Suitable for Framing by Edna Buchanan

the curb back out onto the boulevard. A Beach unit had been run off the road near the Coast Guard base and rescue had been summoned.
    â€œDamn, they’ll kill a cop before they’re through!” Rakestraw snatched up the mike, took a deep breath, and drawled in an unnaturally calm and casual voice, “Unit Seven-twenty-four. Think I’m gonna swing by and have a look-see in case the Beach needs assistance.”
    Then he floored it; the car leaped forward with such power that I was glad we’d skipped the coffee.
    â€œThe chase policy,” he explained.
    â€œRight.” Now I understood his oddly passive voice to the dispatcher.
    Talking on the air is like speaking on the record. Taped radio transmissions are the only official documentation of what happens out on the street.
    Miami Beach officers can pursue fleeing felons at high speeds. Miami cops, however, are forbidden to do so in crimes against property. Cops hate it when bad guys get away. The unpopular policy was established after four teenagers ran from police in a stolen car and wiped out in a fiery crash. Instead of reflecting on how they managed to spawn car thieves, the irate parents filed wrongful death actions against the city. They charged that the youngsters would not have crashed if the police hadn’t chased them. They also sued the hapless owner of the stolen car and his insurance company.
    Now Miami cops can engage in hot pursuit only when lives are threatened, such as by shots being fired.
    We raced south on the boulevard, the staccato adrenaline-charged voices of the Beach officers reporting their progress by radio.
    One had to stop and investigate what appeared to be several dozen Haitian boat people wading ashore near Palm Island. At the sight of flashing lights, they had run in all directions.
    The remaining cops were chasing the fleeing cars across the straightaway at speeds exceeding one hundred miles an hour, past Watson Island, still coming west.
    â€œThey’re exiting onto the boulevard, into the city!” a Beach officer shouted.
    â€œHe’s not gonna make it. He’s gonna lose it!” one cried as the fleeing cars hit the exit ramp.
    â€œHe made it! But we lost unit two-fourteen; he hit the barrier! He’s got right-side damage. There goes a tire! Oncoming units use caution, there’s a tire rolling down the westbound right lane!”
    How could teenagers, probably still unlicensed, out-maneuver cops trained in pursuit and combat driving?
    The exit ramp loomed ahead. The oncoming wails of distant sirens merged into stereo with the same sounds on the radio frequency.
    Sirens converged from other directions now, and radio traffic increased: Miami officers advising circumspectly about plans to mosey on by, then jamming pedals to the metal.
    We saw them now, three blocks distant, headlights out. The battering ram, a black 1981 Olds, roared down the ramp, closely followed by a new Grand Marquis that took the curve on two wheels and a skidding Toyota.
    â€œHere they come!” yelled Rakestraw.
    I braced and held on. Wide awake, Bitsy crouched on the floorboard, ears at full alert, tail wagging. I failed to share her elation. If we crash head-on, I thought, my poor mother, whose calls I neglect to return, will not collect a cent. But had I stolen a car, run from the cops, and crashed, she would be able to sue for enough to retire to Barbados.
    The suspects never slowed down. All three cars blew a red stoplight at 13th Street at seventy miles an hour. The Toyota whined like a jet engine as it hurtled straight into Overtown. The battering ram turned north, toward us, and the Grand Marquis fled south. Blue and red lightning flashed, beams bouncing and whirling through the night as half a dozen Beach units careened down the exit ramp, sirens screaming.
    â€œYou hear something?” Rakestraw barked.
    â€œWhat?”
    He snatched the mike. “Seven-twenty-four. I believe I just heard gunshots