “find um.” Then quickly give your starting command such as “get um” and allow the dog to start.

ghastly, high-pitched whining sound. This happened whenever it idled. The group of five jumped—obviously startled—and glared at me. Soon their glares morphed into wrinkled squints of befuddlement, their eyes moving over my appearance from my perch. It took them a few minutes, but they recognized me. Everyone in Green Valley, Tennessee knew who I was. Nevertheless, I imagined they were not expecting to see Jessica James, the twenty-two-year-old daughter of Sheriff Jeffrey James and sister of Sheriff’s Deputy Jackson James, dressed in a long, white beard sitting behind the wheel of an ancient Ford Super Duty F-350 XL. In my defense, it wasn’t my monster truck. It was my mother’s. I was currently between automobiles, and she’d just upgraded to a newer, bigger, more intimidating model. Something she could

Obama spoke of being inspired by the courage of Black civil rights activists and freedom riders, who faced dog attacks, fire hoses, and police brutality, and “who risked everything to advance democracy.” Yet under his watch, private security working on behalf of DAPL unleashed attack dogs on unarmed Water Protectors who were attempting to stop bulldozers form destroying a burial ground; Morton County sheriff’s deputies sprayed Water Protectors with water cannons in freezing temperatures, injuring hundreds; and police officers and private security guards brutalized hundreds of unarmed protestors. All of this violence was part of an effort to put a pipeline through Indigenous lands.

In 1784 a South Carolina deputy sheriff summoned farmer Hezekiah Maham to appear in court before his creditors. Maham not only refused, he shoved the writ in the deputy sheriff’s mouth and made him swallow it.21

Toward the end of July, Richard reportedly told a sheriffs deputy that he was going to have one of his girls sneak a gun into the courtroom and he was going to shoot Halpin to death, then people in the audience, then himself. Security was already tight, but the bailiffs took Ramirez’s alleged threat seriously, set up metal detectors, and searched everyone coming into the courtroom.

Later that day it was revealed that James C. Melton, age fifty-one, had murdered Ms. Singletary. He was her live-in boyfriend, an abusive man with an explosive temper. Sheriffs detectives who learned about his whereabouts through a phone call he’d made raided a hotel where Melton was holed up. Melton saw them coming, and before the deputies could do anything, he put the gun he’d killed Phyllis with to his head and pulled the trigger, killing himself instantly. The deputies found a note in the hotel room in Melton’s handwriting. In it, he admitted to killing Phyllis—saying he had shot her twice in the chest over “domestic disagreements.

Halpin introduced photographs of a jail cell Richard had stayed in, where he’d drawn pentagrams and “666” in his blood on the floor. Deputy sheriff Neulhad had been on suicide watch for Richard when he was first booked into the county jail’s hospital wing, on the day of his arrest. He stated he saw Richard sitting on the toilet bowl with some blood in his hand, and that he noted the 666 and the pentagram on the ground. “I watched him with his left hand take blood from his right palm and write the numbers and that five-pointed star directly on the floor in front of him.” He testified he then advised his supervisor of this, and photographs were taken of Richard’s artistic statements. There was no cross.

People fear warriors,” Max said. “People fear death. But we also fear spiders, heights and cactuses.” Thelma’s head swiveled slowly till she focused on her boss. “Cactuses?” “They have spikes.” Lon interrupted, his voice contemplative. “I have a recipe for cactus gazpacho.” “No,” Max said.

If the day needs saving, somewhere in the preceding days, you stuffed up,” Thelma repeated what he’d once told her. Law and order ought to be boring.

A preliminary hearing is held to determine if there is enough evidence to proceed to trial. Halpin was planning to put 140 witnesses on the stand. He would not put his whole case on display, just enough for Judge James M. Nelson to hold Ramirez over for trial. Halpin felt he had enough evidence to convince any jury that Richard Ramirez was the Night Stalker. The Hernandezes felt confident they could get thrown out all the evidence the police had gotten as a result of statements Richard had made during and after his arrest, which would severely hamper the prosecutor’s case. They believed the lineup was overly suggestive to the point of being illegal for three reasons: the bald spot on Ramirez’s head, after it had been widely reported he had sustained a head injury when captured; the witnesses had been allowed to sit next to one another and conversed; and a sheriffs deputy at the lineup had silently held up two fingers—Richard’s number—while he was in front of all the witnesses in the viewing room. In a video of the lineup, the detective holding up two fingers, as in a “V for victory” gesture, could clearly be seen. The Hernandezes complained bitterly to the judge that the prosecutor was very slow in handing over important discovery items—such as fingerprints and police and lab reports—hamstringing their ability to cross-examine.

