Uncommon Criminals Quotes

I for one like chaos. Chaos looks good on me.

Every decent con man knows that the simplest truth is more powerful than even the most elaborate lie.

love is the biggest con of all

Hey anyone who thinks a non-military–grade rappelling cable can support the weight of two grown men and a miniature donkey deserves to fall off a cliff.

Kat felt her heart beat faster, adrenaline pumping through her veins, and she knew he was right. She studied him for a long time. "Do you believe in curses, Hale?" He looked at her. "I believe in you.

Don't let two men fall in love with you, girls. It's not the sort of thing that ends well." -Uncle Charles

You cannot con an honest man.

For a genius thief you really are a stupid girl aren't you?

Do you have any idea how hard it is to tail an eighty year-old woman Its hard. Really hard. Really...slow. -Grabrielle

Fear is a weakness. It makes a person lose her nerve and her cool. It makes people jumpy and organizations nervous, and when that happens, there is always a chance to take advantage.

Angus looked at Hamish. "I hate it when Mom and Dad fight." Hamish smoothed his brother's messy hair. "Me too.

I don't want tea, I want justice!

...there was no such thing as curses. People make and break their own fortunes -they are the masters of their own fate.

Hey No one makes me do anything. Not my family. Not your family...not even you.

Oh you’re heist-drunk Kitty Kat. And you have been since the Henley.

Talent Katerina is a dangerous thing

I mean she's Cleopatra... shouldn't she and Antony have known better? They were so different..." "Variety is the spice of life" "And from a thousand miles apart" "Absence makes the heart grow fonder

What are you looking at? Hale asked. Why are you smiling? I worry when you smile.

You should always trust the instincts of children.

Even the longest con was never more than an assortment of moments that were in themselves very very short.

It seems you don't approve of the family business Katerina. Or of me. But these chances you take... These things you do... This is a dangerous life to live... alone.

Hale!' Kat cried, but the boy only stared at her. 'Fine,' she conceded. 'I love your boat.' 'Ship.' 'Ship ... Your ship is beautiful.

If it works, it works,' Kat told him. 'And if it doesn't?' he asked. She looked at him. 'If it doesn't, then I've heard Monaco has the nicest prisons in all of Europe.' 'It does,' both Hamish and Angus said in unison. And with that, it was decided.

I came back, Uncle Eddie. Last year, after the Henley, I could have gone to any school in the world -- I could have done anything, but I came back." "You ran away, Katarina." "And now I'm back." "You're still running.

Hamish smiled and rubbed his hands together. "Sure we can. What do you say? Pigs in a Blanket?" He leaned over the cool counter and raised his eyebrows at Gabrielle. "The only way I'll get under a blanket with you is if both of us are on fire," she told him.

Our world is built on adrenaline and getting away with it. Different cities different names. Its a far simpler life to lead when there is one around to tell you when you are being stupid. Believe me dear cousin I know better than anyone. - Gabrielle

Um…” Simon started slowly “at the risk of stating the obvious I feel I have to point out that Interpol has the worldʼs best database of international criminals.” “Thatʼs the idea ” Gabrielle said with a nod. “And I feel compelled to remind you that weʼre international criminals ” he finished but Kat was already smiling. “Donʼt worry Simon. Itʼs not like anyone in there knows it was a bunch of teenagers who robbed the Henley.

Maggie threw her head back and laughed. 'So you're going to try...what? Birds of a Feather?' she quested. 'Of course not,' Kat said. 'Everyone knows the French government banned the importation of peacocks in 1987.

Might have a couple of kinks to work through," Hale admitted then reached for her hand. As soon as he touched her, Kat knew there was no such thing as curses. People make and break their own fortunes--they are the masters of their own fate. And right then Kat wouldn't have changed a thing.

If anything happens, Marcus will save you. Won't you, Marcus? Hale asked, looking up at the man, who nodded. It would be an honor, Miss.

Kat looked down at her lemonade. 'Do you think he betrayed the love of his life...because of us?' 'She used the name Romani, Kat,' was Gabrielle's answer. 'And besides...' She let the words draw out. Her gaze went to the distance, and there was a sense of peace in the way she said, 'WE'RE the love of his life.' She raised her glass again. 'To family.

Do you want to hold it?' she asked, dangling the padded envelope in front of Hale with two fingers. 'No.' 'Do you want to touch it and kiss it and wear it around your neck?' 'Don't be silly,' he told her. 'Everyone knows green isn't my color.

