Mounted Police Quotes

It's vampire Barbie" ……….. "get a load of this," I said, " perfect makeup, perfect nails, perfect figure --- it makes me want to shove her head-first into a steaming pile of horse crap. Why is it you can never find a mounted police when you need one?" …… "your ….late….wife?" I whispered. Vayl nodded, just a slight jerk of his head. " She died. Then she killed me. Ergo…. Late wife.

Anyway, what can one do here? I am seriously thinking of running away and joining the Foreign Legion or the North-West Mounted Police—whichever work the shorter hours.

The United States, almost alone today, offers the liberties and the privileges and the tools of freedom. In this land the citizens are still invited to write their plays and books, to paint their pictures, to meet for discussion, to dissent as well as to agree, to mount soapboxes in the public square, to enjoy education in all subjects without censorship, to hold court and judge one another, to compose music, to talk politics with their neighbors without wondering whether the secret police are listening, to exchange ideas as well as goods, to kid the government when it needs kidding, and to read real news of real events instead of phony news manufactured by a paid agent of the state. This is a fact and should give every person pause.

He questioned us one after the other. Each one of his questions—all of them very simple: Who were we? Why had we come?—caught us completely off our guard and seemed to probe our very insides. Who are you? Who am I? We could not answer him as we could a police official or a customs inspector. Give one's name and profession? What does that mean? But *who* are you? And *what* are you? The words we uttered—we had none better—were worthless, repugnant and grotesque as dead things. We realized that with the guides of Mount Analogue, we could no longer get away with just words.

The avenue seemed full of gay people these days, persons as happy as she. At intervals were stationed the mounted traffic police. Their splendid figures, their neat, well-fitting uniforms, their highly polished puttees protecting perfectly formed legs, the thigh outlined by pressure against the horse's side, all combined to make a picture which she found irresistibly appealing. She found herself looking for the mounted police. She formed preferences for one or the other. She thought of the Aztecs with their idea that men astride of horses were some kind of god,and she smiled to think that her poetic sense was interpreting these horsemen in the same light. She liked especially to view the officers from the back, the torso, the carriage, the outline of the leg all accentuated.

Later, when the other Beatles arrived, the crowd in the street had swelled to an estimated twenty-thousand, some of whom were whipped up in a terrific heat. Others, many of them young girls who had been waiting since dawn, suffered from hunger and exhaustion. The police force, which had been monitoring the situation nervously, called in the army and navy to help maintain order, but it was short-lived. By late afternoon, with chants of "We want the Beatles!" ringing through the square, the shaken troops, now four-hundred strong, felt control slipping from their grasp. They didn't know where to look first: at the barricades being crushed, the girls fainting out of sight, the hooligans stomping on the roofs of cars or pushing through their lines. A fourteen-year-old "screamed so hard she burst a blood-vessel in her throat." It was "frightening, chaotic, and rather inhuman," according to a trooper on horseback. There most pressing concern was the hotels plate-glass windows bowing perilously against the violent crush of bodies. They threatened to explode in a cluster of razor-sharp shards at any moment. Ambulances screamed in the distance, preparing for the worst; a detachment of mounted infantry swung into position.

The voices of all the lost, all the Indians, metis, hunters, Mounted Police, wolfers, cowboys, all the bundled bodies that the spring uncovered and the warming sun released into the stink of final decay; all the starving, freezing, gaunt, and haunted men who had challenged this country and failed; all the ghosts from smallpox-stilled Indian camps, the wandering spirits of warriors killed in their sleep on the borders of the deadly hills, all the skeleton women and children of the starving winters, all the cackling, maddened cannibals, every terrified, lonely, crazed, and pitiful outcry that these plains had ever wrung from human lips, went wailing and moaning over him, mingled with the living shouts of the foreman and the old-timer, and he said, perhaps aloud, remembering the legend of the Crying River, and the voices that rode the wind there as here, Qu’appelle? Qu’appelle?

Next to the assignment of the yellow star, the decision to arrest children between the ages of two and 16, then separate them from their parents, was probably the most significant public relations mistake of the Vichy government and their German partners...the sight of youngsters in busses, roaming the streets alone, or holding their mothers hands as they mounted police vehicles made an impression on gentile Parisians. Police reports following the round-up were especially sensitive to public opinion...'The measures taken against the Israelite have profoundly troubled public opinion. Though the French population is generally anti-Semitic, it nonetheless judges these specific measures as inhumane. It is the separation of children from their parents that most affects the French population and that provokes strong criticism of the government and of the occupying authorities...In general, our measures would have been well-received if they had only been aimed at foreign adults, but many were moved at the fate of the children...

