You're Under Arrest Quotes

You're under arrest for multiple counts of murder. You have the right to not much at all, really. Do you have anything to say in your defense?

The young officer, looking like a deer caught in the headlights, stopped for a moment and then said, a bit shakily, “You’re under arrest.

Oh, my god!” I said to Reyes, my eyes radiating accusations at him. “She took your picture? Just what kind of game are you playing? You’re under arrest, mister.” His mouth tilted and a dimple emerged on one cheek as I took his wrist and threw him against a wall. Or, well, urged him toward it. I held him against the cool wood with one hand and frisked him with the other.

Hello, Davina. You're under arrest for multiple accounts of murder. You have the right to not much at all, really. Do you have anything to say in your defense?" Marr remained unconscious. "Splendid," Skulduggery said happily.

I’m confiscating the bracelet as potential evidence,” said Adrian, dragging her attention back to him. “Evidence?” she said, surprised that her voice even worked. “But that’s … My father made it. It’s all I have. You can’t … Adrian! Evidence of what?” “Evidence of your crimes against society and the Renegades.” He winced, as though he were in physical pain, when he said, “You’re under arrest … Nightmare.

Well, as Hannah Arendt famously said, there can be a banal aspect to evil. In other words, it doesn't present always. I mean, often what you're meeting is a very mediocre person. But nonetheless, you can get a sort of frisson of wickedness from them. And the best combination of those, I think, I describe him in the book, is/was General Jorge Rafael Videla of Argentina, who I met in the late 1970s when the death squad war was at its height, and his fellow citizens were disappearing off the street all the time. And he was, in some ways, extremely banal. I describe him as looking like a human toothbrush. He was a sort of starch, lean officer with a silly mustache, and a very stupid look to him, but a very fanatical glint as well. And, if I'd tell you why he's now under house arrest in Argentina, you might get a sense of the horror I felt as I was asking him questions about all this. He's in prison in Argentina for selling the children of the rape victims among the private prisoners, who he kept in a personal jail. And I don't know if I've ever met anyone who's done anything as sort of condensedly horrible as that.

...a kid, maybe eight years old, ran up and poked her in the ribs with a plastic laser weapon, making electric zinging noises as he repeatedly pulled the trigger. “You’re dead,” he said victoriously. His mother came hurrying up, looking harassed and helpless. “Damian, stop that!” She gave him a smile that was little more than a grimace. “Don’t bother the nice people.” “Shut up,” he said rudely. “Can’t you see they’re Terrons from Vaniot.” The kid poked her in the ribs again. “Ouch!” He made those zinging noises again, taking great pleasure in her discomfort. She plastered a big smile on her face and leaned down closer to precious Damian, then cooed in her most alienlike voice, “Oh, look, a little earthling.” She straightened and gave Sam a commanding look. “Kill it.” Damian’s mouth fell open. His eyes went as round as quarters as he took in the big pistol on Sam’s belt. From his open mouth began to issue a series of shrill noises that sounded like a fire alarm. Sam cursed under his breath, grabbed Jaine by the arm, and began tugging her at a half-trot toward the front of the store. She managed to snag her purse from the buggy as she went past. “Hey, my groceries!” she protested. “You can spend another three minutes in here tomorrow and get them,” he said with pent-up violence. “Right now I’m trying to keep you from getting arrested.” “For what?” she asked indignantly as he dragged her out of the automatic doors. People were turning to look at them, but most were following the sounds of Damian’s shrieks to aisle seven. “How about threatening to kill that brat and causing a riot?” “I didn’t threaten to loll him! I just ordered you to.

Evidence of your crimes against society and the Renegades.” He winced, as though he were in physical pain, when he said, “You’re under arrest … Nightmare.

You're really extra fuckin special under arrest

Toddlers are assholes. They just are. Remind yourself of this the next time your two-year-old tosses a full bowl of oatmeal across the room. The oatmeal he cried for. The oatmeal you dragged your sleep-deprived ass out of bed at 4:45 a.m. to make. Remind yourself of this when you’re about to judge your stay-at-home spouse for the mess in the living room. He’s been under house arrest with a little asshole all day.

Once upon a time, long, long ago, people wanted to be well spoken. Those capable of an elegant turn of phrase were much admired. Wit was in great demand. It was the day of the epigram. Time went on, and by and by it came to pass that people were chiefly interested in being well liked. Those capable of a firm handshake were much admired. Friendliness was in great demand. It was the day of the telegram. Presently it appears that people are mainly concerned with being well rested. Those capable of uninterrupted sleep are much admired. Unconsciousness is in great demand. This is the day of the milligram. Far be it from me to make noise while you’re asleep but I should like to notify you that you are under arrest for being boring.

Evelyn?” one asked. “Yeah,” I said, waving a hand dismissively and moving to walk past them. Lend always hung his keys on a ring near the door. I’d get those, and—” “You’re under arrest for violating statute one point one of the International Paranormal Control Charter.” I stopped. “Wait, seriously? Seriously? You guys are here to arrest me?” I started laughing. Wow, you so picked the wrong day. Come back next week, okay?” Before I could move one of them shoved a shiny silver Taser at me; the last thought that went through my head before I collapsed, shaking on the ground, was that, bleep, being tased really sucked.

