Hearsay, I Say

 

The good folks at Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine have included my story, “Slow Burn,” in the current issue. I’d like to say thanks.

Perhaps more fitting for the story, I'd like someone else to say I said thanks.

There is a brief description of a courtroom scene in “Slow Burn.” The prosecution seeks to admit some evidence, and the criminal defense attorney objects as “hearsay.” That’s it, the section doesn't run more than a sentence or two. Don’t avoid reading the story because you don’t care for legal thrillers. “Slow Burn” isn’t one of those. 

But this blog is legal stuff. Stop now if that's not your jam. I’d like to use today’s space to talk about hearsay evidence. I find the topic interesting. Hearsay is an essential element of criminal evidence. Writers often get it wrong.

Most authorities define hearsay as an out-of-court statement offered for the truth of the matter asserted. To illustrate, assume Abel is on trial for murder. His friend, Bob, takes the witness stand and testifies that Abel told him that he couldn’t have committed the crime because Abel was in Tahiti on the date and time the offense happened.

The prosecutor should object, and the court should prevent Bob from being allowed to testify to what the defendant said to him concerning his whereabouts on the night of the killing.

To be clear, if Bob testified that he and Abel were in Tahiti on the day of the killing, that would be an alibi and a different scenario. Here, however, Bob is saying what Abel told him. He is merely the playback recorder for the statements offered to prove Abel’s innocence. Abel’s statements presented through Bob shouldn’t be admissible as evidence.

The criminal justice system likes confrontation. The system strives to enable the opposing side to conduct a meaningful cross-examination of the declarant, the person making the statement. Legal writer John Henry Wigmore called cross-examination "beyond any doubt the greatest legal engine ever invented for the discovery of truth."

The opposing side doesn't really get to ask the meaty questions if all Bob can say is "that's what he told me."  If Abel wants to give the Tahiti defense, as a defendant, he will have an undeniable right to testify. But he will have to answer the opposing party's questions. And advising the client on that strategic decision is where defense lawyers earn their keep.

Sometimes, a statement like Abel's Tahiti trip comes in for some collateral purpose. Assume for a moment a side issue arises in the case on trial about, whether, on the day he made the statement, Abel was allegedly unconscious or unhinged. The fact that he was able to converse with a friend and speak in complete sentences, regardless of their content, is the pertinent fact. The statements, then, are not actually being offered for their truth, but rather as proof that Abel was capable of making them. Bob, likely, gets to keep testifying under those circumstances. The judge may, however, instruct the jury about the limitations on the use of the evidence.

This is a rare exception. Typically, one side of the case or the other wants the meat of the statements to be admitted. And the opposing side frequently wants to keep them out of the jury's ears. 

The courts have traditionally held that the right to confrontation applies to some out-of-court statements but not to all of them. Where that line gets drawn is a constitutional battleground frequently fought in cases before the United States Supreme Court.

Many of the hearsay exceptions are “firmly rooted.” That’s constitutional speak for old. Without bogging readers down in the minutiae of evidence law, these exceptions became rooted because they were believed to have particularized guarantees of trustworthiness.

An example is a dying declaration. Vicky Victim has been shot. The emergency doctor places the stethoscope to her chest, listens, then shakes his head and says in his best medical terminology, "You're circling the drain, Vicky. Any last words?"

Vicky gasps, “Bob shot me.”

Her heart monitor emits a single unbroken tone.

If Vicky Victim is unavailable for trial, usually because of death, that statement is generally admissible in court. The criminal justice system assumes that people have no incentive to tell a lie when convinced that they are facing imminent death. (This, wise readers recognize, is the weak spot in the analysis. If the dying declaration is swept away, it will likely be because challenges to its inherent credibility highlight the need for confrontation.)

Dying declarations are statements made by someone who believes that they are about to die and relate to the cause or circumstances of the death.

The shorthand rule: If the person says I need a doctor, the statement may not be admissible. But if they say, I need a priest., the better the chances that the statement will be heard in court.

The dying declaration illustrates the general rules for exceptions to the prohibition against hearsay testimony. It's a time-old exception, dying declaration precedents date back to at least the year 1202. John Adams used the dying declaration to help secure an acquittal for one of the British soldiers charged following the Boston Massacre. One of the victims, on his deathbed, told his doctors that the soldiers had been provoked. The dying declaration began and persisted because of a social belief in the inherent trustworthiness of those statements.

In the evolving world of constitutional law, it can’t be predicted whether the dying declaration will continue. 800 years may be long enough. For purposes of a brief exploration, the dying declaration exception illustrates the lens through which to view hearsay exceptions.

Other exceptions include present sense impressions, excited utterances, statements for medical diagnosis, and records of routine business activity. I won't beat you down today with analysis of those. Just remember that they've been around a while and society believes that they are the sort of statements that are foundationally trustworthy. 

As mentioned at the beginning. You don’t need to know the exception to understand the story. The publication of “Slow Burn,” however, provided me with the opportunity to talk about hearsay. I hope the discussion will make your legal writing more informed.

Until next time.

In the end, you make your own luck. Good, bad or indifferent. — Loretta Lynn

           There’s a line from Kismet, a largely forgotten musical, that has stuck with me since I first heard it back in the 60s:  “Fate is a thing without a head.”  It’s a more poetical way of saying luck is luck.  It can be good or bad. 

            I feel like a lucky person.  To feel that way, you have to have had things frequently cut your way, for no reason other than they just did.  It also helps to have some unlucky moments, which provides perspective. 