On the labour front in 1919 there was an unprecedented number of strikes involving many millions of workers. One of the lager strikes was mounted by the AF of L against the United States Steel Corporation. At that time workers in the steel industry put in an average sixty-eight-hour week for bare subsistence wages. The strike spread to other plants, resulting in considerable violence -- the death of eighteen striking workers, the calling out of troops to disperse picket lines, and so forth. By branding the strikers Bolsheviks and thereby separating them from their public support, the Corporation broke the strike. In Boston, the Police Department went on strike and governor Calvin Coolidge replaced them. In Seattle there was a general strike which precipitated a nationwide 'red scare'. this was the first red scare. Sixteen bombs were found in the New York Post Office just before May Day. The bombs were addressed to men prominent in American life, including John D. Rockefeller and Attorney General Mitchell Palmer. It is not clear today who was responsible for those bombs -- Red terrorists, Black anarchists, or their enemies -- but the effect was the same. Other bombs pooped off all spring, damaging property, killing and maiming innocent people, and the nation responded with an alarm against Reds. It was feared that at in Russia, they were about to take over the country and shove large cocks into everyone's mother. Strike that. The Press exacerbated public feeling. May Day parades in the big cities were attacked by policemen, and soldiers and sailors. The American Legion, just founded, raided IWW headquarters in the State of Washington. Laws against seditious speech were passed in State Legislatures across the country and thousands of people were jailed, including a Socialist Congressman from Milwaukee who was sentenced to twenty years in prison. To say nothing of the Espionage and Sedition Acts of 1917 which took care of thousands more. To say nothing of Eugene V. Debs. On the evening of 2 January 1920, Attorney General Palmer, who had his eye on the White House, organized a Federal raid on Communist Party offices throughout the nation. With his right-hand assistant, J. Edgar Hoover, at his right hand, Palmer effected the arrest of over six thousand people, some Communist aliens, some just aliens, some just Communists, and some neither Communists nor aliens but persons visiting those who had been arrested. Property was confiscated, people chained together, handcuffed, and paraded through the streets (in Boston), or kept in corridors of Federal buildings for eight days without food or proper sanitation (in Detroit). Many historians have noted this phenomenon. The raids made an undoubted contribution to the wave of vigilantism winch broke over the country. The Ku Klux Klan blossomed throughout the South and West. There were night raidings, floggings, public hangings, and burnings. Over seventy Negroes were lynched in 1919, not a few of them war veterans. There were speeches against 'foreign ideologies' and much talk about 'one hundred per cent Americanism'. The teaching of evolution in the schools of Tennessee was outlawed. Elsewhere textbooks were repudiated that were not sufficiently patriotic. New immigration laws made racial distinctions and set stringent quotas. Jews were charged with international conspiracy and Catholics with trying to bring the Pope to America. The country would soon go dry, thus creating large-scale, organized crime in the US. The White Sox threw the Series to the Cincinnati Reds. And the stage was set for the trial of two Italian-born anarchists, N. Sacco and B. Vanzetti, for the alleged murder of a paymaster in South Braintree, Mass. The story of the trial is well known and often noted by historians and need not be recounted here. To nothing of World War II--

If you are an evangelical reading this book, then I would ask you to look around and see what your witness has wrought. The nation is polarized. The candidates you back want to take us back to a mythical time—apparently the 1950s—that honestly did not exist. The bile and hatred of some of the leaders you emulate make it impossible for people to believe whatever witness you have left. While you are clinging to God and guns, mothers are clinging to pictures of children who have been shot dead in classrooms, in streets, in malls, in cars. More people go hungry today than ever before. Inequality is mounting. Calls for law and order mean more Black and Brown bodies dead at the hands of the police. The nation’s infrastructure is failing. Disdain for science has left America behind during a pandemic, while the rest of the world moves forward. The president you followed slavishly declared “American carnage” in his inaugural speech. Look around. You helped make this carnage we now experience. All of these things have occurred because evangelicals, through religious lobbying and interference, supported the political structures that curtailed, limited, or struck down truly important issues. The polarization we are experiencing in government has stymied progress. That polarization has taken on a resemblance to ideological and theological battles. Your nationalistic evangelicalism is hurting others. Your racism is actively engaged in killing bodies and souls. My analysis and prognostications may be dire, but it is never too late to make amends.