Haven’t even fucked her yet and she’s shuddering under my touch. It’s in this moment that I know I’m done waiting. Done waiting for her to fully come to me. I’m over being patient. Gabriella is going to be mine in every way I can have her. “You can walk away from this right now. Today. I will allow it. You’re tired and I prefer you get some decent rest if you won’t get it here.” “Allow?” My hand circles around the front of her throat, unable to not touch her in any way that I can. I feel like a beggar needing water who’s just been handed a jug. All I want to do is roam over her skin and memorize how every silky inch feels. I know my touch is possessive and out of fucking order, seeing as only hours ago she was still treating me as her boss only. But she made that switch when she turned up, didn’t she? She can’t take that back now. “Yes, allow. I gave you time to come to me. Here you are, Gabriella. Now you can put us in my hands.” She blinks and I feel the pulse in her delicate throat start to jump. What she doesn’t do is move out from under my hands. I feel as though she’s gifted me a prize. So close to her, her scent is arresting, she smells fucking good, lickable. She sucks her lower lip between her teeth and I want to bite it hard. “What… what does that even mean?” “It means you can no longer deny what we are, cara. It’s time for me to make the decisions in how we proceed from here. No more waiting.” “What are we?” “An explosion.

Put your glasses on mate ….. Come down from there, you’re gonna kill yourself …. Well, what does your Method Statement say? …. Right, let’s get you re-inducted. You need a reminder of site rules ….. Where are your outriggers, mate? ….. Put your glasses on ….. Put your glasses on …. Put your glasses on …. Oh, they steam up, do they? I’ve never heard that one before …. Where’s your mask? If you breathe this shit in you’re going to kill yourself. Silicosis is incurable ….. Right STOP! Do not reverse another inch without a banksman ….. Don’t put your glasses on just because you see me walk around the corner. They won’t protect MY eyes …. Hook yourself on, what’s the matter with you? Are all you scaffolders superhuman or something? ….. Put your glasses on ….. Oi! What stops me walking right in there? Where’s your barriers and signage? ….. Oi! I’m getting showered in fucking sparks here. And so is that can of petrol ….. Put your glasses on …. Where’s the flashback arrestor on this bottle of propane? ….. Hey, pal, stop welding until you’ve sheeted up ….. What are you doing climbing up there? Where’s your supervisor? What did he say about access in this morning’s Safe Start briefing? Nothing? Right, he can sit through another induction tomorrow ….. Where are the retaining pins to the joint clamps in this concrete pump line? SEAMUS! Fucking deal with this, will you? ….Put your glasses on …. Hey! Hey! Come here! Why have you got a nail instead of an ‘R’ clip to the quick-hitch system on your excavator bucket? NO! IT WON’T DO! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? If that bucket falls on someone they’re not going to get up again. And you trust a fucking nail to hold it in position! Take this machine out of service immediately until you’ve got the proper ‘R’ clip! ….. Put your glasses on …. Where’s the edge protection. Who removed the edge protection? Right, let me phone for a scaffolder ….. Put your glasses on ….. Oi! Get out from under there! Never, ever stand underneath a suspended load. Even if all the equipment’s been inspected, which it obviously has, you can never trust the crane driver. He can be taken ill suddenly ….. Come here, mate, let’s have a little chat. Why are you working on Fall Arrest? You’re supposed to be working on Fall Restraint (FR ‘restrains’ you going near the perimeter edge of the building, FA ‘arrests’ your fall if, well, if you fall. If you’re hanging off a building we’ve got less than ten minutes to reach you before you start going into toxic shock brought on by suspension trauma. In other words, we need a Rescue Plan, which is why we’d prefer people work on Fall Restraint)

Montgomery, Alabama. December 1, 1955. Early evening. A public bus pulls to a stop and a sensibly dressed woman in her forties gets on. She carries herself erectly, despite having spent the day bent over an ironing board in a dingy basement tailor shop at the Montgomery Fair department store. Her feet are swollen, her shoulders ache. She sits in the first row of the Colored section and watches quietly as the bus fills with riders. Until the driver orders her to give her seat to a white passenger. The woman utters a single word that ignites one of the most important civil rights protests of the twentieth century, one word that helps America find its better self. The word is “No.” The driver threatens to have her arrested. “You may do that,” says Rosa Parks. A police officer arrives. He asks Parks why she won’t move. “Why do you all push us around?” she answers simply. “I don’t know,” he says. “But the law is the law, and you’re under arrest.” On the afternoon of her trial and conviction for disorderly conduct, the Montgomery Improvement Association holds a rally for Parks at the Holt Street Baptist Church, in the poorest section of town. Five thousand gather to support Parks’s lonely act of courage. They squeeze inside the church until its pews can hold no more. The rest wait patiently outside, listening through loudspeakers. The Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. addresses the crowd. “There comes a time that people get tired of being trampled over by the iron feet of oppression,” he tells them. “There comes a time when people get tired of being pushed out of the glittering sunlight of life’s July and left standing amidst the piercing chill of an Alpine November.” He praises Parks’s bravery and hugs her. She stands silently, her mere presence enough to galvanize the crowd. The association launches a citywide bus boycott that lasts 381 days. The people trudge miles to work. They carpool with strangers. They change the course of American history.

