Chapter 53: Jimmy, Twenty Years Later

Jimmy stopped by a food truck to grab his lunch, taking his tacos and burger to a secluded side street where he parked the cruiser in the shade and began eating.

Today had been truly miserable. Things had been going wrong since yesterday; first he failed to find the murderer, then the suspect he had worked so hard to pursue was taken away by someone else, and now his new patrol sector had so many trivial annoyances that just looking at them got on his nerves.

That Cadillac asshole was definitely a big fish. It was a huge loss not to interrogate him overnight. Not just anyone could pull off having two passports; a guy like that surely had deep secrets waiting to be dug up.

If the DEA stepped in, it meant the guy was either a drug lord, or perhaps an undercover operative. In any case, he was definitely a big fish.

Having been a cop for so long, Jimmy had never handled a major case, only dealing with petty trifles—excluding the three people he had killed, of course.

Look at how glorious cops in the movies were, handling major cases involving gangs, drug lords, and murderers. Even leaving aside promotions and raises, at least it got the blood pumping! Look at himself: driving around on patrol, catching speeders, car accidents, and fake license plates. The gap was just too huge. He used to think it was only because he was a rookie patrol officer, but now that he had been promoted, he was still doing the exact same things.

Karg had been working at the department for over twenty years and was still driving around on patrol. Thinking of Karg's obese figure, Jimmy felt as though he were already looking at himself twenty years into the future.

That was too terrifying. Jimmy hurriedly shook the thought out of his head, completely unable to imagine what kind of future it would be if he just kept on patrolling like that for twenty years.

Putting those thoughts behind him, Jimmy finished his lunch and returned to the cruiser to rest. Because the partition between the front and rear seats of the patrol car had been reinforced, the driver's seat could not be reclined like in a regular family car. He could only lean back against the seat for a bit; he couldn't lay flat to sleep, which made resting in the car extremely uncomfortable. Still, his sleep time last night had been far too short, so he just had to make do and catnap for a while.

In the afternoon, after waking up and zoning out in the car for a bit, Jimmy started the cruiser and headed back out onto the highway to resume his patrol.

Wandering aimlessly from the highway to country lanes, Jimmy eventually spotted his first target of the afternoon.

A Harley-Davidson motorcycle speeding past with signature ape-hanger handlebars. The rider was a middle-aged white man with a heavy beard, wearing a studded leather jacket and pointed leather shoes. These features practically guaranteed the guy was part of some motorcycle gang. There was no insignia on the back of his leather jacket, making it impossible to tell which gang he belonged to, though it was also possible he was just a low-level associate who hadn't earned his "colors" yet.

Just as a side note, there were many motorcycle clubs in America, decades of development having carved out their respective territories. To avoid the all-out gang wars of the 1960s and 70s, each club maintained rough boundaries and practiced non-aggression toward one another. Gangs possessed strict internal hierarchies, distinguished by tattoos and patches on their clothing.

Jimmy flicked on his emergency lights and siren, rushing forward to tail closely behind the motorcycle. The POST commission strictly prohibited police from performing PIT maneuvers on motorcycles, so Jimmy had no choice but to follow.

Seeing the police cruiser lighting up behind him, the rider turned at the next intersection and accelerated to escape. Jimmy followed closely through the turn, sped up, and maintained a distance of a dozen meters behind him. He couldn't get too close; if he accidentally hit the motorcycle—even just grazed it—Jimmy would inevitably face lawsuits.

Today was simply not Jimmy's lucky day. The motorcycle twisted and turned through alleys until it vanished from sight. In rural areas, especially in the Arkansas countryside with its dense thickets of woods, chasing a motorcycle was extraordinarily difficult. The rider could always slip away through every nook and cranny.

Jimmy had no choice but to turn off his lights and siren, cruising slowly back toward the highway. At an intersection, he ran into the motorcycle again. The moment the lights and siren flared on, the motorcycle, likely startled, abruptly swerved and crashed by the roadside.

An unexpected bonus! Jimmy immediately stopped the car, drew his gun, and shouted at the rider, "Don't move! Let me see your hands!"

The rider raised his hands to signal he was unarmed, then walked over to the roadside on his own, dropped flat onto his stomach, and crossed his hands behind his lower back. He didn't even need Jimmy to give instructions; the routine was so practiced it was almost heartbreaking. Just how many times had this guy been busted?

Jimmy was a bit dazed himself. He walked over, slapped the cuffs on him, hauled him up, patted him down, and put him in the back seat of the cruiser. The whole process went so smoothly it felt like a pre-arranged drill.

Returning to the driver's seat, Jimmy used the radio to contact dispatch and requested a tow truck, then waited right there on the spot. It wasn't time for interrogation yet, so reading Miranda rights wasn't necessary.

If it were just speeding, a ticket would settle it. But the motorcycle rider hadn't stopped; instead, he accelerated to flee, which constituted felony evasion of a police officer. Such a case could simply be brought back to the precinct for interrogation, after which the paperwork would be submitted to the prosecutor's office. Detention was unavoidable, and there would be plenty of time to read the Miranda rights during the interrogation.

After waiting ten minutes or so, the tow truck arrived, hoisted the motorcycle onto the flatbed, and Jimmy drove the suspect back to the precinct.

Inside the holding cell, Jimmy unlocked the rider's handcuffs from behind, told him to bring his hands forward, and cuffed him again in the front. Once that was done, Jimmy began reciting the Miranda rights.

"I am Deputy Sheriff Jimmy Yang (officers in formal contexts must state their official titles in full; here it is deputy sheriff rather than police officer, as police officer refers to municipal police), and I am in charge of your case. You have the right to remain silent. If you do not remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you fully understand these rights as I have read them to you?"

"Yes. Can I contact my lawyer now? I won't say another word until my lawyer arrives."

Jimmy felt a sense of helplessness. This guy was clearly an old hand; he hadn't said a single word the entire time on the road, and now he dropped this line out of nowhere—obviously the result of having been arrested by police many times before.

Jimmy retrieved the telephone from outside and let the rider make his call, then walked back out. Anything he said now was meaningless, and listening in on the phone call was useless, so there was no point in wasting time.

After waiting half an hour, a lawyer walked into the precinct. He had the standard lawyer look: gleaming leather shoes, a tailored suit, complete with vest, shirt, and tie underneath, hair meticulously combed, and holding a briefcase.

"Good afternoon, ma'am. I am Shaun White, an attorney. I'm looking for Deputy Jimmy Yang."

"Hi, I'm Jimmy Yang."

"Counselor, I am Shaun White, attorney for Alexander Zdyrentyev. Can you take me to see him?" Attorney Shaun White said with a smile.

"He's in the holding cell. Follow me."

Jimmy led the lawyer to the holding cell and then excused himself. While an attorney is consulting with a suspect, police are not allowed to interfere, and the contents of their conversation cannot be directly submitted as evidence; even recording equipment and video feeds had to be turned off.