[Description of the behind-the-scenes situation of the Beer Hall Putsch] The crowd began to grow so sullen that Goering felt it necessary to step to the rostrum and quiet them. “There is nothing to fear,” he cried. “We have the friendliest intentions. For that matter, you’ve no cause to grumble, you’ve got your beer!” And he informed them that in the next room a new government was being formed. It was, at the point of Adolf Hitler’s revolver. Once he had herded his prisoners into the adjoining room, Hitler told them, “No one leaves this room alive without my permission.” He then informed them they would all have key jobs either in the Bavarian government or in the Reich government which he was forming with Ludendorff. With Ludendorff? Earlier in the evening Hitler had dispatched “Scheubner-Richter to Lud-wigshoehe to fetch the renowned General, who knew nothing of the Nazi conspiracy, to the beerhouse at once. The three prisoners at first refused even to speak to Hitler. He continued to harangue them. Each of them must join him in proclaiming the revolution and the new governments; each must take the post he, Hitler, assigned them, or “he has no right to exist.” Kahr was to be the Regent of Bavaria; Lossow, Minister of the National Army; Seisser, Minister of the Reich Police. None of the three was impressed at the prospect of such high office. They did not answer. Their continued silence unnerved Hitler. Finally he waved his gun at them. “I have four shots in my pistol! Three for my collaborators, if they abandon me. The last bullet for myself!” Pointing the weapon to his forehead, he cried, “If I am not victorious by tomorrow afternoon, I shall be a dead man!” (...) Not one of the three men who held the power of the Bavarian state in their hands agreed to join him, even at pistol point. The putsch wasn’t going according to plan. Then Hitler acted on a sudden impulse. Without a further word, he dashed back into the hall, mounted the tribune, faced the sullen crowd and announced that the members of the triumvirate in the next room had joined him in forming a new national government. “The Bavarian Ministry,” he shouted, “is removed…. The government of the November criminals and the Reich President are declared to be removed. A new national government will be named this very day here in Munich. Not for the first time and certainly not for the last, Hitler had told a masterful lie, and it worked. When the gathering heard that Kahr, General von Lossow and Police Chief von Seisser had joined Hitler its mood abruptly changed. There were loud cheers, and the sound of them impressed the three men still locked up in the little side room. (...) He led the others back to the platform, where each made a brief speech and swore loyalty to each other and to the new regime. The crowd leaped on chairs and tables in a delirium of enthusiasm. Hitler beamed with joy.

The Charleston Guard and Watch developed by trial and error into a recognizably modern city-​run police force by the 1820s, performing both day-​to-​day harassment of the Black population and staying on call for rapid mobilization to control crowds. It received a big push toward professionalization in 1822 when plans for a coordinated slave insurrection were discovered. They crushed the insurrection, and then they bulked up the force. The Southern force was more militarized than in the North, even before professionalization. Mounted police were the exception in the North, but they were the rule in the South. And Southern police carried guns, with bayonets.

In the past few years, police around the country have built up vast networks of cameras mounted on squad cars and posts that continuously take pictures of license plates, instantaneously enter the numbers in big computer databases and, as a result, quietly track the moves of millions of lawabiding Americans. You OK with that?

Hatred of him was aflame’, and he added: ‘No insults were too gross to hurl at him. One, of course, the Dardanelles fiasco, regarded as his particular crime, was always brought up…. The opposition were determined to shout him down. He was always admirably self-controlled and good-tempered, and he never failed to quell the opposition and get a hearing.’ Whenever Churchill spoke, he was confronted by a vociferous group of hecklers, whom he dubbed ‘the Socialist travelling circus’. To one question about the Dardanelles, on November 27, he replied: ‘What do you know about that? The Dardanelles might have saved millions of lives.’ And he continued: ‘Don’t imagine I am running away from the Dardanelles. I glory in it.’41 On December 3 Churchill was in London, where he spoke to large, noisy meetings at Finsbury Park, Shepherd’s Bush and Walthamstow. After his final speech, at Walthamstow, he had to be escorted from the hall to his car by mounted police. Then, as the Leicester Daily Mercury reported: ‘A vast crowd closed round the car hooting and jeering.