We have to find a way to push them together,” Minerva said. “You know perfectly well that if Oliver marries, Gran will forget this ridiculous idea of hers about the rest of us marrying. She just wants him to produce an heir” Hetty’s eyebrows shot high. Her granddaughter had a big surprise coming down the road. “And you’re willing to throw him under the wheels of the coach to save yourself, is that it?” Jarret quipped. “No!” Her voice softened. “You and I both know he needs someone to drag him out of himself. Or he’s just going to get scarier as he gets older.” She paused. “Did you tell him about Miss Butterfield’s being an heiress?” That certainly arrested Hetty’s attention. She hadn’t dreamed that the girl had money. “Yes, but I fear that might have been a mistake-when I suggested that he marry her for her fortune, he got angry.” Of course he got angry, you fool, Hetty thought with a roll of her eyes. Honestly, did her grandson know nothing about his brother? “For goodness sake, Jarret, you weren’t supposed to suggest that. You were supposed to get him concerned that she might fall prey to fortune hunters.” At least Minerva had a brain. “Damn,” Jarret said. “Then I probably shouldn’t have exaggerated the amount.” “Oh, Lord.” Minerva sighed. “By how much?” “I kind of…tripled it.” Minerva released an unladylike oath. “Why did you do that? Now he won’t go near her. Haven’t you noticed how much he hates talk of marrying for money?” “Men say things like that, but in the end they’re practical.” “Not Oliver! You’ve just ruined everything!” “Don’t be so dramatic,” Jarret said. “Besides, I have a plan-I laid the seeds for it before I even left Oliver’s study. Come, let’s go talk to the others. It will take all of us working together.” His voice receded as the two of them apparently left the room. “If we merely…” Hetty strained to hear, but she lost the thread of the conversation. Not that it mattered. A smile tugged at her mouth. It appeared she would not have to carry off this match alone. All she need do was sit back and watch Jarret work on Oliver. In the meantime, she would let Minerva go on thinking that finding Oliver a wife would solve their dilemma. That would spur the girl to try harder. In the end, it didn’t matter why or how they managed it, as long as they did. Thank God her grandchildren had inherited her capacity for scheming. It made her proud. So Oliver thought he was going to get around her this time, did he? Well, he was in for a shock. This time he had more than just her to worry about. And with every one of the Sharpe children on Miss Butterfield’s side? She laughed. Poor Oliver didn’t stand a chance.

cap to scratch his bald head. ‘Well, you won’t miss the veg because I’ll be bringing you some every week now. I’ve always got plenty left over and I’d rather give it to you than see it waste.’ He gave a rumbling laugh. ‘I caught that young Tommy Barton digging potatoes from Percy’s plot this mornin’. Give ’im a cuff round ’is ear but I let him take what he’d dug. Poor little bugger’s only tryin’ to keep his ma from starvin’; ain’t ’is fault ’is old man got banged up for robbin’, is it?’ Tilly Barton, her two sons Tommy and Sam and her husband, lived almost opposite the Pig & Whistle. Mulberry Lane cut across from Bell Lane and ran adjacent to Spitalfields Market, and the folk of the surrounding lanes were like a small community, almost a village in the heart of London’s busy East End. Tilly and her husband had been good customers for Peggy until he lost his job on the Docks. It had come as a shock when he’d been arrested for trying to rob a little corner post office and Peggy hadn’t seen Tilly to talk to since; she’d assumed it was because the woman was feeling ashamed of what her husband had done. ‘No, of course not.’ Peggy smiled at him. A wisp of her honey-blonde hair had fallen across her face, despite all her efforts to sweep it up under a little white cap she wore for cooking. ‘I didn’t realise Tilly Barton was in such trouble. I’ll take her a pie over later – she won’t be offended, will she?’ ‘No one in their right mind would be offended by you, Peggy love.’ ‘Thank you, Jim. Would you like a cup of coffee and a slice of apple pie?’ ‘Don’t mind a slice of that pie, but I’ll take it for my docky down the allotment if that’s all right?’ Peggy assured him it was and wrapped a generous slice of her freshly cooked pie in greaseproof paper. He took it and left with a smile and a promise to see her next week just as her husband entered the kitchen. ‘Who was that?’ Laurence asked as he saw the back of Jim walking away. ‘Jim Stillman, he brought the last of the stuff from Percy’s allotment.’ Peggy’s eyes brimmed and Laurence frowned. ‘I don’t know what you’re upset for, Peggy. Percy was well over eighty. He’d had a good life – and it wasn’t even as if he was your father…’ ‘I know. He was a lot older than Mum but…Percy was a good stepfather to me, and wonderful to Mum when she was so ill after we lost Walter.’ Peggy’s voice faltered, because it still hurt her that her younger brother had died in the Great War at the tender age of seventeen. The news had almost destroyed their mother and Peggy thought of those dark days as the worst of her

