Best 1852 quotes in «crime quotes» category

We live in a world where we don't see the ramifications of what we do to others, because we don't live with them. It would be a whole lot harder for an investment banker to rip off people with subprime mortgages if he actually had to live with the people he was ripping off. If we could see one another's pain and empathize with one another, it would never be worth it to us to commit the crimes in the first place.

Well, if my crime is love, then I am indeed guilty

Well, sir to say that when the impossible has been eliminated, whatever remains, however improbable, is the truth, is to make the assumption, usually justified, that everything that is to be considered has indeed been considered. Let us suppose we have considered ten factors. Nine are clearly impossible. Is the tenth, however improbable, therefore true? What if there were an eleventh factor, and a twelfth, & a thirteenth...

Well, if crime fighters fight crime and fire fighters fight fire, what do freedom fighters fight? They never mention that part to us, do they?

Well, you may abuse me, be angry with me if you like," Porfiry Petrovitch began again, "but I can't resist. Allow me one little question (I know I am troubling you). There is just one little notion I want to express, simply that I may not forget it.

We're all prostitutes sir we're all selling ourselves for something

we should not say that an act offends the common consciousness because it is criminal, but that it is criminal because it offends the common consciousness

We smoked the joints down to the roaches and then relaxed beneath the stars to let the drug form dazzling constellations.

We’ve got DNA tests; we can convict someone by his saliva. Hell, if the killer had farted in that house the forensic team would probably have some gadget that could pick it up. How can the crime scenes be so clean?

We've got our heads pulled low inside of our hooded sweatshirts and our eyes are shifty. We look exactly like you'd expect someone to look if they were minutes away from committing a major crime.

[W]e would do better to treat terrorists as common criminals, people who have broken the laws recognized by all civil societies. To treat them as soldiers is to increase their power, respectability, and commitment.

What a prodigious conscience must that be that can be at quiet within itself whilst it harbors under the same roof, with so agreeing and so calm a society, both the crime and the judge?

What better weapon than the human brain? The human brain was Mrs Twartski's and Wiezenslowski's domain. The children who were used were the castaways of the United States government, like dogs abandoned and a vet's office. Mrs. Twartski read the letter out loud, slowly and carefully enunciating every word in her thick Polish accent. The German scientists were looking for children who could learn quickly, were between ages four and twelve, and could withstand being famished without dying. Deutschland were paying dollar $50,000 per subject. Everyone in living room exactly Mrs. Twartski and all my aunts let out a huge "Ahhh". My sister's and my eyes grew wide because we had no idea what this meant or why the adults were so excited. Then my sister's eyes narrowed as if she knew something that I didn't yet, as if she had just figured something out.

What does that quote mean to you? Can you explain the concept behind it and not just repeat the pretty phrase to me?

What I saw there was my own death.

What makes you think I’d know this woman?’ Hunter knew what he was trying to do. ‘Listen, P-Diddy . . .’ ‘D-King . . .’ ‘Whatever.

What most people see is a badge, behind and beyond the badge is what they need to know...the person.

What is this man ? A ball of wild snakes which seldom have peace together — so they go forth alone and seek prey in the world.

What quantities evil - the amount of blood spilled the body count, the intentional destruction of innocent masses? Regardless of how evil is defined, there will always be those in power to discriminately judge it and their corrupt policing forces that enforce it.

What's the best place to hide a car? In an airport long-term lot. Like where's the best place to hide a grain of sand? On the beach

What's inside is none of your business. Your business is getting it for him and getting it to him.

What you lack in any investigation is time. With every passing hour, evidence slips away. Crime scenes are compromised by people and the elements. Things are moved, altered, smeared, shifted. Organisms rot. Wind blows dust and contaminants. Memories change and fade. As you move away from the event, you move away from the solution.

When a beautiful blonde asks, you don't say no.

When a child disappears, the space she’d occupied is immediately filled with dozens of people. And these people—relatives, friends, police officers, reporters from both TV and print—create a lot of energy and noise, a sense of communal intensity, of fierce and shared dedication to a task. “But amid all that noise, nothing is louder than the silence of the missing child. It’s a silence that’s two and a half to three feet tall, and you feel it at your hip and hear it rising up from the floorboards, shouting to you from corners and crevices and the emotionless face of a doll left on the floor by the bed. “It’s a silence that’s different from the one left at funerals and wakes. The silence of the dead carries with it a sense of finality; it’s a silence you know you must get used to. But the silence of a missing child is not something you want to get used to; you refuse to accept it, and so it screams at you. “The silence of the dead says, Goodbye. “The silence of the missing says, Find me.

When a doctor does go wrong he is the first of criminals.

When a married man sleeps with someone else, it's bigamy, a crime. When a woman does the same, she is independent & it's her choice.

When it comes to politics its not about who is corrupt its about who is been caught, because they all have skeletons in the closet.