Since Paul wasn’t a big conversationalist—he was the anti-Mac, in other words, and today had been the longest she’d ever heard him speak in consecutive sentences—Jena watched the scenery for a while. Then she decided to study the inside of Paul’s truck to see what she could learn about him. Technically, it was exactly like hers and Gentry’s. It had a black exterior with a blue light bar across the top and the Louisiana Department of Wildlife and Fisheries Enforcement Division logo on the doors. It was tech heavy on the front dash, just like theirs, with LDWF, Terrebonne Parish Sheriff’s Office, and Louisiana State Police Troop C radios, a laptop, a GPS unit, and a weather unit. In her truck and in Gentry’s, the cords and wires were a colorful tangle of plastic and metal, usually with extra plugs dangling around like vines. Paul’s cords were all black, and he had them woven in pairs and tucked underneath the dash, where they neatly disappeared. She leaned over to see how he’d achieved such a thing, and noticed identical zip ties holding them in place. “Sinclair, I hate to ask, but what are you doing?” He sounded more bemused than annoyed, so she said, “I’m psychoanalyzing you based on the interior of your truck.” He almost ran off the road. “Why?” “Your scintillating conversation was putting me to sleep.” His dark brows knit together but he seemed to have no answer to that. She turned around in her seat, as much as the seat belt allowed, and continued her study. Paul had a 12-gauge shotgun and a .223 carbine mounted right behind the driver’s seat, same as in her own truck. The mounts had hidden release buttons so the agents could get the guns out one-handed and quickly. But where her truck had a catch-all supply of stuff, from paper towels to zip ties to evidence bags to fast-food wrappers thrown in the back, Paul’s backseat was empty but for a zippered storage container normal people used for shoes. Each space held different things, all neatly arranged. Jena spotted evidence bags in one. Zip ties in another. Notebooks. Citation books. Paperwork. A spare uniform hung over one window, with a dry-cleaner’s tag dangling from the shirt’s top button. Good Lord. She turned back around. “What did you learn?” Paul finally asked. “You’re an obsessive-compulsive neat freak,” she said. “Accent on freak.

serious cash to free April? And there was no word yet from the kidnapper. Usually, as Theo remembered from television, the family gets word pretty soon that the bad guys have the child and would like a million bucks or so for a safe return. Another report from the morning news showed Mrs. Finnemore crying in front of their home. The police were tight-lipped, saying only that they were pursuing all leads. A neighbor said his dog started barking around midnight, always a bad sign. As frantic as the reporters seemed to be that morning, the truth was that they were finding very little to add to the story of a missing girl. Theo’s homeroom teacher was Mr. Mount, who also taught Government. After Mr. Mount got the boys settled, he called the roll. All sixteen were present. The conversation quickly got around to the disappearance of April, and Mr. Mount asked Theo if he’d heard anything. “Nothing,” Theo said, and his classmates seemed disappointed.

in Canada, Hawaii, Chicago, or Washington, D.C., police are unable to point to a single instance of gun registration aiding the investigation of a violent crime. In a 2013 deposition, D.C. Police Chief Cathy Lanier said that the department could not “recall any specific instance where registration records were used to determine who committed a crime.”1 The idea behind a registry is that guns left at a crime scene can be used to trace back to the criminals. Unfortunately, guns are very rarely left at the scene of the crime. Those that are left behind are virtually never registered—criminals are not stupid enough to leave behind guns registered to them. In the few cases where registered guns were left at the scene, the criminal had usually been killed or seriously injured. Canada keeps some of the most thorough data on gun registration. From 2003 to 2009, a weapon was identified in fewer than a third of the country’s 1,314 firearm homicides. Of these identified weapons, only about a quarter were registered. Roughly half of these registered guns were registered to someone other than the person accused of the homicide. In just sixty-two cases—4.7 percent of all firearm homicides—was the gun identified as being registered to the accused. Since most Canadian homicides are not committed with a gun, these sixty-two cases correspond to only about 1 percent of all homicides. From 2003 to 2009, there were only sixty-two cases—just nine a year—where registration made any conceivable difference. But apparently, the registry was not important even in those cases. Despite a handgun registry in effect since 1934, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and the Chiefs of Police have not yet provided a single example in which tracing was of more than peripheral importance in solving a case. No more successful was the long-gun registry that started in 1997 and cost Canadians $2.7 billion before being scrapped. In February 2000, I testified before the Hawaii State Senate joint hearing between the Judiciary and Transportation committees on changes that were being proposed to the state gun registration laws.2 I suggested two questions to the state senators: (1) how many crimes had been solved by their current registration and licensing system, and (2) how much time did it currently take police to register guns? The Honolulu police chief was notified in advance about those questions to give him time to research them. He told the committee that he could not point to any crimes that had been solved by registration, and he estimated that his officers spent over 50,000 hours each year on registering guns. But those aren’t the only failings of gun registration. Ballistic fingerprinting was all the rage fifteen years ago. This process requires keeping a database of the markings that a particular gun makes on a bullet—its unique fingerprint, so to speak. Maryland led the way in ballistic investigation, and New York soon followed. The days of criminal gun use were supposedly numbered. It didn’t work.3 Registering guns’ ballistic fingerprints never solved a single crime. New York scrapped its program in 2012.4 In November 2015, Maryland announced it would be doing the same.5 But the programs were costly. Between 2000 and 2004, Maryland spent at least $2.5 million setting up and operating its computer database.6 In New York, the total cost of the program was about $40 million.7 Whether one is talking about D.C., Canada, or these other jurisdictions, think of all the other police activities that this money could have funded. How many more police officers could have been hired? How many more crimes could have been solved? A 2005 Maryland State Police report labeled the operation “ineffective and expensive.”8 These programs didn’t work.