You still don't get it, do you, Margaret?' Kat smiled almost sadly. 'We never had to steal the Antony. All we had to do was get it next to the Cleopatra and switch the signs.

Yes, of course. But ... how?" Kat felt her crew around her: Hamish's arm hung around Simon's shoulders; Gabrielle's delicate hands draped through the arms of Angus and Nick. Kat's own hand found Hale's, then, fingers interlacing, palms pressing together so tightly that Kat knew nothing could come between them. Nothing. She looked at him. No one. "It's easy," Kat said, "when you don't have to do it alone.

She pulled away and looked at him. 'I kissed you and you left.' When Kat heard the pounding, she thought it was the beating of her heart. It was too loud, she thought. Hale was going to hear it; he was going to see it; and he was going to know how much power he had to hurt her.

Every head turned to see two more security guards appear, each holding a Bagshaw by the back of the neck (which might have been considerably less conspicuous had the Bagshaws not been dressed as chimney sweeps). Kat turned back to Hale. 'The Mary Poppins?' 'Seemed like a good idea at the time.

But that’s the thing Artie. What if Romani isn’t a man ” Amelia said leaning forward. “Great. We’ll alert Scotland Yard and tell them they’re looking for a vampire. Or a werewolf. I’m assuming you’ve cross-referenced this with the lunar cycles.” “What if it’s a name ” Amelia said undaunted. She spread the files across the desk. “A name that has been used by a lot of people for a very long time.” “Excellent.” Her boss pushed the files aside and returned to his order and his lists and his life. “You cracked it. Great work. I’ll call the Henley right away and tell them Leonardo’s Angel Returning to Heaven was stolen by a name.

We don't have to do this. Just say the word and I can have a jet here in an hour. We can go anywhere

Gabrielle was insulted and didn't even bother to hide it. 'Oh, and I suppose you think your dad was alone when he free-climbed the Kyoto Banking Tower on a windy day last September.

Well, see, there's this cave in Switzerland I really need to find.' She slipped on her sunglasses; was already in the middle of the street when she turned and looked back at Hale and Gabrielle. 'You coming?

I think the canary left some feathers in there after you ate it.

The Bagshaw's blew up an armored truck one,' Gabrielle offered.

Another door swung open, and another guard appeared, this time with Gabrielle, who wore a black catsuit and rappelling harness.

Nick sat beside Simon, who was at his computer. Marcus stood at attention beside the food. Hale had his feet on the table, reading the morning paper. And someone had given the Bagshaws a gun. 'Pull!' Hamish yelled, and Angus pulled a cord and sent a skeet flying across the deep blue water. A split second later, a loud crack was reverberating across the deck. Kat jumped. Hale sighed. The shot went far wide, and Marcus never moved a muscle.

In a restaurant, tangoing couples circled past, and the look in Hale's eyes was especially mischievous when he told her, "Oh, I see. You brought me here so you can have your way with me on the dance floor.

You'd better not be trying to steal that," she said. The boy shrugged and reached for the small rolling suitcase at her feet. "I wouldn't dare." "Because I'm an excellent yeller." "I don't doubt it." "And fighter. My cousin gave me this nail file... the thing's just like a switchblade.

But then the girl moved, and smiled, and pulled her hand from the grate- a gorgeous green stone clutched tightly in her grasp. It was covered with dust and cobwebs, but it was uncracked and unharmed. And, of course, completely fake.

Even though Kate had only known Hale for a little more than two years, she had seen him in a lot of situations.

You don't have to do this, Kat." "I've been hearing that a lot lately." "He's right." "I didn't say who had said it," she countered. "You didn't have to." He looked out at the water. "You two are good together." "We're not together," Kat said automatically. "Sure you are. You just don't know it yet.

The high was over. Kat jerked back, two thoughts pounding her mind, screaming, I kissed Hale. But i was the second thought made her panic: Hale didn't kiss me back. "Sorry. I...

What about him?" "What's going on with you two?" "Nothing," Kat said, a little too quickly. "Yeah, and why is that exactly? I thought you two were getting all relationshipy. But now you're gone half of the time and he's ...angry." "No, he's not." "Yes, he is." Gabrielle gave a short laugh. "He doesn't like you going off, doing these jobs on your own.

You're still running." "He's right, you know." Kat stopped at the sound of the voice. Her hand was on the doorknob, freedom just inches away, but it was like she'd forgotten how to unlock a door when she turned around and saw Hale sitting alone at the top of the stairs.