When I got home I mixed a stiff one and stood by the open window in the living room and sipped it and listened to the groundswell of traffic on Laurel Canyon Boulevard and looked at the glare of the big angry city hanging over the shoulder of the hills through which the boulevard had been cut. Far off the banshee wail of police or fire sirens rose and fell, never for very long completely silent. Twenty four hours a day somebody is running, somebody else is trying to catch him. Out there in the night of a thousand crimes, people were dying, being maimed, cut by flying glass, crushed against steering wheels or under heavy tires. People were being beaten, robbed, strangled, raped, and murdered. People were hungry, sick; bored, desperate with loneliness or remorse or fear, angry, cruel, feverish, shaken by sobs. A city no worse than others, a city rich and vigorous and full of pride, a city lost and beaten and full of emptiness. It all depends on where you sit and what your own private score is. I didn't have one. I didn't care. I finished the drink and went to bed.

Whenever Elliot Norther’s wife was nervous she baked. With the murder of Harriet Mason, her husband’s close colleague at the Faculty, she had been unable to resist a couple of Victoria sponges. During the frenzied press speculation about the identity of the murderer, a Dundee cake had appeared, followed swiftly by a Battenberg and a Lemon Drizzle. Since news of the Wildencrust murder broke, the kitchen, dining room and study had come to resemble the storerooms of an industrial bakery, every surface heaving with the weight of sponge and cream. Yesterday, having at last been overwhelmed by the fear and rumour that swept the town, she had taken herself off to her mother’s house in Hampstead, leaving her husband to soldier on alone. When he had last seen his wife, Elliot Norther noticed that she had been putting the finishing touches to an impressive, triple-tiered wedding cake, beating a batch of royal icing into a sickly paste.

When I first studied the photographs I could not tell what she looked like or even the color of her hair. All I saw was red.

When John-Joseph Heller's fights became too much of a sure thing, story has it he moved on to more risky fights with grown men and even starved dogs. Though he was scarred often, he was never beaten. But as he brought each opponent to his knees, John-Joseph Heller was also growing up and his vision began to extend further than the ring.

When I started off, I believed that the true determinant of how great I was was through my lifestyle, wardrobe, the type of car I drove, being seen with the right people; and if I made it unscathed, the estates I would own, and how the media would be singing my name like Urbanas’s. I saw my father apologizing for not supporting me. But life is a twisty bastard. When I called it quits on robbery, drugs, hedonism, and paedophilia and most probably necromancy—the ‘scarletest’ of sins according to me—I made a vow never to live a profane life again, not even the most subtle of snares would entrap me. I had seen them all, even in their disguises, and I knew them when I saw them.

When we follow this criminal-justice aspect of our world, and that means of our society, we experience miracles, as they say, on a daily basis.

When people can get away with crimes just because they are wealthy or have the right connections, the scales are tipped against fairness and equality. The weight of corruption then becomes so heavy that it creates a dent that forces the world to become slanted, so much so — that justice just slips off.

When you get to Hell, I'll be sitting in the hot tub waiting.

When we wonder why crime doesn't stop or end. It is because the people who are committing it. We know them very well and we cant expose them. Instead, we protect them, because we benefit from their crime.

When you are in hell, stay awhile, you might just pick up an idea for a sequel...

When you commit a crime to upgrade yourself, your sin becomes a blessing, but your blessing kills you before your time.

When we take something and don’t pay the price for it, we are punished by the world for fraud, crime or corruption. Such punishment gives us pain in proportion to what we have taken illegitimately from the world. However, when we voluntarily refuse to take anything from the world while sharing what we have with it, we get praise and honour in return, and that gives us joy.

When you're in the safety of the future, the past doesn't seem so relevant.

When you're reading a good noir, the shocks and twists have a way of feeling deja vu-like, as if you saw them coming, but hoped the characters would take a left turn... not answer the phone, not sleep with that woman, not sell drugs to those cops... but knew they would. It would have been wrong if they didn't, and the real surprise can be that you care about someone you know is in for hell. You relate to them, even when their hell is so much bigger than your own. But we're all going to die, and we all make mistakes. The best noir stories make you forget plot entirely by giving you characters that feel so well-realised you can't look away as they fall.

When you've been falsely accused of serious crimes as often I have, you learn to recognize the oncoming inevitability of the next one.

While there is a lower class, I am in it. While there is a criminal element, I am of it. While there is a soul in prison, I am not free.

Where's your sense of misadventure?

Where I’m taking you, no one will ever find us. We’ll have all the time in the world for you to grow to love me as much as I love you.

Whoever has the sword will have the earth.

With this choice, I know that I am giving up my career and most of my so-called friends. But, this is something I must do. Finally, I am going to do the right thing for the right reasons and maybe save his life.

Whose Daddy's Little Girl Now?

With him big Phil from Notting Hill an old "face" from the sixties a pin up gangster with a "mars bar" weal scraping his left cheek and of course two "wag" slags in tow trussed up like French Poodles with "Bratz babe" stares and Gucci Handbags

You cannot have a society of angels except in heaven