The federal commissioners compiled the investigators’ reports and submitted their findings to the secretary of war on April 2, 1878, and a month later to President Hayes and Congress. Major Jones also submitted a minority report, which interpreted the events differently. The commission’s report concluded that the Texas Rangers and Sheriff Kerber’s deputies had knowingly broken many laws and committed atrocities on both sides of the US-Mexico border. The Silver City desperadoes had pretended to be Texas Rangers when they entered people’s homes, and many eyewitness accounts identified actual Rangers as the persons who had shot at unarmed civilians. Victims also charged that several Texas Rangers had raped women.

That was Sheriff Whitley up at Sand Valley,” he said. “The driver told him the redhead got off at North Montpelier Junction, two miles out of Sand Valley. Her ticket would have brought her all the way in, but she wanted out. He said she looked sick. He stopped and let her out.” “What’s up there at the Junction,” I asked, “besides the gas station and that hamburger stand?” “Nothin’,” the deputy said. “But Highway 40 goes through there and she could have got

Dixie hiked herself up onto the barstool, exposing plenty of leg on the way. The sheriff noticed. “There’s more where that came from,” she whispered. “You have another leg?” the sheriff asked, mimicking his deputy’s embrace of the literal.

If Andy were ever to actually hire a competent deputy, it would put his own unfitness for the job of Sheriff in stark relief. Andy is too lazy to even fix his pant leg when it gets caught in in his boot. He’s too lazy to button his shirt and wear a tie. He’s too lazy to do proper filing and record keeping. And he’s too lazy to apply the law equally. He will drive all the way to Raleigh to humiliate the publisher who failed to pay his fine but does nothing to Rafe Hollister who fires bullets at not just him, but other people with him. He is a stupendously bad lawman who needs Barney to make himself look halfway competent.

seems to have quite a stash of gold coins. Isn’t that interesting, Jack?” she said, that long sly grin spreading across her broad face. She gave him a wink as he headed out the door. “Most interesting,” Jack said, tucking the information into his brain. Jack was putting a lot of things together, and they added up to trouble. The banker, Feemster, and his big mouth told Jack about the mine payroll, even when it was leaving Elko. “If he told me,” Jack said to Cactus, “how many other people did he tell?” The Elko County Sheriff, Cyrus Simpson, wanted to own lots of property in The Meadows but doesn’t assign a deputy to the area. “Is that why Melissa Thompson was having difficulty with her property sale? What is the sheriff’s game?” Jack’s mind continued rambling at a high lope. Irene told him about Clint Bayliss spending lots of money even though the fool couldn’t keep a job. “If you robbed a payroll, would you start spending that money wildly?” he asked Cactus Jack. “I don’t know yet how I’m going to prove it, but I’d be willing to bet that Bayliss was behind that mine payroll robbery. This meeting might get very interesting, Cactus Jack, my friend,” he said as they walked into a packed barn. “Looks like at least fifty people,” he said, wending his way toward where Paddock was seated, near the front. Chairs and benches were set up in a semi-circle, almost in a horseshoe pattern, and just about every space was filled when Valley Paddock rose and turned to the audience. “For most of us,” he began, “this is the first time that we have all been together, and I’m certainly glad that so many of us have turned out for this important gathering. Our little community, the town with so many names,” and there was genuine laughter at that, “has many problems and those that want to run Elko County don’t give a hoot about us.

Frances Leonardi sat in the back seat of the yellow school bus. Occasionally, she looked back at the vehicle traveling close behind them. It was a fortified army surplus Jeep driven by a court officer. Sheriff’s deputy Elwood Mills, armed with a shotgun, sat in the passenger seat.