Mr. Lefkowitz—sixty-five, a widower—was having a very lonely time in Miami Beach, and he observed a man of his age who was never without a companion; people forever streamed around him, extending invitations, swapping jokes. So Lefkowitz screwed up his courage, leaned over, and said to the popular paragon, “Mister, excuse me. What should I do to make friends?” “Get—a camel,” the other said with a sneer. “Ride up and down Collins Avenue every day, and before you know it, everyone in Miami will be asking, ‘Who is that man?’ and you’ll have to hire a social secretary to handle all the invitations! Don’t bother me again with such a foolish question.” So Mr. Lefkowitz bought a paper and looked through the ads, and by good fortune he read of a circus, stranded in Miami, that needed capital. Mr. Lefkowitz telephoned the circus owner and within half an hour had rented a camel. The next morning, Mr. Lefkowitz, wearing khaki shorts and a pith helmet, mounted his camel and set forth on Collins Avenue. Everywhere people stopped, buzzed, gawked, pointed. Every day for a week, Lefkowitz rode his trusty steed. One morning, just as he was about to get dressed, the telephone rang. “Mr. Lefkowitz! This is the parking lot! Your camel—it’s gone! Stolen!” At once, Mr. Lefkowitz phoned the police. A Sergeant O’Neill answered: “What? … It sounded as though you said someone had stolen your camel.” “That’s right!” “Er—I’ll fill out a form…. How tall was the animal?” “From the sidewalk to his back, where I sat, a good six feet.” “What color was it?” “What color?” echoed Lefkowitz. “Camel color: a regular, camel-colored camel!” “Male or female?” “Hanh?” “Was the animal male or female?” “How am I supposed to know about the sex of a camel?” Lefkowitz exclaimed. “Wait! Aha! It was a male!” “Are you sure?” “Absolutely.” “But Mr. Lefkowitz, a moment ago you—” “I’m positive, Officer, because I just remembered: Every time and every place I was riding on that camel, I could hear people yelling: ‘Hey! Look at the shmuck on that camel!

With his arm back around Gavin's waist, Brad suddenly seemed very determined to get to their destination. Gavin was curious about it until he saw the restaurant. With rainbow flags hanging on either side of the sign mounted on the roof, it sort of looked like home base in a game of gay tag.

window. ‘If this is your way of getting me to quit, it’s not going to work.’ She could almost see her dad standing on the pavement next to the car, taking inhumanly long drags on a cigarette. He shrugged at her, like, what’re you gonna do? She rolled her own window up and killed the engine, getting out of the car to look at the shelter. The building was sixties brutalist. A slab of concrete that looked like it would have been a chic and modern looking community centre six decades ago. Now it just looked like a pebble-dashed breeze block with wire-meshed vertical windows that ran the length of the outside.  Wide steps with rusty white rails led up to the main doors, dark brown stained wooden things with square aluminium handles, the word ‘pull’ etched into each one.  There was a piece of paper taped to the right-hand one that said ‘All welcome, hot food inside’ written in hand-printed caps.  There were five homeless people on the steps — three of them smoking rolled cigarettes. Two of those were drinking something out of polystyrene cups. The fourth was hunched forward, reading the tattiest looking novel Jamie had ever seen cling to a spine. His eyes stared at it blankly, not moving, his pupils wide. He wasn’t even registering the words. The last one was curled up into a ball inside a bright blue sleeping bag, his arms and legs folding the polyester into his body, just a pockmarked forehead peeking out into the November morning. Had they slept there all night on that step waiting for the shelter to open? She couldn’t say. Jamie and Roper crossed the road and the folks on the steps looked up. They were of varying ages, in varying states of malnutrition and addiction. The smell of old booze and urine hung in the alcove. Jamie wasn’t sure if you could tell they were police by the way they looked or walked, but the homeless seemed to have a sixth sense about it. Two of the three who were smoking clocked them, lowered their heads, and turned to face the wall. The third kept looking and held his hand out. The one with the novel didn’t even register them. Jamie knew that if they searched the two that turned away, they would have something on them they shouldn’t — drugs, needles, a knife, something stolen. That’s why they’d done it — to become invisible. The one who held out a hand would be clean. Wouldn’t risk chancing it with a police officer otherwise. She’d worked enough uniformed time on the streets of London to know how their minds worked.  She took a deep breath of semi-clean air and mounted the steps, looking down at the mid-thirties guy with the stretched-out beanie and out-stretched hand.  ‘We’re on duty,’ Roper said coldly, breezing past. Jamie gave him a weak smile, knowing that opening her pockets in a place like this would get them mobbed. If they needed to question anyone

Cara didn't bother to respond. She knew Jessica was like the Royal Canadian Mounted Police—she always got her man.