Not all monotheisms are exactly the same at the moment. They're all based on the same illusion. They're all plagiarisms of each other, but there is one in particular that at the moment is proposing a serious menace not just to freedom of speech and freedom of expression, but to quite a lot of other freedoms too. And this is the religion that exhibits the horrible trio of self-hatred, self-righteousness, and self-pity. I am talking about militant Islam. Globally, it's a gigantic power. It controls an enormous amount of oil wealth, several large countries and states, and with an enormous fortune it's pumping the ideologies of Wahhabism and Salafism around the world, poisoning societies where it goes, ruining the minds of children, stultifying the young in its madrassas, training people in violence, making a cult of death and suicide and murder. That's what it does globally. It's quite strong. In our societies it poses as a cringing minority, whose faith you might offend, who deserves all the protection that a small and vulnerable group might need. Now, it makes quite large claims for itself, doesn't it? It says it's the Final Revelation. It says that God spoke to one illiterate businessman in the Arabian Peninsula three times through an archangel, and that the resultant material—which as you can see as you read it is largely plagiarized ineptly from the Old and The New Testament—is to be accepted as the Final Revelation and as the final and unalterable one, and that those who do not accept this revelation are fit to be treated as cattle infidels, potential chattel, slaves and victims. Well, I tell you what, I don't think Muhammad ever heard those voices. I don't believe it. And the likelihood that I am right—as opposed to the likelihood that a businessman who couldn't read had bits of the Old and The New Testament re-dictated to him by an archangel—I think puts me much more near the position of being objectively correct. But who is the one under threat? The person who promulgates this and says I'd better listen because if I don't I'm in danger, or me who says, "No, I think this is so silly you can even publish a cartoon about it"? And up go the placards and the yells and the howls and the screams—this is in London, this is in Toronto, this is in New York, it's right in our midst now—"Behead those who cartoon Islam." Do they get arrested for hate speech? No. Might I get in trouble for saying what I just said about the prophet Muhammad? Yes, I might. Where are your priorities, ladies and gentlemen? You're giving away what is most precious in your own society, and you're giving it away without a fight, and you're even praising the people who want to deny you the right to resist it. Shame on you while you do this. Make the best use of the time you've got left.

If you don’t mind I came for an interrogation. You’re not under arrest, at least not yet; and you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court, if you’re later on trial. Anything you say now may be given in evidence.

Son, you know what we stand for,” I told him. “We’re all trying to live for God. We’re not going to let you visit our home while you’re carrying on like this. We’re paying for your apartment. We’re paying for your truck. You’ve got a decision to make. You’re either going to come home and basically live under house arrest because we don’t trust you, or you can hit the road-with no vehicle, of course. Somebody can drop you off at the highway and then you’ll be on your own. You can go live your life; we’ll pray for you and hope that you come back one day. Those are your two choices.” Jep looked at me, lowered his head, and started pouring out his sins to me. He said he’d been taking pills, smoking marijuana, getting drunk, and on and on. He was crying the whole time, as he confessed his sins to us and God. I’ll never forget what Jep said next. He looked up at me and asked, “Dad, all I want to ask you is what took you so long to rescue me?” After Jep said that to me, everyone in the room was crying. “You still have a choice,” I told him. “Well, my choice is I want to come home,” he said. Jase has always been our most straitlaced son, so he was the hardest on Jep when he strayed. “Son, you can’t hang out with those people,” Jase told him. “Daddy won’t let ‘em get to me,” Jep said. “Daddy won’t and we won’t, either,” Jase promised him. “But you have to come to all the good things to help you. You’ve got to find better friends. You can’t be running around. You have to break it off with the bad influences.” Thankfully, our second prodigal son was coming home. It was a heart-wrenching episode for all of us. Alan was so distressed by his little brother’s struggles that he left our house, drove down the road, and then stopped and dropped to his knees and wept in a field.

Willie was actually the one who brought the seriousness of Jep’s problem to our attention. Willie was working with the high school youth group at White’s Ferry Road Church, and he found out Jep had asked one of the kids to go to a bar with him. Willie came to our house and said, “I’m done. We’ve got to do something right now. I’m just tired of it.” We called Alan and decided to have a family intervention. Alan lined everything up, and we were all waiting for Jep when he came to the house one night. Kay was terrified because she was certain I was going to throw Jep out of the house, like I’d done with Alan. I told Jep, “Give me the keys to your truck-the one I’m paying for.” He pulled the keys out of his pocket and handed them to me. I told Jep what his brothers had told me about his behavior. “Son, you know what we stand for,” I told him. “We’re all trying to live for God. We’re not going to let you visit our home while you’re carrying on like this. We’re paying for your apartment. We’re paying for your truck. You’ve got a decision to make. You’re either going to come home and basically live under house arrest because we don’t trust you, or you can hit the road-with no vehicle, of course. Somebody can drop you off at the highway and then you’ll be on your own. You can go live your life; we’ll pray for you and hope that you come back one day. Those are your two choices.” Jep looked at me, lowered his head, and started pouring out his sins to me. He said he’d been taking pills, smoking marijuana, getting drunk, and on and on. He was crying the whole time, as he confessed his sins to us and God. I’ll never forget what Jep said next. He looked up at me and asked, “Dad, all I want to ask you is what took you so long to rescue me?” After Jep said that to me, everyone in the room was crying. “You still have a choice,” I told him. “Well, my choice is I want to come home,” he said.

You’re drunk. They’d arrest you on the spot.” “What? There’s no law against driving a car when you’re drunk.” He swayed back and forth while he spoke. “Besides, I’m not drunk.” “Fine, you’re not drunk, but you’ve been drinking and there is a law that says you can’t drive when you’re drunk. It’s called driving while intoxicated or driving under the influence or something like that. I’ll drive.” “Hmmm… Never heard of it. Okay- you drive.