The door at the back of Ventura Superior Courtroom One swung open, and a smiling, confident Elizabeth Duncan sashayed in like she owned the place. Her grand entrance was hindered only by the fact that she was cuffed to a deputy sheriff. Mrs. Duncan nodded and raised her finger tips to a few familiar faces in the press section that she'd come to know during the week-long jury selection process. Reporters and photographers swarmed. 'How about a few pictures before we start?' one newsman called out. Mrs.'s Duncan's dapper little attorney, S. Ward Sullivan, nodded his permission. The deputy unfastened the cuffs. Mrs. Duncan stood next to her chair at the defense table and rubbed her wrist before turning toward reporters. 'Do you like my new outfit?' she asked as she fluffed the skirt of her two-piece, black and white dress. 'Frank bought it for me.' Flashbulbs popped.

was a child. When someone needed a ride and didn’t have a boat available, they called Dick. He charged twenty bucks, a twelve-pack of beer, or a fifth of vodka. Cate paid cash. His thirty-year-old son, Adam, accompanied him these days and stared at Cate in a way that gave her the creeps. She stared back, and Adam finally had the grace to look away. Cate decided she’d never ride with Adam when he took over for his father in the future. “I brought over Dr. Powers,” answered Dick. “He’s the one who said to call the FBI. Kurt Olson from the sheriff’s office and a new deputy, Bruce Taylor, were already there.” Dick glanced over his shoulder at Cate. “You met Bruce or Dr. Powers yet?” “No.” She only knew Kurt. He’d been a deputy on Widow’s Island forever. “Bruce is young. Only been here a few months. From southern Oregon. Haven’t made up my mind about him yet,” Dick said, pulling at his beard. “Dr. Powers is a good guy. We’ve needed a doctor on the island since Dr. Hardy died three years ago. Tessa Black from the sheriff’s department shared his ride. Didn’t you two run around together when you were young? You know she’s a county deputy now, right?” “Yes.” Tessa had been like a sister to Cate while growing up. After nearly ten years of being a Seattle police officer and detective, Tessa had returned to Widow’s Island about a year and a half ago and joined the sheriff’s office. Cate had been back on the island for five days and still hadn’t contacted her good friend. Her grandmother had repeatedly pushed her to call Tessa, but Cate had dragged her feet, stating she needed more rest, and had firmly ordered her grandmother to keep this visit to the island under her hat. Cate wasn’t ready to face people. But tonight’s discovery gave her no choice. Trespassing teenage lovebirds had found the bones. The coroner—the new Dr. Powers—believed they belonged to a teenage female. Two years ago the FBI had conducted an investigation of a missing local girl, Becca Conan, with no results. Fourteen-year-old Becca was the daughter of Rex Conan, sole resident and current owner of Ruby’s Island. Now the FBI—meaning

I returned home the evening before Adelaide Modine’s body was found and I attended the autopsy. Call it gruesome curiosity. Now, I’m sorry, Mr. Parker, but I have nothing more to say and a great deal of work to do.” He led me to the door and pushed open the screen to let me out. “You don’t seem particularly anxious to help me find Catherine Demeter, Mr. Hyams.” He breathed in heavily. “Who suggested that you talk to me, Mr. Parker?” “Alvin Martin mentioned your name.” “Mr. Martin is a good, conscientious deputy and an asset to this town, but he is still a comparatively recent arrival,” said Hyams. “The reason why I am reluctant to talk is a matter of client confidentiality. Mr. Parker, I am the only lawyer in this town. At some point, nearly everyone who lives here, regardless of color, income, religious or political belief, has passed through the door of my office. That includes the parents of the children who died. I know a great deal about what happened here, Mr. Parker, more than I might wish to know and certainly much more than I plan to share with you. I’m sorry, but that’s the end of the matter.” “I see. One more thing, Mr. Hyams.” “Yes?” he asked, wearily. “Sheriff Granger lives on this road too, doesn’t he?” “Sheriff Granger lives next door, the house on the right here. This house has never been burgled, Mr. Parker, a fact that is surely not unconnected. Good night.” He stood at the screen door as I drove away. I cast a glance at the sheriff’s house as I passed but there were no lights within and there was no car in the yard. As I drove back to Haven, raindrops began to strike the windshield and by the time I reached the outskirts of the town it had turned into a harsh, ceaseless downpour. The lights of the motel appeared through the rain. I could see Rudy Fry standing at the door, staring out into the woods and the gathering darkness beyond. By the time I had parked, Fry had resumed his position behind the reception desk. “What do folks do around here for fun, apart from trying to run other folks out of town?” I asked. Fry grimaced as he tried to separate the sarcasm from the substance of the question. “There ain’t much to do around here outside of drinking at the Inn,” he replied,