Kat watched Gabrielle curl into a tiny ball like a kitten while Hale splayed across the limo's backseat, long legs and arms, and a head that, on occasion, would drift onto Kat's shoulder in a way she coudn't bring herself to mind.

So she let him carry her bags. She didn't protest when he walked so close that her shoulder brushed against the arm of his heavy wool coat. And yet, beyond that, they did not touch. He didn't even look at her as he said, "I would have sent the jet.

It felt as if maybe the curse had lifted, the tide had shifted, but then the breeze picked up and a skeet took a very unfortunate turn. Seconds later, Angus was pulling his shot far to the right, shooting a large hole in the second-story galley not ten feet above Marcus's head.

Kat turned back to Hale. "The Mary Poppins?" "Seemed like a good idea at the time." "Oh. Yeah. Obviously. Just so we're clear, this master plan of yours..." "Might have a couple kinks to work through," Hale admitted, then reached for her hand. As soon as he touched her, Kat knew there was no such thing as curses. People make and break their own fortunes-they are the masters of their own fate. And right then Kat wouldn't have changed a thing. She kissed him, quick and feather soft. "What was that for?" he asked. Kat placed her fingers on his face and brought his forehead close to hers, touching as she whispered, "For luck.

Yet, with a weakness of mind not uncommon to great criminals, he shrank from the thoughts of his own baseness and cruelty, and endeavored to banish the feeling of dishonor from his mind, by devolving the immediate execution of his villainy upon his subordinate agents.

Luck is a strange thing in the life of any thief and halfway decent con man. What is it that keeps the mark from counting the till or the guards from looking up at precisely the wrong moment? Kat had learned at a very young age that luck is for the amateur, the lazy---those who are unprepared and unskilled. And yet she also knew that luck, like most things, cannot be truly missed until it is also truly gone.

You were right, Hale. It was a bad job. It was a bad call. You were right to leave." "Kat..." Hale tried to reach for her, but even in the sand, Kat was quick and sure on her feet, and she moved nimbly away, leaving Hale with nothing but a fistful of salty air. "Thanks for coming back and helping me find her and all, but..." She looked at Gabrielle, who stood leaning against Simon, still bruised and almost broken. " I think I've got to take it from here.".... She was sure right up until the point when Hale said, "No.

The older man cocked his head and gave a laugh, "We get all the ladies. But for some reason I don't think you're here looking for me." "I don't know," Kat said. "I'm always in the market for good rappelling harness." "For you, my dear, nothing but the best." "But you are right about something. I'm actually trying to find---" "Young Mr. Hale, I'm assuming." Kate blushed. "Let me guess--I'm not the only one?" "Maybe. But you're the one i hope finds him." He gave a wink and walked away, and Kat didn't feel alone anymore in the big room full of people.

Answer me, Kat. Did you see him in Lyon?" "Yes. For a second. It was--" "Why didn't you tell me?" Hale moved toward her, and she was glad for the dark. "Everything was happening so fast and... it was just for a second!" There was an anger in Hale's eyes, but something more than that. A hurt went deepr than Kat had ever seen. "You should've told me." Nick laughed. "I don't think she reports to you." "You really don't get it, new guy." Hale shook his head and stepped away. "She doesn't report to anyone." When Hale turned and started for the opposite side of the deck, Kat was the only one who followed. "I kissed you!" Kat hadn't meant to yell it, but she wasn't exactly sorry she did. The words had been there, throbbing like a pulse for weeks. She felt lighter without them--one more thing she didn't have to carry. "In New York--in the limo-- I kissed you." Hale stopped. "I remember." "I kissed you and you left. So either I am not someone you want to be kissing..." "No." He shook his head slowly. "That's not it." "Or I am a really bad kisser." Kat couldn't stop herself from going through the reasons--through the options--like it was just another con and she could master it if only her mind would stop spinning. "Kat--" He reached for her, but her reflexes were too strong. She pulled away and looked at him. "I kissed you and you left.

Polite applause filled the room. Only a single whoop echoed out, and Kat made a mental note to have a word with Hamish once this was all over.

There were always a million ways a job could go wrong, but only one way for it to go right.

So what is it?" Angus asked, appearing at his brother's side and rubbing his hands together. In the dim light, his eyes seemed to glow. "Is it Hansel and Gretel?" "Can't be," Hamish told him. "We only have the one grenade launcher." "Right." Angus nodded as if Hamish had a most excellent point.

