Dragnet

Joe:
We could've piled up a hundred years of great policemen and great detectives: men with honor and brains and guts. You tore down every best part of them. The people who read it in the papers, they're going to overlook the fact that WE got you; that we washed our own laundry and we cleared this thing up. They're going to overlook all the good. They'll overlook every last good cop in the country. But they'll remember YOU. Because you're a bad cop.

Joe:
All we know are the facts, ma'am.

Announcer:
Ladies and gentlemen, the story you are about to see is true. The names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Joe:
This is the city: Los Angeles, California. I work here. I'm a cop.

Joe:
No, sir. It's no mistake. Marijuana.

Joe:
Do the youngsters know what these goofballs are made of, son?

Frank:
Christmas cards, huh? A little late, aren't you?

Joe:
Well, I was going to send them out Monday, but we had that stakeout.

[Sergeant Dave Bradford, an African-American member of the squad, has called on Friday to assist him in dealing with Carl Rockwell, a long-time criminal and frequent annoyance to Friday who was arrested for molesting a little girl. Friday enters the interrogation room where Rockwell, who is sitting at a table, spots him.]

Rockwell [to Friday]:
Well, whaddaya know. The immortal sergeant.

Bradford:
All right Rockwell, let's try it again. You have the right to an attorney, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say to us can be used against you in a court of law.

Rockwell [sarcastically]:
You already told me that once...

Bradford:
Do you understand it?

Rockwell:
Like I said, I didn't before.

Bradford:
What do you mean, you didn't before?

Rockwell:
Like I told you and those uniformed bums who rousted me, I didn't understand.

Bradford:
You didn't understand what?

Rockwell:
Boy. You are thick, aren't you.

Bradford:
You didn't understand, what?

Rockwell:
All that jazz about I can remain silent and anything I say you can testify against me. I'm gonna be silent any time now and I'll tell you when!

Bradford:
But you understand it now.

Rockwell [annoyed]:
I do now. I'm getting a little tired of hearing it, but I understand it. Now you understand me. You bums have rousted me for the last time! This is the last time you're gonna haul me in on a bum rap! Now why don't you two goons join the hubcap detail and roust a few teenagers? If you think you can handle it.

Bradford:
Suppose you tell us what you were doing with that little four year old out in Westlake Park?

Rockwell [infuriated]:
It's "when"! Go swallow a germ, you nigger cop.

[An angry Friday, having now heard enough, slams Rockwell's file into the table, which startles Rockwell]

Friday:
Now you listen to me, you gutter-mouth punk. I've dealt with you before, and every time I did, it took me a month to wash off the filth. I'll tell you what you did with that four-year old girl out in Westlake Park; you staked out a bench like you've always done. You bought a sack of penny candy. You waited until the right little girl came along. Tuesday afternoon at four o'clock, she did. You told her you were gonna take her for a ride around the block. You got her in your car, she started to cry. You hit her across the mouth twice. You cut her lip with your ring, knocked out three of her teeth. And then you know what you did to her...get your head up when I'm talking to you! [pause] Now, I didn't say that, Rockwell, you did. That's exactly what you told those officers who arrested you. They advised you of your constitutional rights before you opened your mouth. Now you're trying to tell us you didn't understand. Well, you're a liar. You understood what your rights were then just as you understand now! Somewhere in the last forty hours while you were rattling around in the bucket you got the word. You know that 62 Cal.2d 338 states that you be advised of your right to remain silent and as you must thoroughly understand and waive that right, because if you don't any confession you make is inadmissible as testimony in a court of law. Forty hours ago you confessed to what you did to that little girl. That was the truth. Now you sit here and tell us that you didn't understand your rights, that's a lie! Like every hoodlum since Cain up through Capone, you've learned to hide behind some quirk in the law. And mister, you are a two-bit hoodlum. You've fallen twice for ADW. Burglary, three times. Twice for forcible rape, I tagged you for those. And now you've graduated. You've moved to the sewer, you're a child molester. And this isn't the first time, we've had you in here before. And mister, you were guilty then and you're guilty now. Now one last thing, you smart mouthed punk. If the department doesn't question the color of his skin, you damn well see that you don't.

Donald Chapman:
How would I know, I hardly ever go in the closet.

Friday:
Never mind the smart answers, Chapman, we can bust you right now for Receiving Stolen Property!

