by the Duke of York
IT IS true that I have declined all opportunity to be interviewed by New York’s Finest. Because this Prince is one perp no NYPD Blue can break.
They would take me to their interrogation room, my hands cuffed behind my back, casually referring to me as a ‘piece of sh*t’ in asides to their hard-bitten colleagues, and my impassive facade would not waver an inch.
Even below the bare bulb in the room itself, as one cop offered me a cigarette and the other told me what ‘the sisters’ would do to my Royal ass in Riker’s Island, my ice-blue gaze would remain steady.
I am no pimp off the streets, low-level stooge in hock to the mob or junkie going through cold turkey. I am – or was, I can’t remember – physically unable to sweat.
With steely resolve, I would repeat only what is required by my Miranda rights: that I am His Royal Highness Prince Andrew, Duke of York, vice admiral of the Royal Navy, and eight in line to the succession of the British throne.
My interrogators would turn away, defeated. Behind the one-way glass their captain will punch his fist into a wall in frustration.
The lead investigator, who I imagine will be called Lieutenant Fisketti and be something of a maverick, would snarl ‘We’re watching you, asshole’ in a pathetic attempt to intimidate me.
Then I would walk away down Fifth Avenue, a spring in my step, just like in the movies. The law unable to touch me even though I’m as guilty as sin.