Bra already forgotten, he was working on her pants, and he kissed every inch he bared, from her waist to her knees, then to her ankles, then her toes, one by one. he laid a path of kisses down on leg, then up the other, then he placed a long, lingering kiss at her center, through her panties, She was already wet for him. Not that he hurried. All the impatience he'd shown earlier seemed to have evaporated. Doris could have crocheted a pair of panties in the amount of time it took Hunter to remove Gabi's. She squirmed under him. "I thought they teach speed in the military." "When warranted. There are times that call for careful deliberation." "You're going to deliberate me to death," she warned, just as he finally parted her hot flesh, a move that immediately silenced her. But he didn't touch her further. He blew on her clit. She nearly jackkifed off the couch. He pushed her knees up until her heels touched her butt, then he pushed her knees out until she was spread wide open just inches from his face. And then he just looked. Good grief. What was there to look at? "Touch me!" she snapped when she couldn't stand the suspense any longer. "Touch me, you torturous bastard. That's an order." He laughed deeply and heartily. "And what are you going to do if I don't?" "I'll arrest you." "I think that's what they call an abuse of power." His eyes glinted darkly. "But the idea of handcuffs does have considerable merit.

What the hell?” Two men stepped through the shattered glass door. They were wearing dark blue bulletproof vests emblazoned with the letters FBI. “Get your hands in the air!” “Do you know who I am?” Pollard snarled at the pistol aimed at his face. The agent smiled. “I know exactly who you are, you piece of shit. Jordan Pollard, you're under arrest for accessory to murder of Mexican and Venezuelan citizens, blackmail, and securities fraud. I could go on but I think you get the drift.” Strong hands hauled him from his desk and pressed him against the wall. Metal handcuffs restrained his hands behind his back. “You're making a big mistake, gentlemen! I have powerful friends.” “So do we, ours is a Supreme Court judge. Maybe we should get them together some time.

It’s not like that. You don’t understand.” Jaid and Shepherd stepped toward the man in tandem. Taking out her cuffs, she said, “What I understand is that you’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder.

Though I had fallen in love with Narian a long time ago, I was continually learning more about him. I’d always been familiar with his principles and his personality, but it was the little things that made a human being. Little things like how he was not accustomed to sharing his space--had I not been forced to hide in his bedroom during his exchange with the High Priestess, I would not yet have seen it. There were other things, as well. He was nearly fluent in three languages in addition to our own; he absolutely could not sleep on his back; and he didn’t know how to handle being irritated with me. Had I lied for Shaselle? Yes. But he would have a difficult time confronting me about it. He never hesitated in handling issues with other people, but with me, he seemed to try his hardest to convince himself that there was nothing to handle. It was late afternoon before he finally raised the matter. After holding audiences in the Hearing Hall, I had entered my office and was about ready to retire when there was a knock on the door. I knew it would be Narian, and that his countenance would be inscrutable. Indeed, when I granted him permission to enter, he was closed off, exactly as I hated him to be. “I thought you would meet me in my quarters,” I said, attempting to keep things light. “I will. But I need to talk to you first.” It was plain from the tone of his voice that he wasn’t about to mix business with pleasure. “Of course.” I rose from my desk chair, straightening a few papers and avoiding eye contact with him, though I wasn’t sure of the reason. “The knife I took from Shaselle didn’t belong to Baelic.” “Oh?” I looked up to meet his disconcerting eyes. If he wouldn’t let me in, I wouldn’t let him in. “Alera, it was Sarteradan. You lied for her. Why?” “And what of Steldor’s dagger?” I asked, ignoring his inquiry. “Hytanican. No doubt he managed to keep one of his own from my troops.” “What were you and he arguing about?” “That’s of no importance. But you needn’t worry--I’m not going to arrest him.” He scrutinized me, and I squirmed like a bug under a magnifying glass. “What is important, Alera, is the question you’re trying to avoid--why did you lie for Shaselle?

The knife I took from Shaselle didn’t belong to Baelic.” “Oh?” I looked up to meet his disconcerting eyes. If he wouldn’t let me in, I wouldn’t let him in. “Alera, it was Sarteradan. You lied for her. Why?” “And what of Steldor’s dagger?” I asked, ignoring his inquiry. “Hytanican. No doubt he managed to keep one of his own from my troops.” “What were you and he arguing about?” “That’s of no importance. But you needn’t worry--I’m not going to arrest him.” He scrutinized me, and I squirmed like a bug under a magnifying glass. “What is important, Alera, is the question you’re trying to avoid--why did you lie for Shaselle?” I sighed, stepping around my desk. “She’s a hurt and confused young woman.” “A hurt and confused young woman who got her hands on a weapon someone in her family planted. I needed to know where it was hidden.” I frowned, drawing significance from his use of the word I in place of we. “How do you know Baelic didn’t own a Sarteradan blade? How do you know this wasn’t innocent? Are you so determined to suspect these men whose comrades you killed?” “What did you say?” His tone was chilled. “That’s not what I meant,” I said, appalled at my word choice. “That just…came out wrong. I know you saved the lives you could.” Narian’s gaze was sharp, and my heart thudded as I prayed he would believe me. I spoke the truth--he was not a murderer. “Do you know where the dagger came from, Alera?” he finally asked, ice hanging off his words. He sounded so accusatory that I bristled. “Of course not.” “Do you know where London is?” “No!” I exclaimed, in awe of the fact that he was interrogating me. “Narian, what is wrong with you? If I were aware of anything that might threaten our goals, I would tell you. If I knew London to be up to something, I wouldn’t keep it a secret. But I’m happy to believe he’s free and safe. Lord only know he’s suffered enough at Cokyrian hands. And I lied for Shaselle because, no matter how she came across that weapon, none of those men would have armed her, and you know it.” He broke eye contact, stunned into silence, and his visage softened. “You’re right, I shouldn’t have accused you. I’m sorry.” “Don’t,” I murmured, walking over to him. I swept his hair away from his face, and he closed his eyes at my touch. “Just hold me.” He obliged, wrapping me in his arms and his love, and I wished all disagreements could be so quickly forgotten.