Donald Chapman:
(certain Friday is bluffing) Then why don't you do it?

Friday:
Just tell us what you did with those other four cases.

Donald Chapman:
Maybe I'll change my mind. You told me I don't have to talk to you. Maybe I won't.

Joe:
Now you listen to me, you wide-mouth punk, we've heard just about all we want from you.

Donald Chapman [Nazi domestic terrorist]:
I know my rights. I know the law, too, you'll want to know a lot more. Motive for one thing.

Joe:
Hate will do for a start, and try to put that walnut-sized brain of yours to work on this. You keep harping about minorities...

Donald Chapman [Nazi domestic terrorist]:
That's right.

Joe:
Well Mister, you're a psycho, and they're a minority, too.

Joe:
It's awkward having a policeman around the house. Friends drop in, a man with a badge answers the door, the temperature drops 20 degrees. You throw a party and that badge gets in the way. All of a sudden, there isn't a straight man in the crowd. Everybody's a comedian. 'Don't drink too much,' somebody says, 'or the man in the badge will run you in.' Or, 'How's it goin' Dick Tracy? How many jaywalkers did you pinch today?' And then there's always the one who wants to know how many apples you stole. All at once, you lost your first name. You're a cop, a flatfoot, a bull, a dick, John Law, you're the Fuzz, the heat, you're poison, you're trouble, you're bad news. They call you everything, but never a policeman. Maybe she's right. It's not much of a life unless you don't mind missing a Dodger game because the "Hotshot phone" rings. Not unless you like working Saturdays, Sundays, holidays at a job that doesn't pay overtime. Oh, the pay's adequate. You count your pennies, you could put your kid through college, but you better plan on seeing Europe on your television set. And then there's your first night on the beat. When you try to arrest a drunken prostitute in a Main Street bar and she rips your new uniform to shreds. You'll buy another one out of your own pocket. And you're going to rub elbows with all the elite: pimps, addicts, thieves, bums, winos, girls who can't keep an address and men who don't care. Liars, cheats, con men, the class of Skid Row. And the heartbreak: underfed kids, beaten kids, molested kids, lost kids, crying kids, homeless kids, hit-and-run kids, broken arm kids, broken leg kids, broken head kids, sick kids, dying kids, dead kids. The old people that nobody wants: the reliefers, the pensioners, the ones who walk the street cold and those who tried to keep warm and died in a three-dollar room with an unvented gas heater. You'll walk your beat and try to pick up the pieces. You have real adventure in your soul, Culver? You better have. Because you're going to do time in a prowl car. Oh, it's gonna be a thrill a minute when you get and "unknown trouble" and hit a backyard at two in the morning, never knowing who you'll meet: a kid with a knife, a pillhead with a gun or two ex-cons with nothing to lose. And you're going to have plenty of time to think. You'll draw duty in a "Lonely Car" with nobody to talk to but your radio. Four years in uniform, you'll have the ability, the experience and maybe the desire to be a detective. If you like to fly by the seat of your pants, this is where you belong. For every crime that's committed, you've got three million suspects to choose from. Most of the time, you'll have few facts and a lot of hunches. You'll run down leads that dead-end on you. You'll work all-night stakeouts that could last a week. You'll do legwork until you're sure you've talked to everyone in the state of California. People who saw it happen, but really didn't. People who insist they did it, but really didn't. People who remember. Those who try to forget. Those who tell the truth. Those who lie. You'll run the files until your eyes ache. And paperwork? You'll fill out a report when you're right, you'll fill out a report when you're wrong, you'll fill one out when you're not sure, you'll fill one out listing your leads, you'll fill one out when you have no leads, you'll make out a report on the reports you've made. You'll write enough words in your lifetime to stock a library. You'll learn to live with doubt, anxiety, frustration. Court decision that tend to hinder, rather than help you: Dorado, Morse, Escobedo, Cahan. You'll learn to live with the district attorney, testifying in court, defense attorneys, prosecuting attorneys, judges, juries, witnesses. And sometimes, you're not going be happy with the outcome. Maybe your girlfriend's right, Culver. But there's also this: there are over 5,000 men in this city who know that being a policeman is an endless, glamourless, thankless job that's gotta be done. I know it, too, and I'm damn glad to be one of them.

Camille:
You got nice eyes...for a cop. [She then blows cigarette smoke in Joe's face]

Joe:
And I bet your mother had a loud bark.