Present on every street a century and a half ago, largely invisible today, the horse is a prime mover often overlooked in accounts of the history of energy. Yet Manhattan, as late as 1900, with 1.8 million people occupying an area of about twenty-three square miles, shared that narrow island with some 130,000 horses.1 Except for the mounted police and for exercise in Central Park, few in the city rode on horseback. The horses of Manhattan, as in all the urban areas of America and Europe, pulled two-wheeled cabs and four-wheeled hacks, omnibuses and streetcars, carts and wagons. Besides passengers, they delivered milk, food, laundry, beer, ice, and coal, hauled fire engines and sprinkler trucks,

He then pointed to the right, and I turned to look. Exactly on cue, something massive came around the corner: a snaking, vehicular army that included a phalanx of police cars and motorcycles, a number of black SUVs, two armored limousines with American flags mounted on their hoods, a hazmat mitigation truck, a counterassault team riding with machine guns visible, an ambulance, a signals truck equipped to detect incoming projectiles, several passenger vans, and another group of police escorts. The presidential motorcade. It was at least twenty vehicles long, moving in orchestrated formation, car after car after car, before finally the whole fleet rolled to a quiet halt, and the limos stopped directly in front of Barack’s parked plane. I turned to Cornelius. “Is there a clown car?” I said. “Seriously, this is what he’s going to travel with now?” He smiled. “Every day for his entire presidency, yes,” he said. “It’s going to look like this all the time.” I took in the spectacle: thousands and thousands of pounds of metal, a squad of commandos, bulletproof everything. I had yet to grasp that Barack’s protection was still only half-visible. I didn’t know that he’d also, at all times, have a nearby helicopter ready to evacuate him, that sharpshooters would position themselves on rooftops along the routes he traveled, that a personal physician would always be with him in case of a medical problem, or that the vehicle he rode in contained a store of blood of the appropriate type in case he ever needed a transfusion. In a matter of weeks, just ahead of Barack’s inauguration, the presidential limo would be upgraded to a newer model—aptly named the Beast—a seven-ton tank disguised as a luxury vehicle, tricked out with hidden tear-gas cannons, rupture-proof tires, and a sealed ventilation system meant to get him through a biological or chemical attack.

Even the mayor rode a horse! He was followed by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in fancy red jackets clip-clopping past on their horses. Violet

Soovee?” I ask. “Did Mom make it so you can drive yourself?” “Correct.” “This is so cool!” says Trip. “Yesterday, Dr. Hayes mounted a range finder to my roof housing a 64-beam laser.” So that’s what she was doing when she was too busy to look at my rotten Spanish homework. “This laser allows me to generate a detailed 3-D map of my environment,” Soovee continues. “I will take that map and instantaneously overlay it on top of high-resolution, real-time traffic maps and produce all the data models I need to drive myself, and you, safely to school.” “But what if the police see me not driving?” asks Dad. “No worries,” purrs the car. “Mom also tinted the windshield. You can see out, but no one can see in. Why, you could fully recline your seat and take a quick nap.” Okay. I know what I want our new science project to be: Soovee—the self-driving electric car!

Thursday, John was arrested. His mug shot was plastered all over the news and social media. Our house was in shambles, ransacked by police, and left in utter disarray, with my files thrown around like confetti by the officers executing the search warrant. I searched for comforting words for my young daughters, while trying to reconcile what I knew and didn’t know about my husband and his secret life. All this under the spotlight of the public watching our family catastrophe unfold in real time. My husband of ten years went to jail, guilty as charged of something no one wants to talk about: sexual assault of a minor he had met online. And there I was, at the base of Mount Crisis.

The first illegal immigrants to be hunted down in Desolation by the earliest form of the Border Patrol were Chinese. In the 1800s, American railroad barons needed cheap skilled labor to help "tame our continent." Mexico's Chinese hordes could be hired for cheap, even at cut rates. Job opened, word went out, the illegals came north. Sound familiar? Americans panicked at the "yellowing" of America. A force known as the Mounted Chinese Exclusionary Police took to the dusty wasteland. They chased the "coolies" And deported them.

So step up on the foot boards of your dog sled, mon ami, grab the handle, yell “Mush!” to your team of huskies and prepare to hit the long snowy trail.