He man in a sheriff’s deputy uniform ran past the corner and tripped on the bat.

Harry hiked back to Glory, the nearest small town that we had passed through, to talk to the local cops. They were, or they professed to be, sheriff’s deputies. I wonder what you have to do to become a cop. I wonder what a badge is, other than a license to steal. What did it used to be to make people Bankole’s age want to trust it. I know what the old books say, but still, I wonder.

February led to excited calls for war in the press, the monthly journal of the International Association of Machinists agreed it was a terrible disaster, but it noted that the deaths of workers in industrial accidents drew no such national clamor. It pointed to the Lattimer Massacre of September 10, 1897, during a coal strike in Pennsylvania. Miners marching on a highway to the Lattimer mine—Austrians, Hungarians, Italians, Germans—who had originally been imported as strikebreakers but then organized themselves, refused to disperse, whereupon the sheriff and his deputies opened fire, killing nineteen of them, most shot in the back, with no outcry in the press. The labor journal said that the . . . carnival of carnage that takes place every day, month and year in the realm of industry, the thousands of useful lives that are annually sacrificed to the Moloch of greed, the blood tribute paid by labor to capitalism, brings forth no shout for vengeance and reparation. . . . Death comes in thousands of instances in mill and mine, claims his victims, and no popular uproar is heard. The official organ of the Connecticut AFL, The Craftsman, also warned about the hysteria worked up by the sinking of the Maine: A gigantic . . . and cunningly-devised scheme is being worked ostensibly to place the United States in the front rank as a naval and military power. The real reason is that the capitalists will have the whole thing and, when any workingmen dare to ask for the living wage . . . they will be shot down like dogs in the streets.

of Ellis Wydell, deputy sheriff with the Sugarland Police Department and my new main squeeze. I tilted my head, cautiously optimistic. We stood in the front room of his modest 1940s bungalow, judging the merits of two different curtain panels, one a rich sage color, the other a lovely moss. I’d hung our options on

Delilah, she’s not a child, she’s a wolf.” The deputy slid his gun back into its holster, but the fact that he didn’t snap it closed made me nervous. “An animal.” “Then why was she wearing underwear?” I demanded, and the sheriff and his deputy looked at me as if I’d lapsed into Latin. “Okay, just think about it. When we put wolves on display in a zoo—a regular zoo—we don’t put underwear on them because they aren’t self-aware enough to feel modesty or adapt to social conventions and restrictions. But Geneviève was wearing underwear, which means the menagerie understands that she’s thoroughly self-aware. And if she’s self-aware, why is it okay to put a child on display in skimpy undergarments, then shock her with a cattle prod when she doesn’t want to be seen in nothing but her underwear? You can’t have it both ways.

