Fri 6 Mar 2009
Recently, at a birthday party, I was introduced to a girl named Miranda. She probably didn’t remark my keen interest in her namesake. “You have the right to remain silent”, I blurted, nearly yelling. She smiled awkwardly, glancing around nervously. “Have you heard about the story of ‘ol Ernesto Arturo Miranda”, I queried, oblivious of my recent social gaff. She hadn’t, so I launched into a historical monologue (as her eyes glazed over.) “One thing you should know”, I told her, “is that Ernesto was a bad man. A very bad man.” But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Ernesto Miranda was an eighth grade drop out with an lengthy criminal history. In March of 1963, he was arrested for the kidnap and rape of a mildly retarded 18-year-old woman at a bus stop. He was taken to a police station where a witness identified him.
At the police station, Ernesto confessed without having been told of his constitutional right to remain silent, and his right to have an attorney present during questioning. He was subsequently found guilty by a jury based on this confession. The case was appealed to the Supreme Court where the court ruled (Miranda v. Arizona, 384 U.S. 436) that Miranda did not understand his right not to incriminate himself or his right to counsel. On this basis, they overturned his conviction. Miranda was retried without his confession introduced as evidence and convicted of a lesser crime. He was sentenced to eleven years, but served only one-third of that time before being paroled in 1972.
After several other returns to prison on other charges, he was stabbed to death during a bar fight in 1976. The suspect was arrested, but he chose to exercise his right to remain silent after being read his Miranda rights. The suspect was released, and no one was ever charged with the murder. Ernesto was just 34.
And that, my friends, is karma. Can’t outrun it. Can’t hide from it.

The American Dream, for many, is to get fabulously wealthy (without working too hard for too long), and then to spend one’s days in a lazy life of luxury. So… how do you know when you’ve arrived? That is,
Natural Russian sable coat (Maximilian at Bloomingdale’s), $225,000, 18% change from 2006
1 oz. Joy Perfume, by Jean Patou, $400, 0%
UPDATE: it’s been five minutes and I’ve already been contacted three times by concerned parties about the nature of this blog post. No, I’m not an alcoholic. It’s my understanding that lighting the rum on fire in a boiling sauce is enough to cook out the alcohol.
American accent quiz