As always, a dozen or so people were gathered about the base of the Duke of Wellington statue. As always, the mounted Duke wore a traffic cone on his head, placed there by—well, someone—despite its daily removal by the police.

In 1956, with no leads and public outcry mounting, the police turned to James A. Brussel, a psychiatrist and criminologist and the assistant commissioner of the New York State Department of Mental Hygiene, who lived with his wife on the grounds of Creedmoor State Hospital in Queens. Brussel examined the letters from the bomber and the crime scene photos and came up with a “portrait” of the bomber—the very first case of criminal profiling ever. Among his many predictions: that when he was found, the bomber would be wearing a double-breasted suit, buttoned.

I cannot say too much in favor of this wonderful body of men, and I think it would be absolutely impossible to find their equal. I am a good American, but I take my hat off to the Canadian North-West Mounted Police as I knew them.

running across the street to get out of the way of mounted police meant obstructing traffic. Finally Dr. Rio. A Cadillac. A hammer. A gentle, almost reluctant arrest. After an hour’s wait, no charges pressed, no write-up or interview, they gave her back the shopping bag and let her go.

When he turned the key in the ignition, there was a blinding flash followed by total blackness. In that brief instant, Ryan knew his life was over. Two days later, William Holden attended a memorial service for Ray Ryan at the Ziemer Funeral Home East Chapel with its tall white colonnades and trimmed green lawn. The service was held in the presence of several uniformed police officers and undercover FBI agents, one of whom posed as a window washer across the street. Ryan’s ashes were taken to Africa, where his tearful widow Helen Kelley scattered them at the base of Mount Kenya. Afterwards, Holden called Adnan Khashoggi and told him he wanted to sell the Safari Club. “Why?” Khashoggi asked. “Because it’s no fun anymore.

Twenty thousand people streamed into Madison Square Garden, past protestors and mounted police, beneath a marquis advertising the “Pro-America Rally.” Inside, the crowd faced a thirty-foot-tall portrait of George Washington, surrounded on both sides by American flags—and swastikas. Long files of clean-cut boys in ties marched in, followed by a row of wholesome girls wearing modest dark skirts. They were graduates of youth training camps—summer camps, some called them—sponsored by German loyalists. Fritz Kuhn, leader of the German American Bund, took the stage and promised to be “the Hitler of America.

A police officer should legally be able to refuse body mounted electronic devices, based on the extensive range of evidence that biological toxicity is known to occur from long term exposure to their electromagnetic interference (EMI) emissions.

Due to some incident, real or manufactured, Russians in a Baltic capital begin demonstrating, police use tear gas, and somewhere violence breaks out and Russians are killed. The Russian government demands the right to protect its citizens, the Baltic country rejects the demand. Violence mounts, and the Russians demand that NATO stop the fighting. The Baltic state insists it is an internal matter, claims that Russian intelligence caused the violence, and demands that Russian intelligence stop its intervention. A series of explosions kill a large number of Russians, and Russia occupies the country. For

When there is more concern for white sports fans in the vicinity of a riot than the black people facing off with police, there is mounting justification for the rage and pain of black communities in this country. Acknowledging

Another thing etched into my memory, was that someone stole my swimming suit from the wash line that ran from an upstairs window to a rickety wooden pole behind the house. That someone would steal clothing from a clothesline puts the desperation of people during the depression years into focus. Discovering this, I ran to tell Charlie the Cop…. Charlie was a mounted policeman who sat tall in the saddle, and he was my idol. He cut quite an impressive figure of authority in his blue uniform, badge, and highly shined, black riding boots. Charlie, Jersey City’s finest, carefully listened to my tale of woe and promised to get to the bottom of this serious criminal matter. I believed what he said and trusted him to get my itchy two- piece, woolen, swimsuit back. Years went by and he never did apprehend the culprits, but in my heart I know that this is still an open case with the Jersey City Police Department and Charlie is still out there looking! We respected the police and thought of them as friends. Charlie on his horse patrolled our area and was known and trusted by everyone. I wish that the police were thought of in the same way today.

On Saturday, June 21, crowds of veterans and their families filled the street in front of Winnipeg’s city hall to protest the arrests. Mounted police charged the throng; special constables attacked with clubs. “Bloody Saturday” and the ensuing trials of the strike leaders (British or Canadian to a man) gave Winnipeg’s workers a bitter memory of their ordeal. Driven back to the city’s north end, they gave their neighbourhoods a durable allegiance to labour and socialist politics.

