The Day Due Process Died
"Sergeant Flaherty! Break
down that door!"
Flaherty blinked, looked
cautiously at his Lieutenant commander, pushed his cap back an inch on his
wrinkled forehead, folded his strong fighting arms, and leaned against the
worn wooden railing leading up the stairs to Sean Murphy’s apartment.
"Not without a warrant, Lieutenant. Maybe you can get one of the other fellows to do it
for you." Flaherty blinked nonchalantly in the direction of the others.
 "Flaherty! I won’t tell you again. Break down that door!"
Flaherty withdrew a cigarette
from his shirt pocket, put it to his lips, flipped open a matchpad with one
hand, folded and lit the paper match with one snap of his fingers, cupped his
burly hands around the tiny flame and lit up – drawing in a great quantity of
smoke and blowing it back in the Lieutenant’s face with an indifferent shrug.
"Can’t make me,
Lieutenant. It’s against regulations. No warrant. No breaking down of citizens’ doors. That's the law, Lieutenant. "
"I’m telling you what
the law is, Flaherty. Knock down that door. That’s an order!"
Flaherty shifted his weight
against the railing and smiled almost imperceptibly.
"I’m warning you,
Flaherty! This isn’t the first time you’ve disobeyed orders."
Flaherty took another deep draw
on the cigarette now hanging at a jaunty angle from his smiling lips and turned
his attention to some boys playing stickball down the street. One of the boys
waved in his direction. Flaherty waved back with an approving smile.
"Thompson!" the
Lieutenant barked at another officer brought in by the alarm from a nearby beat.
"Knock down that door! Use your men. Go to it."
A giant donut-eating man
dressed in baggy blue slacks and heavy cotton
regulation shirt began to move his ponderous mass up the shabby
trash-strewn stairs, signaling for two nearby officers to follow
and lend assistance. The combined weight of the three obedient men soon battered through the door of the small rented home of one New York City citizen
Sean Murphy. The Lieutenant ascended the run-down stairs with her clipboard and ball-point pen ready to take names and make her formal report.
Flaherty leaned on the rail,
watching.
In a moment Lt. Thompson came running down the stairs
muttering, "He’s dead. The old fool is already dead!" She shot
Flaherty a hateful look as she ran past him headed for her squad car and its
radio microphone. It was as if the entire world must learn at once of her
disappointing discovery.
Flaherty removed an ivory
toothpick from his Swiss pocketknife and began to pick his teeth, leaning against the
railing as before, shifting his weight now and then, pushing his cap forward a
bit, pushing it back a moment later. Watching the boys have fun down the street.
Patiently waiting.
Presently the Lieutenant returned to where Flaherty still
leaned against the rail.
"You knew!" the
Lieutenant shot angrily at Flaherty, staring deeply for an answer hidden in the
policeman’s bright blue laughing Irish eyes.
"You already knew. Hang your Irish hide!"
"And hang yours,"
Flaherty thought to himself smugly, as his commanding officer walked majestically back to her squad car and its blue lights flashing wildly in the street.
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