You really want to know?” Beatrice nodded. Catherine simply waited. If he wanted to tell them, he would. Clarence was not the sort of man you could persuade or plead with. “All right. It was the year I graduated from law school. Like the other black men in my class, I was inspired by Judge Ruffin, the first black man to graduate from Harvard Law and the first to become a judge in Massachusetts. I thought I was going to be just like him. Me, a poor boy raised by a widowed mother who used to clean other people’s houses to pay the rent. Well, I went through Howard on scholarship, then Harvard on scholarship, and my first year out I worked for an organization offering legal aid to other poor folk—black, Irish, Italian, all sorts. I was sent to one of the counties in the western part of the state, to defend a black man accused of raping a white woman. That was the first time a judge called me ‘boy.’ I got my client off all right—the woman herself stood in the witness stand to say it wasn’t rape. They wanted to get married. That was legal in Massachusetts, and she was of age, but her father didn’t want her to marry a black man, so he told the sheriff that my client had raped her. She was visibly pregnant. “My client walked out of that courthouse a free man, but there was a crowd waiting for him outside, and suddenly her brother stepped out of that crowd. He was the sheriff’s deputy. He had a gun, and he said he was going to shoot that damn . . . his language isn’t fit to repeat. He was determined to kill my client. Without thinking, I jumped on him and wrestled with him for the gun. It went off. . . . He bled to death in my arms. So I was tried for manslaughter in that courthouse, in front of that judge. Despite his jury instructions, I was acquitted—you could almost see him frothing at the mouth with fury and tearing his hair out, the day I walked out of that courtroom, a free man. Everyone in that crowd had seen it was an accident, but who was going to give me a job after that? It didn’t matter that I was innocent. My face had been on the cover of the Boston Globe as the black man who’d killed a white policeman.

Chained to two deputies, the prisoner was returned to Monroe for trial. The mob stopped the train just outside Monroe. They dragged all three to the site of the alleged rape, released the deputies, and lynched the prisoner. Just to make sure the legal system knew who was in charge, they then marched to the jail to lynch another black man, this one accused of a minor crime. The sheriff’s wife tried to talk them down and a farmer tried to stop them, but to no avail.

It was very sad to hear that… After the car Kennedy was in… it hesitated and stopped there for a second or two… I

because she hadn’t felt even an inkling of desire to get that experience. Now she did. Just looking at him made her feel warm and sort of breathless; her breasts tingled, and she had to press her thighs together to contain the hot ache between her legs. So this was lust. She had wondered, and now she knew. No wonder people acted like fools when they were afflicted with it. If Thaniel hadn’t stolen the boats, the sheriff would have already been gone, and she likely wouldn’t have seen him again for quite a while, if ever. She would have gone about her quiet, very satisfying life. But she should have expected that trick with the boats; how else could Fate have arranged for Jackson to stay here? And of course a storm was coming up, preventing any of his deputies from

Deputy sheriff.” He looked down at his shirt as though he expected to see his badge there. “Which I owe to your granddad and your dad. You know what your granddad said it means to be a peace officer in Montana? He said it means knowing when to look and when to look away. Took me a while to learn that.

A zealous janitor burned some of what remained after her death, until a passing sheriff’s deputy grabbed a garden hose and doused what could be saved. “Ain’t it a shame, how interesting people get after they’re dead,” said Alan Lomax,

Bad choices, worse attitude. Things escalate and rather than deal with the consequences, they run,” Max said.

What do you do if you’re lost, Chris?”  he had asked.  One of the other guys, a local sheriff’s deputy, had chimed in, “Drop your pants and start to jerk off!  Someone’s bound to see you!

On May 16, 1925, a young reverend from Berwyn named Henry C. Hoover arranged to have deputy sheriffs raid Capone’s big Cicero casino, the Hawthorne Smoke Shop. Shortly after raiders burst in, Capone arrived wearing pajamas and an overcoat, unshaven and surly. Rarely rising before noon, he’d been summoned from bed at the hotel next door. When he tried to force his way inside, a real estate broker turned deputy blocked his way. “What do you think this is,” the broker asked, “a party?” “It ought to be my party,” Capone snarled. “I own the place.” The broker took a harder look at Capone, saw the long scar, and bid him, “Come on in.” Another raider brought Capone upstairs, where the men were dismantling and carting off gaming equipment. Capone claimed he was being picked on, then said ominously, “This is the last raid you will ever make.” Reverend Hoover watched the man in pajamas clean out the cash register and asked him who he was. “Al Brown,” Capone shot back, invoking his preferred alias, “if that is good enough for you.” “Muttering and grumbling, Capone went out,” the reverend recalled, “and disappeared down the stairs. Some time later . . . he re-appeared, neatly dressed and shaven and clothed in an entirely different spirit.” “Reverend,” he asked, “can’t we get together?” “What do you mean, Mr. Capone?” “I give to churches,” Capone said, “and I give to charity . . . if you will let up on me in Cicero, I will withdraw from Stickney.