In 2001, a report issued by the Truth Commission on Genocide in Canada maintained that the mainline churches and the federal government were involved in the murder of over 50,000 Native children through this system. The list of offenses committed by church officials includes murder by beating, poisoning, hanging, starvation, strangulation, and medical experimentation. Torture was used to punish children for speaking Aboriginal languages. Children were involuntarily sterilized. In addition, the report found that clergy, police, and business and government officials were involved in maintaining pedophile rings using children from residential schools. Former students at boarding schools also claim that some school grounds contain unmarked graveyards of murdered babies born to Native girls who had been raped by priests and other church officials. Since this abuse has become public, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police has started a task force to investigate allegations of abuse in residential schools. By 2000, they had received 3,400 complaints against 170 suspects. Only five people were charged. By 2001, 16,000 Native people (which is 17 percent of living residential school alumni) had begun legal claims against the churches or government. Liability could run into billions of dollars, threatening some churches with bankruptcy.

Mr Locke...took a long, slender pick from the unrolled bag and, bending over slightly, inserted it into the lock. It was a steel-cased lock with a smooth, brass knob of around three inches wide and a brass plate around the singular keyhole. Mounted into the door frame was another steel fixture, forming the second half of the lock. Recognising the type of lock, Percy knew the key’s function was to throw the lock’s bolt into dead lock, thus securing the door. Such a design would also include an internal, smaller knob sliding back and forth, drawing back the bolt. A snib, jutting out from the case on the internal side of the door, could be compressed to keep the bolt in an open position, thus allowing one to open and close the door freely. “Do be so kind as to keep an eye out for the return of our friend the constable.” Locke pulled his pocket watch out with his other hand to glance upon it. “We have nine minutes.” “This is breaking and entering!” Mr Maxwell cried, hurrying up the steps. “Miss Trent said such was forbidden by the Society.” “Unless there is a sufficiently justifiable reason for doing so,” Mr Locke replied, inserting a second pick into the lower half of the lock. “The welfare of our client is a sufficiently justifiable reason; do you not think so, Mr Maxwell?” “His welfare?” Mr Maxwell enquired, confused. Miss Dexter, wholly fascinated by what the illusionist was doing, stepped closer still. She softly enquired, “Do you suspect some harm may have come to Mr Dorsey, Mr Locke?” “I do not know but Mr Colby was very keen we should not speak with him. Furthermore, Miss Trent’s note stated her telephone conversation with Mr Dorsey was abruptly ended, by him, when another—angry—voice spoke,” Mr Locke explained. There was a sharp click as the bolt sprang back into the lock’s casing. Mr Locke smiled broadly. “Our constable friend is back.” Mr Maxwell looked panic sticken. “It’s only been a minute.” “Ah, that will be the Bow Street police station,” Locke replied as he turned the door knob. “Also, they tend to keep a closer eye upon the more affluent residences; greater targets for thieves, you know,” Mr Locke stated as he pushed the door open and ushered both Mr Maxwell and Miss Dexter inside. He’d just closed the door, after slipping in himself, when the constable reached the bottom of the steps and peered up at the porch. Mr Locke stood to the side of the door and watched as the constable, seemingly satisfied all was well, walked away. A glance down at the internal part of the lock confirmed Mr Locke’s earlier assumptions about it. His slender hand slid the smaller brass knob along to lock the bolt in place once more.

one of these fancy houses. But Dale might show up at the Kermex lot with the cops, and nobody could risk that. Least of all Wells. He tossed the box of fried chicken on the lawn – maybe the smell would attract raccoons. They walked for miles down Mount Vernon in rain that turned into a full-on thunderstorm. Wells forced himself to stick with Eduardo and the others, though he worried that a cop might pick them up. Sandy Springs was the richest suburb in Atlanta, and its police didn’t look kindly on brown men wandering the streets. For long stretches, the road had no shoulder or sidewalks, and twice they were forced to jump into brush to avoid speeding SUVs. Finally they reached 285 and waited interminably for a bus. From now on Wells was bringing twenty bucks and his cell phone on these jobs, so he could call a cab if he got ditched. He had been colder and hungrier plenty of times, but he couldn’t remember being quite so furious. He expected more from his country. Beside him the Guatemalans chattered away until finally Wells tapped Eduardo’s shoulder. ‘You speak English?’ Wells said. Eduardo smiled. ‘Good as you speak Spanish.’ ‘Then can I ask you something? You like it here?’ ‘Every month I send my family seven hundred dollars. They building a house in Escuintla, where I’m from,’ Eduardo said. ‘When it’s done, I go home.’ ‘You don’t want to stay?’ ‘You

For Frederick Ernest Koe, it started when the Anglican minister and the Mounted Police arrived with a message that he had to leave his parents’ home in Aklavik in the Northwest Territories that morning. “And I didn’t get to say goodbye to my dad or my brother Allan, didn’t get to pet my dogs or nothing.”1