The present issue is one of comparative simplicity. That is, the facts of the case are intelligible to the least-instructed layman, and the only persons utterly at sea are those connected with the law. But FACTUM CLARUM, JUS NEBULOSUM, or, ;the clearer the facts, the more dubious the law.' What the appellant did in fact is simple and manifest, but what offence, if any, he has committed in law is a question of the gravest difficulty. "Is It a Free Country

It may be said at once that it any case no blame whatever attaches to the persons responsible for the framing of these charges, who are placed in a most difficult position by the appellant's unfortunate act. It is a principle of the English law that a person who appears in a police court has done something undesirable, and citizens who take it upon themselves to do unusual actions which attract the attention of the police should be careful to bring these actions into one of the recognized categories of crimes and offenses, for it is intolerable that the police should be put to the pains of inventing reasons for finding them undesirable. " Is It a Free Country?

Moscow can be a cold, hard place in winter. But the big old house on Tverskoy Boulevard had always seemed immune to these particular facts, the way that it had seemed immune to many things throughout the years. When breadlines filled the streets during the reign of the czars, the big house had caviar. When the rest of Russia stood shaking in the Siberian winds, that house had fires and gaslight in every room. And when the Second World War was over and places like Leningrad and Berlin were nothing but rubble and crumbling walls, the residents of the big house on Tverskoy Boulevard only had to take up a hammer and drive a single nail—to hang a painting on the landing at the top of the stairs—to mark the end of a long war. The canvas was small, perhaps only eight by ten inches. The brushstrokes were light but meticulous. And the subject, the countryside near Provence, was once a favorite of an artist named Cézanne. No one in the house spoke of how the painting had come to be there. Not a single member of the staff ever asked the man of the house, a high-ranking Soviet official, to talk about the canvas or the war or whatever services he may have performed in battle or beyond to earn such a lavish prize. The house on Tverskoy Boulevard was not one for stories, everybody knew. And besides, the war was over. The Nazis had lost. And to the victors went the spoils. Or, as the case may be, the paintings. Eventually, the wallpaper faded, and soon few people actually remembered the man who had brought the painting home from the newly liberated East Germany. None of the neighbors dared to whisper the letters K-G-B. Of the old Socialists and new socialites who flooded through the open doors for parties, not one ever dared to mention the Russian mob. And still the painting stayed hanging, the music kept playing, and the party itself seemed to last—echoing out onto the street, fading into the frigid air of the night. The party on the first Friday of February was a fund-raiser—though for what cause or foundation, no one really knew. It didn’t matter. The same people were invited. The same chef was preparing the same food. The men stood smoking the same cigars and drinking the same vodka. And, of course, the same painting still hung at the top of the stairs, looking down on the partygoers below. But one of the partygoers was not, actually, the same. When she gave the man at the door a name from the list, her Russian bore a slight accent. When she handed her coat to a maid, no one seemed to notice that it was far too light for someone who had spent too long in Moscow’s winter. She was too short; her black hair framed a face that was in every way too young. The women watched her pass, eyeing the competition. The men hardly noticed her at all as she nibbled and sipped and waited until the hour grew late and the people became tipsy. When that time finally came, not one soul watched as the girl with the soft pale skin climbed the stairs and slipped the small painting from the nail that held it. She walked to the window. And jumped. And neither the house on Tverskoy Boulevard nor any of its occupants ever saw the girl or the painting again.