As of February 8, 1979, James Arthur Springer—Jim, as he went by—had been twice married. His first marriage, to a woman named Linda, ended in divorce. His second wife was named Betty. Jim Springer grew up in Ohio and once owned a dog named Toy. He had a son named James Allan (although perhaps with one L). He was a chain-smoker who liked beer. In his garage he had a woodworking bench. He drove a Chevy, suffered from high blood pressure and migraines, and once served as a sheriff’s deputy. His family lived on a quiet street—theirs was the only house on the block. As of February 8, 1979, James Edward Lewis—Jim, as he went by—had been twice married. His first marriage, to a woman named Linda, ended in divorce. His second wife was named Betty. Jim Lewis grew up in Ohio and once owned a dog named Toy. He had a son named James Allan (although perhaps with one L). He was a chain-smoker who liked beer. In his garage he had a woodworking bench. He drove a Chevy, suffered from high blood pressure and migraines, and once served as a sheriff’s deputy. His family lived on a quiet street—theirs was the only house on the block. As of February 8, 1979, Jim Springer and Jim Lewis had almost no knowledge of one another. They had met before, but only as infants. On February 9, 1979, the two met for the first time in nearly forty years. They were identical twins, given up for adoption as one-month-olds, now reunited. The shocking coincidence seems like that of myth, but it’s almost certainly not—shortly after the twins’ reunion, People magazine and Smithsonian magazine reported on the incredible confluence of genetically identical twins with anecdotally identical lives. The two men piqued the curiosity of a researcher named Thomas J. Bouchard, a professor of psychology and the director of the Minnesota Center for Twin and Adoption Research at the University of Minnesota.

Although not in real life. In 2006 Gibson got in trouble for an anti-Semitic outburst at a Los Angles County sheriff’s deputy who’d pulled Mel over for suspected DUI. After we got to hear what Mel was thinking, he had to enter a substance abuse recovery program. Which should remind us that we’ve always had a way to hear what everybody thinks. It’s called booze. Sure puts my mouth in gear. Meanwhile, what social media should be drinking is a big cup of shut up.

SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT SUVs were parked at jaunty angles near the main house with their doors wide open, an ambulance driver was arguing with deputies to clear the way so he could back his vehicle in, and the FBI helicopter sat in a back pasture like a giant insect on a break.

Actually, despite his earlier vow to one day raid Eastham, Clyde Barrow tried to go straight when he was paroled. He first helped his father make preparations to put an addition onto the service station, then traveled to Framingham, Massachusetts, to take a job and get away from his past in Texas. However, he quickly grew homesick and returned to Dallas to work for United Glass and Mirror, one of his former employers. It was then that local authorities began picking Barrow up almost daily, often taking him away from his job. There was a standing policy at the time to basically harass excons. Barrow was never charged with anything, but he soon lost his job. He told his mother, in the presence of Blanche Barrow and Ralph Fults, 'Mama, I'm never gonna work again. And I'll never stand arrest, either. I'm not ever going back to that Eastham hell hole. I'll die first! I swear it, they're gonna have to kill me.' ... Mrs. J. W. Hays, wife of former Dallas County Sheriff's Deputy John W. “Preacher” Hays, said, 'if the Dallas police had left that boy [Clyde Barrow] alone, we wouldn't be talking about him today.

We drove in Helen’s cruiser down a long two-lane road through flooded gum and willow and cypress trees, the sunlight spangling through the canopy on water that was black in the shade or filmed with a skim of algae that resembled green lace. The road dead-ended on a cusp of oil-streaked beach and a shallow saltwater bay that bled into the Gulf of Mexico. The St. Mary Parish sheriff, two deputies, a crime scene investigator, the coroner, and two paramedics were already at the scene. They were standing in a circle with the blank expressions of people who had just discovered that their vocational training and experience were perhaps of no value.

Barbara Mitchell of the Orange County Sheriff-Coroner’s Office and F. James Gregris, former deputy coroner of Allegheny County, Pennsylvania, were

later. He flew in from Chicago with two deputy sheriffs, and walked into the

the local city cops, the deputies, and the Highway