Clayton Fillmore:
How much longer is this going to take, Paul?

Lawyer:
We should have you out on bail in time for lunch.

Clayton Fillmore:
Fine. Alright, Sgt. Friday, lead the way. Don't look so hangdog. How old did you say those two were that you say I hit?

Joe:
The woman was 67; the man was 73.

Clayton Fillmore:
Well, I'm sorry, but it isn't as if they were going to live much longer, anyway. Isn't that right?

Lawyer:
I'd suggest that you don't say anything more, Clay.

Clayton Fillmore:
But it's true. I am sorry.

Joe:
Yeah, well sorry won't bring them back, Fillmore.

Clayton Fillmore:
[sarcastically] The dedicated cop.

Lawyer:
Now you have a right to remain silent, Clay. I advise you to do so.

Joe:
There's no rule against him listening, is there?

Lawyer:
Depends on what you say to him, sergeant.

Joe:
Yeah, well, I'll try to be careful. Fillmore, maybe as far as you're concerned, those two people lived all the life you figure they should. But what gives you the right to end it for them? It really doesn't bother you, does it? You were in a 30 mile zone, you were doing 50, maybe 55 miles an hour. Those two people you hit were knocked 77 feet, six inches down the street from the point of impact. We believe you'd been drinking this time, too. This isn't the first time for you. You got a drunk driving record that goes back to your high school days. Every time, you've beaten it, haven't you? Down the hall there is traffic enforcement division. We've got good laws and they try and enforce them, but they have an impossible job. There are 130 miles of freeway in this city, better than six thousand miles of surface streets. Every ten minutes, there's an accident; every ten minutes, somebody like you tries to kill himself or somebody else. You blew 20 minutes of that time all by yourself. Mister, you killed two human beings; two people who were alive and breathing seconds before you ran 'em down, and you've got the monumental gall to stand here and say they wouldn't have lived much longer. You may be out on bail in a couple of hours, and if so, you take this to lunch with you. Two people are lying over there in the county morgue, and you put 'em there. You were in a hurry the night you killed 'em, you're in a hurry now to see how fast you can forget. I want to wish you a lot of luck. I hope it takes the rest of your life.

[While investigating the murder of a Japanese widow]

Captain Hugh Brown:
You sure about the general location of that Watanabe woman.

Joe:
Mrs. Pound says she lives somewhere near Little Tokyo.

Captain Brown:
If she does, she's wrapped up tighter than a fortune cookie, because we can't find her.

Agatha Edney:
(clutching a Bible) It was His will and His will must be obeyed!

Friday:
How long has Yoder lived here?

Agatha Edney:
Three months now.

Friday:
Why didn't you tell me before he lived here?

Agatha Edney:
Ben Roy is my sister's boy, he is fighting the Devil, he is on parole. He said he is always under suspicion by the police so he hid, to keep fighting the Devil.

Friday:
Kind of looks like he lost, doesn't it.

Police detective:
I hope we didn't burn anything, Joe.

Bill:
No, this was the end of the line, Danny.

Police detective:
You and Gannon must have something the rest of us don't.

Bill:
How do you mean?

Police detective:
You make your cases right in the building, now?

Joe:
No, these two just made a simple mistake.

Police detective:
What's that?

Joe:
They thought they worked here.

Bank robber:
Imagine a stinking broad wiping up the sidewalk with you. That dame's as strong as an ox.

Joe:
Sure, she must weigh at least 120 pounds.

Bank robber:
What is she, a lady wrestler?

Joe:
Linebacker for the Cleveland Browns.

Harvey Forrester:
Lousy, sloppy drunk.

Joe:
Don't knock her, Forrester, she had a good reason to drink.

Harvey Forrester:
And what's that?

Joe:
Being married to you.

Esther Jenkins:
I always carry them (credit cards) with me.

Carl Keegan:
I hope you're not accusing me of taking them.

Joe:
Well, now maybe your name's Esther Jenkins. That's what it says on these credit cards.

Carl Keegan:
You can't do a thing until I talk to my attorney.

Joe:
(Showing her the credit cards) Mrs. Jenkins?

Esther Jenkins:
Yes, those are mine alright.

Bill:
(to Keegan) Alright, put your hands behind your back.