it is not uncommon for experts in DNA analysis to testify at a criminal trial that a DNA sample taken from a crime scene matches that taken from a suspect. How certain are such matches? When DNA evidence was first introduced, a number of experts testified that false positives are impossible in DNA testing. Today DNA experts regularly testify that the odds of a random person’s matching the crime sample are less than 1 in 1 million or 1 in 1 billion. With those odds one could hardly blame a juror for thinking, throw away the key. But there is another statistic that is often not presented to the jury, one having to do with the fact that labs make errors, for instance, in collecting or handling a sample, by accidentally mixing or swapping samples, or by misinterpreting or incorrectly reporting results. Each of these errors is rare but not nearly as rare as a random match. The Philadelphia City Crime Laboratory, for instance, admitted that it had swapped the reference sample of the defendant and the victim in a rape case, and a testing firm called Cellmark Diagnostics admitted a similar error.20 Unfortunately, the power of statistics relating to DNA presented in court is such that in Oklahoma a court sentenced a man named Timothy Durham to more than 3,100 years in prison even though eleven witnesses had placed him in another state at the time of the crime. It turned out that in the initial analysis the lab had failed to completely separate the DNA of the rapist and that of the victim in the fluid they tested, and the combination of the victim’s and the rapist’s DNA produced a positive result when compared with Durham’s. A later retest turned up the error, and Durham was released after spending nearly four years in prison.21 Estimates of the error rate due to human causes vary, but many experts put it at around 1 percent. However, since the error rate of many labs has never been measured, courts often do not allow testimony on this overall statistic. Even if courts did allow testimony regarding false positives, how would jurors assess it? Most jurors assume that given the two types of error—the 1 in 1 billion accidental match and the 1 in 100 lab-error match—the overall error rate must be somewhere in between, say 1 in 500 million, which is still for most jurors beyond a reasonable doubt. But employing the laws of probability, we find a much different answer. The way to think of it is this: Since both errors are very unlikely, we can ignore the possibility that there is both an accidental match and a lab error. Therefore, we seek the probability that one error or the other occurred. That is given by our sum rule: it is the probability of a lab error (1 in 100) + the probability of an accidental match (1 in 1 billion). Since the latter is 10 million times smaller than the former, to a very good approximation the chance of both errors is the same as the chance of the more probable error—that is, the chances are 1 in 100. Given both possible causes, therefore, we should ignore the fancy expert testimony about the odds of accidental matches and focus instead on the much higher laboratory error rate—the very data courts often do not allow attorneys to present! And so the oft-repeated claims of DNA infallibility are exaggerated.

The criminalization of a non-custodial in not uncommon; such extreme measures of the divorce and post-divorce process can be described as common practice. Stephen Baskerville describes this consequence of no-fault in the article, “Divorced from Reality.

She was struck by the naked effrontery of it--an effrontery that was there, she supposed in all deliberate crime. By his acts, the criminal effectively said to the victim: You don't matter.

Robert Jay Lifton, the sense of being personally adrift is not uncommon among survivors of atrocious events.

After all, there are worse things than spending the end of February on a private yacht in the middle of the Mediterranean with friends and family

John’s journey with his Lord took a different turn from that of the others. He laid his head on the chest of the Creator of the universe. He saw the excruciating ordeal of the criminal death of an innocent Man. He was also given an amazing stewardship—the ongoing care of Jesus’ mother, Mary (see John 19:27). I would give over the care of my mother only into the very best hands. I wonder what Jesus saw in John. What was different in him? Did he have an uncommon love for his Master?

Wikipedia: Unofficial Collaborator The great range of circumstances that led to collaboration with the Stasi makes any overall moral evaluation of the spying activities extremely difficult. There were those that volunteered willingly and without moral scruples to pass detailed reports to the Stasi out of selfish motives, from self-regard, or from the urge to exercise power over others. Others collaborated with the Stasis out of a sincerely held sense of duty that the GDR was the better Germany and that it must be defended from the assaults of its enemies. Others were to a lesser or greater extent themselves victims of state persecution and had been broken or blackmailed into collaboration. Many informants believed that they could protect friends or relations by passing on only positive information about them, while others thought that provided they reported nothing suspicious or otherwise punishable, then no harm would be done by providing the Stasi with reports. These failed to accept that the Stasi could use apparently innocuous information to support their covert operations and interrogations. A further problem in any moral evaluation is presented by the extent to which information from informal collaborators was also used for combating non-political criminality. Moral judgements on collaboration involving criminal police who belonged to the Stasi need to be considered on a case by case basis, according to individual circumstances. A belief has gained traction that any informal collaborator (IM) who refused the Stasi further collaboration and extracted himself (in the now outdated Stasi jargon of the time "sich dekonspirierte") from a role as an IM need have no fear of serious consequences for his life, and could in this way safely cut himself off from communication with the Stasi. This is untrue. Furthermore, even people who declared unequivocally that they were not available for spying activities could nevertheless, over the years, find themselves exposed to high-pressure "recruitment" tactics. It was not uncommon for an IM trying to break out of a collaborative relationship with the Stasi to find his employment opportunities destroyed. The Stasi would often identify refusal to collaborate, using another jargon term, as "enemy-negative conduct" ("feindlich-negativen Haltung"), which frequently resulted in what they termed "Zersetzungsmaßnahmen", a term for which no very direct English translation is available, but for one form of which a definition has been provided that begins: "a systematic degradation of reputation, image, and prestige in a database on one part true, verifiable and degrading, and on the other part false, plausible, irrefutable, and always degrading; a systematic organization of social and professional failures for demolishing the self-confidence of the individual.