You’re under arrest!” Miller shouted as the OPA soldiers boiled in around him. “Well, no you’re not, but… shit. Put your hands up and back away from the controls!

Lilenta…” Baird reached for her but she shied away. “No, don’t touch me! In fact, I don’t think we should touch anymore at all.” Baird frowned. “What are you talking about?” Liv shook her head, her pulse pounding as all her old fears of being pinned down and helpless under the big alien male came back in a rush. “There’s something about you. I can’t…can’t seem to control myself when you get too close. When you touch me. And don’t tell me it’s my body reacting to yours because we ‘need’ each other again either,” she snapped, when he opened his mouth as if to reply. “I don’t care what causes it, I don’t like being out of control. Don’t like it that I can’t seem to stop myself from…from acting like some kind of animal in heat.” “I told you this would happen.” Baird shifted on the bed toward her but Liv pulled away again. He sighed and sat back. “Your body is in heat, Lilenta—to a certain extent anyway. And as long as we’re together you’ll get hotter and hotter. Having me inside you is the only thing that will ease you.” “Well then I guess I’ll just have to manage on my own because there is no way I’m letting you try to get your whole entire uh…self inside me.” Liv’s heart was still racing. “In fact, I don’t think I want you touching me at all anymore. It’s too dangerous.” Baird’s face was like a thundercloud. “You signed a contract, Olivia. This is our bathing week—you can’t deny me the right to wash you.” “Exactly—wash me. And that’s it.” Liv lifted her chin defiantly. “I’m pretty sure if I went over that contract with a fine tooth comb there wouldn’t be anything about you being able to rub me with fifty types of oil and lay on top of me and practically hump me through the mattress.” “I was scent marking you,” he protested. “Gotta do that in order to let other males know you’re mine.” “I’m not yours,” she flared at him angrily. “And I never will be! So you can wash me—fine, I can’t stop you. But nothing outside the bathing pool. That means no more naked massages with exotic oils. And absolutely no more marking, or whatever you call it.” “Fine.” Baird was so angry now his eyes were practically glowing. “But if I can’t mark you, then we’re not leaving the suite. Not with you smellin’ so hot and not having any of my scent on you.” Liv threw up her hands. “Great. Put me under house arrest—I don’t care. Just stay away from me.” “If that’s how you feel,” he said, his jaw clenched. “I told you once I wasn’t interested in taking what you didn’t want to give.” “That’s exactly how I feel,” Liv assured him. “And I’m not giving another inch.” “Fine.” He was still glaring at her but the pain was back in his eyes now—back to stay and Liv knew she was the cause of it. Suddenly she felt horrible. “Try to understand, Baird,” she pleaded softly. “I never asked for this—for our minds to align or for you to claim me. I never wanted any of it. I just…I just want to go home.” Baird closed his eyes briefly. “I wish I could let you. But I can’t, Olivia. I need you too damn much. I’m sorry.

Hello, Davina. You’re under arrest for multiple counts of murder. You have the right to not much at all, really. Do you have anything to say in your defence?

Realizing that he was lost, Azazel walked up to the nearest citizen, a young woman who was warily turning her head as though waiting for something to leap out and stab her in the neck. “Excuse me!” He boomed. “Could I trouble you for a—” “KYA!” the woman screamed. “MONSTER!” Azazel was stunned into silence as the woman ran away, shrieking like she’d just seen an abominable horror from the far reaches of space. When she disappeared around the corner of a building, he remained standing there for a while longer, and then huffed in indignation. “That was rude,” he said. With nothing else to do but find the next denizen and ask them for directions, Azazel began walking once more. Several minutes passed with more people running from him. It wasn’t long afterward that the loud blaring of sirens alerted Azazel to the arrival of a police shuttle seconds before it came into sight. “You in the armor! Put your hands in the air and surrender yourself! You’re under arrest!” Azazel had no desire to be placed in confinement again. So, he did the only thing that an upstanding and forthright commander of the Angelisian Army would do in such a situation. He ran away. “After him!” The shuttle zoomed forward, hot on his tail. “Why is this happening to me again?!” Azazel’s scream was lost to the din of sirens.