Carl Keegan:
Just a minute. Who do you think you're pushing around?

Joe:
We're not pushing you around, but since you don't seem to know, I'll tell you what your name is. It's Carl Keegan. You killed a realtor by the name of Lily Burnham. Just like you would have this woman (Jenkins) if she'd found out you stole these cards.

Carl Keegan:
You can't prove any of that.

Joe:
Well, we're gonna try.

Carl Keegan:
You made a mistake, and I'm not going to pay for it.

Joe:
You gonna use a credit card?

Friday [to a drug dealer who is trying to pass drugs off as similar in effect to alcohol]:
I'll tell you what I know. I know in fact too many kids that begin with pot end up in heroin, then onto LSD. I know if you drink you suffer a loss of judgment if you drink to excess, but I also know that judgment returns when you sober up. I know, and so do you, that when you flip out on an acid trip you never know when you're gonna slip out again. This is now, Bentley, not a couple of years ago. We've had time now to see and study the effects of LSD. People who haven't had a dose in weeks sail out on another trip, they never know when. The minute they've dropped one acid capsule or ingested it in any way, they bought the farm. They've lost the chance to depend on or even restore that most precious of all inner senses, judgment. And in my way of thinking, without judgment you might as well be dead. Your brain is, so why not the rest of you?

Bentley, the drug dealer:
We were talking about marijuana.

Friday:
We still are; marijuana is the flame, heroin is the fuse, LSD is the bomb. So don't you try to equate liquor with marijuana, mister, not with me. You may sell that jazz to another pothead but not to somebody who spends most of their time holding some sick kid's head while he vomits and retches sitting on a curb stone at four o'clock in the morning. And when his knees get enough starch back in them so he can stand up and empty his pockets, you can bet he'll turn out a stick or two of marijuana. And you can double your money that he'll be holding a sugar cube or a cap or two. So don't you con me with your mind expansion slop, I deal with kids every day. I try to clean up the mess people like you make out of them. I'm the expert here. You're not.

Fat Donna:
[After abandoning her newborn in a trash can] What's going to happen to me?

Joe:
That's up to the court, and your conscience. Or did you throw that away too, while you were at it.

Bill:
Now you're sure you understand your rights?

Lumis:
How many times do you intend to ask me that stupid question?

Joe:
As often as it takes to get an answer.

Lumis:
I have very patiently explained to you gentlemen that I am well aware of my rights to counsel, to remain silent, etc. I also tried to make you understand I consider those rights safeguards for criminals, not for innocent men such as myself. I have nothing to fear from the truth. In my particular case, gentlemen, truth is the best defense. Now then, you have questions to ask me. You DO have questions to ask me, haven't you?

Joe:
That's right, we do, Lumis.

Lumis:
That's Mr. Lumis, Sergeant. Considering the extent to which I'm willing to go to be cooperative, I don't think a little respect, a little common courtesy is too much to expect from a public servant.

Joe:
Alright you, now let's go way back. You want to explain? You try explaining why you copped your mother's funeral money.

Lumis:
My mother's funeral money. It does sound a bit callous, doesn't it?

Bill:
Just a little around the edges.

Lumis:
Well things often do until you know all the facts. I took that money because it was the only way I could make certain of getting something out of the estate. Now brother Charlie was mother's pet, and I had reason to suspect she had written me out of the will. I wasn't guessing gentlemen; she told me a week before she died that she had written me out. What would you have done? I can assure you that my mother's passing over to the other side brought my dear brother far more than the $950 I managed to salvage.

Bill:
You want to tell us about a Mrs. Lumis in Findlay, Ohio.

Lumis:
Oh, sweet girl. I only left her because she became pregnant. It wasn't in our plans.

Joe:
In your plans?

Lumis:
Well, I couldn't afford it. She would have had to stop working, and I simply wasn't up to that sort of financial responsibility. Officer Gannon, I sympathize with your displeasure, and I don't claim to be a saint, but then a saint doesn't have to worry about trying to support a family he can't afford, does he?

Joe:
I suppose you have an excuse for forgery?

Lumis:
You can choose to call it an excuse if you wish. I prefer to say I had my reasons.

Joe:
Such as?

