Cold Hit Quotes

“Good girls keep diaries; bad girls don’t have the time.’ Tallulah Bankhead, by the way.”
― Linda Fairstein, Cold Hit

“Me, I always thought the international art world was for the elegant and elite. Classy, calm, sedate, cultured, I'm tellin' you, there are more lowlifes in this business than all the Hannibal Lecter wanna-bes in the world.”
― Linda Fairstein, Cold Hit

“There were days when my colleagues and I were sure there was nothing left that one human being could do to another that could shock us. And then, without fail, something else came along to prove us wrong”
― Linda Fairstein, Cold Hit

“The Internet was creating more opportunities for perverts than most of us had imagined, and law enforcement agencies were less aggressive than the cyber-geeks in coming up with solutions”
― Linda Fairstein, Cold Hit

“I'm telling you, the lunatics are really running the asylum when it comes to the criminal courts”
― Linda Fairstein, Cold Hit

“Mike ignored me and walked off. I understood the dynamic and knew that, as close as the three of us were, I was an outsider in these circumstances. The fraternity of police officers who put their lives on the line every day for the rest of us circles the wagons pretty tightly when one of their own is harmed”
― Linda Fairstein, Cold Hit

“The truth is so rare, Alex. I like to use it sparingly”
― Linda Fairstein, Cold Hit

“Maybe Chapman wasn't entirely crazy - live fast, die young, and be a good-looking corpse”
― Linda Fairstein, Cold Hit

“There isn't anyone in the business," he went on, "who hasn't been accused of selling a forged piece, by accident or design, over the years. And then there's the current brouhaha in the auction houses, with the government charging sellers with rigging the bids to knock up the prices. On the surface, gentlemen, it's a world of exquisite beauty and refinement. But it's every bit as filthy and cutthroat as any other commercial enterprise, as soon as you get beneath the top layer of gouache”
― Linda Fairstein, Cold Hit

“It was after eight o'clock, and all I could see of the sun was its gleaming crown as it slipped behind the row of steep cliffs, giving off an iridescent pink haze that signaled the end of a long August day. Brackish gray water swirled and broke against the large rocks that edged the mound of dirt on which I stood, spitting up at my ankles as I stared out to the west at the Palisades. The pleats of my white linen skirt, which had seemed so cool and weightless as I moved about the air-conditioned courtroom all afternoon, were plastered against my thighs by the humidity, and I swatted off the mosquitoes as they searched for a place to land on my forearms”
― Linda Fairstein, Cold Hit