You’re going like that? In trousers?” Lily nodded. “They’re much handier for riding than a skirt,” she informed him, though she privately thought any idiot would have been able to figure out such an obvious thing on his own. “You’ll be arrested,” Caleb fretted, climbing down from the framework of his house to stand on the ground facing Lily. “I don’t believe it’s against the law for a woman to wear trousers, Caleb.” “Don’t be too sure of that. If they can throw you in the hoosegow for wearing lip paint—and they can—I figure trousers probably won’t endear you to them either.” He paused, grinning, to turn Lily around once, and then back to face him. “They do look pretty good on you, though.” Lily glared at Caleb, but not out of any real ire. If she didn’t keep him at a distance, he’d soon have her sprawled on the bed or bent over a sawhorse, and she’d be carrying on fit to shame Jezebel herself. “I didn’t ask for your opinion, Caleb Halliday,” she said. He laughed and caught his hands under her bottom, lifting her against him. “If you’re going to strut around in pants, sodbuster, you have to be prepared to face up to the consequences.” Lily hated herself for the way her blood was heating and her heartbeat quickening. “Put me down, Caleb,” she fussed. She was mildly disappointed when he did. “All right,” he agreed. “But if you’re going to town, change your clothes first.” Lily started to speak, then closed her mouth. She went into her house and closed the door. When

Kimberly Green put her hands on the table, gave a toothy grimace—husky teeth?—and leaned down like she might take a bite out of him. The canned-corn hair smelled like Pert Plus. She eyeballed him—must have read a memo on intimidating glares—and then spoke for the first time. “Here’s how we’re going to play it, asshole. We’re going to ask you questions. You’re going to listen to them and then you’re going to answer them. You got it?” Myron nodded. “I want to make sure I got this straight,” he said to her. “You’re playing bad cop, right?” Peck picked up the ball. “Mr. Bolitar, no one is interested in making trouble here. But we’d very much like your cooperation in this matter.” “Am I under arrest?” Myron asked. “No.” “Bye then.” He started to stand. Kimberly Green gave him a shove mid-rise and he fell back into the chair. “Sit down, asshole.” She looked over at Peck. “Maybe he’s part of it.” “You think so?” “Why else would he be so reluctant to answer questions?” Peck nodded. “Makes sense. An accomplice.” “We can probably arrest him now,” Green said. “Lock him up for the night, maybe leak it to the press.” Myron looked up at her. “Gasp,” he said. “Now. I. Am. Really. Scared. Second gasp.” She

I have often wondered why grounding is so universally popular. I believe it is because it is easy. It doesn’t require on-going interaction. It does not require on-going discussion. It does not assess what is going on inside the child. It does not require patient instruction and entreaty. Grounding is quick, incisive, simple. “You’re grounded for a month. Go to your room.” Perhaps parents just don’t know anything more constructive to do. They feel frustrated. They realize that something is wrong with their child. They don’t know how to get to it. They feel they need to respond in some way. One thing is for sure. Grounding does not address the issues of the heart in a biblical way. The heart is being addressed, but it is addressed wrongly. The child will learn to cope with the grounding, but may never learn the things that a godly parent desires for him to learn. My 10-year-old friend is rather philosophical about it. “It’s not too bad,” he said to me, “I can play and watch TV in my room. If I don’t let it bother me, it isn’t that bad.” He has learned to live under house arrest.

You’re really extra-fucking-special under arrest. You know that, right?

Seeing that the detective was losing patience, Mrs. Luke dropped the gun. “I just wanted them to listen to me!” “If you have to use a gun to get someone to listen to you, you’re doing it wrong,” the detective informed her. “You’re under arrest.

I later learned that the interrogator soon went back to find my mother—but not to fill her in on the interrogation of her child, which she had the legal right to sit in on. He wanted to interrogate her. “Come with me. I want to ask you some questions,” he said to her. “I’m not under arrest, so you have no right to ask me anything,” she asserted. My mom knew her rights, even if they were seldom honored by the Israelis. “Just a couple of questions, and then you can go,” he tried again. But my mom was no fool. She told him, “You have no legal right to.” “Okay,” he replied. “Well, as of this moment, you’re under arrest.” And just like that, he slapped handcuffs on her wrists and took her in for questioning.

One private from the Parachute Regiment had passed Nobby every morning on his way from the married quarters. ‘Morning, sir!’ he would say. One day Nobby stopped him. ‘No need to keep calling me “sir” when we see each other every day,’ he told him. ‘My name’s Nobby.’ The following day the soldier passed the RSM as usual. ‘Morning, Nobby,’ he said. ‘You’re under arrest for insubordination!’ said Mr Arnold.

It's true that you're under arrest, but that shouldn't stop you from carrying out your job. And there shouldn't be anything to stop you carrying on with your usual life." "In that case it's not too bad, being under arrest," said K.

church that was supposed to have fewer than fifty members who attended. They got themselves ready and entered the building. The church members were in prayer, when the head of this team said in as loud as voice as possible, “All right, listen up. All of you are under arrest. If you come quietly, none of you will be harmed. Follow these men out to your church bus, where we will transport you to a facility for all of you,” “Now hold on, wait just a minute. Who are you?” Looking at an iPad, the man said, “You must be Pastor Matthew Tyler. According to my information, you have thirty members, but it looks to me like you only have twenty-four. Where’s the other six?” “You still haven’t told me what business you have arresting us,” The man sighed, rolled his eyes, and replied, “We’re with the United States government. All of you, including others who have the same or similar beliefs, are all considered threats. We’re transporting you to a place that will hold all of you until such a time when we feel you’re no longer a menace to society. Now, where are the six who are missing?

If you see my name on one more police report, you're going to put me under house arrest and sentence me to watch Martha Stewart Living 24/7.