Lumis:
A combination: One, I am cursed with a taste, make that an appetite for the finer things in life. I enjoy French cuisine, and I dare boast I can read a wine list the way most people read the alphabet. Unfortunately, I haven't the knack for earning great sums of money. You know, its the misery of this century that so few of the people who have the fortunes have the taste and genius to know how to appreciate the things money can buy. I don't deny I passed bad checks, but in my defense, I had the very best of reasons. I can assure you that none of those ill-gotten dollars were wasted on the necessities of life. They were spent only on the luxuries.

Bill:
Why'd you marry a second time without getting a divorce from your first wife?

Lumis:
Divorce is the business of lawyers. It's an expensive nuisance for the rest of us. See, Janice was terribly anxious to get married. Now I ask you: If marrying me can make Janice happy, then getting a divorce could only make Maxine unhappy. Could I take a more honorable course than the one I took?

Bill:
What about Doris Tucker?

Lumis:
Oh, I still plan to marry Doris Tucker. As a matter of fact, we have a date tonight, and I can still make it if you haven't too many more questions.

Bill:
What about the honeymoon fund?

Lumis:
What about it?

Bill:
You didn't plan to put it in your pocket?

Lumis:
Oh, I didn't say that, I said I intended to marry Doris Tucker. I don't plan to grow old with her. You saw her: a terribly dull, unattractive girl. Sweet in her way, but hardly anyone's romantic daydream. It would make her happy to marry me and go through life known as Doris Lumis, the woman whose husband once disappeared, rather than Doris Tucker, the girl who wasn't even asked. Now for that favor, and for having dated her these past couple of months, I don't think the honeymoon fund is an unreasonable compensation.

Joe:
All right Lumis, I have just one more question for you.

Lumis:
Well, I think I can guess what it is, but you ask it.

Joe:
This morning, a blind old lady had her house cleaned out. Now would you know anything about that?

Lumis:
Obviously, I did it. Again, to the undiscerning, a clear-cut case of arch-villainy. I called up a moving van, told them my old aunt had passed on, that the family had decided to put her things in storage. They did a good fast job. Of course, there wasn't that much. It's a small house. I sat with Granny in the backyard. They finished that job in less than an hour. I do admire efficiency.

Bill:
What did you plan to do with her things?

Lumis:
Pawn some, sell the rest at auction.

Joe:
Why'd you do it?

Lumis:
Well, I need the money. Besides, she's a nasty old woman, foul-mouthed and ugly. Anyway, her children would see to it that she didn't starve, she'd have a place to sleep. What more does the old crow need? It serves them right.

Joe:
It serves who right, and for what?

Lumis:
It serves them all right for asking Mr. Daniel Lumis to waste his time baby-sitting with the old witch.

Bill:
One last question.

Lumis:
Yes.

Bill:
What's this thing you have about being called "Mister"?

Lumis:
This thing, as you put it, is simple enough to explain. When I was in the Navy, I was an ordinary seaman, and it galled me that I had to call illiterates, who weren't worth a fraction of my value, "Mister", simply because they had the connections and family influence to become officers. Well, I made a vow then and there, that in civilian life, I would always be called "Mister."

Joe:
Well now, it's going to be a little rough on you from here on in, isn't it?

Lumis:
How's that, Friday?

Joe:
Well, where you're headed, there are no "Mister's."

Lumis:
That's so?

Joe:
Just numbers.

The Big High [2.8]:
Chill a good-sized bowl

The Big High [2.8]:
Put one quart of ketchup into the bowl and mix

The Big High [2.8]:
Add one can of red peppers

The Big High [2.8]:
Add one can of hot mustard

The Big High [2.8]:
Add one quart of vinegar

The Big High [2.8]:
Add one pound of peeled and chopped red peppers

The Big High [2.8]:
Add one small jar of oregano

The Big High [2.8]:
Add four of five good-sized cloves of garlic

The Big High [2.8]:
Mix together with an electric mixer

The Big High [2.8]:
Add five chopped Bermuda onions as you mix

The Big High [2.8]:
Add one quart vanilla ice cream

A.I.D. – the Weekend [4.17]:
Spread cream cheese on one slice of pumpernickel

A.I.D. – the Weekend [4.17]:
Spread peanut butter on another slice of pumpernickel

A.I.D. – the Weekend [4.17]:
Crush a clove of garlic and let the juices drip onto the cream cheese

A.I.D. – the Weekend [4.17]:
Place the pumpernickel slice with peanut butter on top of the slice with cream cheese and serve