Die Shamus, Die!

Summary David Simon elaborates to explain what happens in an interrogation room to readers in a passage from “Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets,” which caused a couple of television shows. Simon gives points of view from the perspective of the interrogator, which can be a detective or a police officer, as well as point of views from the suspect being interrogated. In his book, Simon bases everything he knows from the police station in Baltimore.

Curious, I looked up at the building and suddenly my heart stopped. My muscles contracted and my nerves sent a violent quake through my body. I didn’t notice the dropped cigarette that was burning a hole in my pants. Finally, the pain bit me. I grabbed the cigarette, throwing it out the window while almost swerving off the road. After regaining control, I closed my eyes and reopened them to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating; I wasn‘t. Ten police cars sat in front of the school, all in a perfect line with their drivers standing close-by. I contemplated driving off but it was too late. We had already been spotted.

I soon fell asleep and woke up to the sound of traffic and people yelling as if someone ate the last piece of pie on Thanksgiving. Being half sleep my eyes weren’t fully dilated so I couldn’t see but with one wipe and a closer look at the sign I see the words, “Lew Sterrett Justice Center”. We had arrived at the local jail of the Dallas County. As we walk to the entrance, I was so scared I grabbed papa hand hard as possible. We came to a huge black door with tinted windows so no one could see through. Papa pushed a big red button to the right of the door that mad a loud horn sound. Then the door slowly opened and revealed a room with a door, metal detector and two officers.

south, but he did not know what that meant at the time. He had a hard time understanding why people around him called others “white,” and he did know the difference between him and the other people. The boy always viewed his grandmother as being “as ‘white’ as any white person” (Mahony). Wright was taught about how he should react towards white people, but he believed that people should only be judged after you get to know them.

A warm bead of sweat rolled down my brow in such a slow manner I thought that I had received a cut on my head and I was bleeding from whacking my head on the door panel when I exited out of the cruiser. I wiped it away as I leaned back against the hood of the car, sweating up a storm in the white polo that was supposed to be a uniform.

The smell of coffee filled the police station. “Morning, Sami!” called officer Turner, who was drinking a cup of said coffee. I was walking to my desk when, “Homicide on 9753 Shady Leaf Alley!” was yelled from officer Reinerman’s desk. I stopped and remembered. The last time I went there was…..was…..it doesn’t matter. The past is the past. I went with officer Reinerman and officer Wyler to the police car. We drove to the alley.

The rooms were confined to themselves by a large metal door with a small slot about 5 feet from the floor that could only be opened from the outside. The walls were once a brilliant white, but now filled with the scratch marks and blood stains from the ones before me. The room stench of urine, most likely from the other patients. All there was in the room was a small cot with a mattress so thin, it almost looked as if it was a thin piece of plywood. As I laid there strapped to my bed by leather restraints that were made to “protect” me from myself, I kept pondering on the question “what did I do to deserve to be locked up in a place like this?” Then I remember my crime, and smile.

Standing at his desk once again, and out of breath, the detective cursed himself for the few extra pounds he gained over the past couple of years. Slowly, and hesitantly placing the tiny box on his desk, he recalls its contents. Feeling the pressure of the task before him, he sits down, leans his head back, and closes his eyes. After several moments, without opening his eyes, he retrieves the small knife his father had given him

On a dark, cold, rainy night in Pittsburgh, I see a suspicious figure walk past. I leave the cafe to see him checking over his shoulder as he enters the station. I resolve to follow the figure and phone the cops as I think he is up to something.

The low ceiling cowered above and the black plastic chairs formed a restless crowd around me. From my seat, I could smell the acute scent of cleaning fluid, whiteboard markers, and the nauseating perfume of the girl sitting next to me. Like so many other students, she exuded concentration. Her brows were drawn as her hand moved rapidly over the testing booklet, only pausing to reposition herself or cast an almost imperceptible sidelong glance. The effortlessness of her actions furthered my anxiety as I began tapping my foot uneasily against the speckled linoleum floor. Through the dusty shades that hung precariously in front the only window in the room, I could see the outline of a solitary building shadowed by the dense gray fog that clung to the courtyard outside. At that moment, I would have given anything to be able to run and scream at the top of my lungs. I had an inexplicable urge to break free from the confinement of that room and what it

“Now you wait a minute. I’m not done. He had a ski cap and I couldn’t see the color of his hair. He was a big guy and ran that way,” She said, pointing towards the street leading to the river.

I have sat in this solitaire for maybe a week. I have to spend the next 6 and a half years in this empty room. Last I watched the guard’s feet move in the hall light. The guards talked almost silently of how much pain I have caused to this world. My intention was never to hurt anyone especially not kill anyone. Everything got so out of hand. I can still see my mother face after we moved to California. All the hope she had is now lost on her emotionless face the day of my trial. I stare at the almost white wall. I notice the imperfection in the cement barrier. Everything in this minuscule room is so wrathful. I see a picture in my head of the dog Spotty I saved one day after a dog

I opened my eyes, the vertigo slowly slipping away as I blinking myself into full consciousness. A bright surgical light blinded me from above.

What seemed like mere seconds later, cops busted through the door, showering splinters of wood through the threshold. Their gun were trained on me but I stood there, as still as the lifeless bodies at my feet. The bloody knife I held in my hand was a testimony to the crimes that had been committed, whose victims lay at my feet.

I saw my shirt was damp and sticking to my skin. I had been dripping for an hour