Uh, right. Who do you propose that I should send to assassinate the President?” “I suggest you send a staff sergeant by the name of James Delaney. You make it seem like you’re questioning everyone under your command about where their loyalties are when it concerns their oath and the Constitution. If he is the patriotic American that I think he is, he’ll take the bait,” “Why him? Why not a member of the Special Forces?” “I have my reasons, which is something you don’t need to know. Now, are you going to do this?” “All right, fine. I will recruit Staff Sergeant Delaney. I will ask the Joint Chiefs to get their people to arrest the rest of the administration. Is there anything else, Mr. Evans?” “No, not right now. All I require is that you inform me when Delaney will be set to do the deed,” “I will do that,

phone, twisted it out of her hand, and slammed it on the hook. “I cry good, don’t I?” she asked with a grin, and she was out the door.   “Davenport, Davenport,” Daniel moaned. He gripped handfuls of hair on the side of his head as he watched Jennifer finish the broadcast. “ . . . called by some the smartest man in the department, told me personally that he did not believe that Smithe is guilty of the spectacular murders and that he fears the premature arrest could destroy Smithe’s burgeoning career with the welfare department . . .” “Burgeoning career? TV people shouldn’t be allowed to use big words,” Lucas muttered. “So now what?” Daniel asked angrily. “How in the hell could you do this?” “I didn’t know I was,” Lucas said mildly. “I thought we were having a personal conversation.” “I told you that your dick was going to get you in trouble with that woman,” Daniel said. “What the hell am I going to tell Lester? He’s been out there in front of the cameras making his case and you’re talking to this puss behind his back. You cut his legs out from under him. He’ll be after your head.” “Tell him you’re suspending me. What’s bad? Two weeks? Then I’ll appeal to the civil-service board. Even if the board okays the suspension, it’ll be months from now. We should be able to put it off until this thing is settled, one way or another.” “Okay. That might do it.” Daniel nodded and then laughed unpleasantly, shaking his head. “Christ, I’m glad that wasn’t me getting grilled. You better get out of here before Lester arrives or we’ll be busting him for assault.”   At two o’clock in the morning the telephone rang. Lucas looked up from the drawing table where he was working on Everwhen, reached over, and picked it up. “Hello?” “Still mad?” Jennifer asked. “ You bitch. Daniel’s suspending me. I’m giving interviews to everybody except you guys, you can go suck—” “Nasty, nasty—” He slammed the receiver back on the hook. A moment later the phone rang again. He watched it like a cobra, then picked it up, unable to resist. “I’m coming over,” she said, and hung up. Lucas reached for it, to call her, to tell her not to come, but stopped with his hand on the receiver.   Jennifer wore a black leather jacket, jeans, black boots, and driving

Typically only the incivility of the less powerful toward the more powerful can be widely understood as such, and thus be subject to such intense censure. Which is what made #metoo so fraught and revolutionary. It was a period during which some of the most powerful faced repercussion. The experience of having patriarchal control compromised felt, perhaps ironically, like a violation, a diminishment, a threat to professional standing—all the things that sexual harassment feels like to those who’ve experienced it. Frequently, in those months, I was asked about how to address men’s confusion and again, their discomfort: How were they supposed to flirt? What if their respectful and professional gestures of affiliation had been misunderstood? Mothers told me of sons worried about being misinterpreted, that expression of their affections might be heard as coercion, their words or intentions read incorrectly, that they would face unjust consequences that would damage their prospects. The amazing thing was the lack of acknowledgment that these anxieties are the normal state for just about everyone who is not a white man: that black mothers reasonably worry every day that a toy or a phone or a pack of Skittles might be seen as a gun, that their children’s very presence—sleeping in a dorm room, sitting at a Starbucks, barbecuing by a river, selling lemonade on the street—might be understood as a threat, and that the repercussions might extend far beyond a dismissal from a high-paying job or expulsion from a high-profile university, and instead might result in arrest, imprisonment, or execution at the hands of police or a concerned neighbor. Women enter young adulthood constantly aware that their inebriation might be taken for consent, or their consent for sluttiness, or that an understanding of them as having been either drunk or slutty might one day undercut any claim they might make about having been violently aggressed upon. Women enter the workforce understanding from the start the need to work around and accommodate the leering advances and bad jokes of their colleagues, aware that the wrong response might change the course of their professional lives. We had been told that our failures to extend sympathy to the white working class—their well-being diminished by unemployment and drug addictions—had cost us an election; now we were being told that a failure to feel for the men whose lives were being ruined by harassment charges would provoke an angry antifeminist backlash. But with these calls came no acknowledgment of sympathies that we have never before been asked to extend: to black men who have always lived with higher rates of unemployment and who have faced systemically higher prison sentences and social disapprobation for their drug use; to the women whose careers and lives had been ruined by ubiquitous and often violent harassment. Now the call was to consider the underlying pain of those facing repercussions. Rose McGowan, one of Weinstein’s earliest and most vociferous accusers, recalled being asked “in a soft NPR voice, ‘What if what you’re saying makes men uncomfortable?’ Good. I’ve been uncomfortable my whole life. Welcome to our world of discomfort.”34 Suddenly, men were living with the fear of consequences, and it turned out that it was not fun. And they very badly wanted it to stop. One of the lessons many men would take from #metoo was not about the threat they had posed to women, but about the threat that women pose to them.