           In the business world, you often hear “Luck is the intersection of preparation and opportunity.”  I don’t like this cliché very much, because it isn’t very poetic, but it’s essentially true.  I’ve known lots of people who refused to have good luck thrust upon them, then go on to feel put upon by life.  I’ve known others who seem to draw bad luck like Ben Franklin’s key drew lightning.  But those who can recognize good fortune when it appears, in time to exploit it, are the luckiest of all.

I also don’t like how the word privilege is used to scorn people, especially white/middle-class/suburbanite people like me.  It suggests that whatever achievement one may have had, it was all just a gift of social standing.  If that’s the case, I wish it hadn’t come with so much stress, grief, sleepless nights and utter exhaustion.  I prefer to say I had some luck along the way, including in my choice of parents, brother and personal associations.

            And DNA.  Somewhere in those long helical strings resides the compulsion to write.  It started when I discovered words at about four and has continued unabated into old age.  I was a lousy student.  In retrospect, I probably had a raging case of ADHA.  I couldn’t sit still or listen to anyone talking at me for more than a few minutes.  What I could do was write, so my academic career was entirely the result of writing my way out of trouble. 

           

          It got me my first job and every job after that. 

            I’ve known writers who are much luckier than me.  On the list are bestsellers, who don’t appear to be very good writers.  Sometimes quite awful.  They might have gotten started because their aunt ran acquisitions for Random House, but they kept succeeding because there’s a market for what they write.  I don’t begrudge them anything, even if the scales are balanced by a lot of incredibly gifted authors who barely claw their way on to the midlist. 

            It has a lot to do with luck and everyone has their allotment, both good and bad. 

            I could have been born with a gift for hitting baseballs.  This would have made for a much better Little League career, and perhaps a fruitful run with the Boston Red Sox.  But it’s not something with broader applicability.  I could be playing for the Senior Softball League, but that relies on good weather and available playing fields.  And dosing on Advil. 

I could have asked for more musical talent.  Though I’ve been engagingly involved in performing for most of my life, I always feel that the people on stage with me are a lot better at it than I am.  As with luck, good looks or a penchant for picking the right racehorse, musical talent is not evenly distributed across the population.  And wanting it to be so is a waste of emotional energy.   Just ask Salieri. 

When it comes to the talent lottery, I’m happy with writing.  It’s a lot more versatile than almost anything else.   Aside from the novels, TV commercials, corporate brochures, short stories, billboards, feature articles and speeches for the company’s CEO that can sustain ones lifestyle, it helps with angry letters to your congress person, grandchildrens’ birthday cards, anonymous tips to the police hotline and coherent sticky notes.  You can do it your whole life - as long as your brain stays intact - and reap the rewards at every stage. 

            Can’t get any luckier than that. 

Normal and Enjoyable

Watching what’s going on, I’m flabbergasted.

I began this article by writing about some of these things and then realized that the crucial problem is actually people's reactions.

Some people are overwhelmed and stick their heads in the sand because it’s too much.

Some people aren’t overwhelmed - they just haven’t bothered looking.

Some have looked and simply can’t find it within themselves to care.

I've had two different types of conversations lately.

Regarding infectious diseases we put to bed with vaccines but are now on the rise, I've been told that we should just live normal lives. Regarding political events that have increased suffering, I've been told that we should enjoy ourselves.

Of course, we all want to wake up, drink our coffee, chat with whoever is around, go to work, care for our children, hang out with our pets, travel and go to dinner with friends. All that is truly the stuff of life. What makes it enjoyable is liking ourselves - thinking we are good people - and the companionship of people who we care about and who care about us. Without that, we're just an engaging in a bunch of actions with no meaning.

The crux of all that is normal and enjoyable is respect for ourselves and the true companionship of others, all of which depends on empathy; who can see themselves as a good person without empathy and who can have relationships without mutual empathy?

If someone has no empathy for others - unable to put themselves in someone else's shoes and seeing that person as they would their daughter, son, mother, father and not just a stranger who is a data point - then there is no point in listing atrocities. It becomes just a list of things that people don't care about. This is why a very long article became this simple one about our growing lack of empathy.

No empathy? People will argue they have empathy for others - their friends, family, even their pets - they just don't want to look at events around the world. True empathy isn't a choice. If we see a child writhing in pain alone after being hit by a car, turn away, happily go home to our own child to play catch and hug them if they're hurt, then calling ourselves an empathetic person is a low bar.

True empathy isn't a choice - it extends to those who are suffering. Without that empathy to guide us, without empathy to stop the worst of the worst, the number of those suffering will grow and how many of us will care?

The fear of being overwhelmed should pale in the face of fear of what we will become if we turn away. We can look and care, from the comfort of our lives, and not fall apart. 

Give 'Em the Rock and Roll: Irwin Allen, Part 1

Back in the Network Era of television, directors used a particular camera shot to simulate an almighty kinetic shock or battle damage. The camera tilted one way while on cue the actors threw themselves in the opposite direction. Back and forth they went, the actors seeming to tumble--though nary a chair moved or a piece of paper ruffled. Hey, this was the 1960s. No CGI, no virtual artists, just production ingenuity and choreographed camp. 

There is an industry name for that stumble-about shot: the Irwin Allen Rock-and-Roll.

Fifty years after his height of heights, Allen is a surprisingly quiet figure in Hollywood history. Here was a writer-director-producer and film biz insider for decades. The Rock-and-Roll was Allen. If you've ever uttered the phrases "Danger, Will Robinson!" or "Crush, kill, destroy," that was Allen, too. He would come to style himself the "profit of doom," and he wasn't wrong. 

A PROFIT IS BORN

Allen--Irwin Cohen, by birth--grew up in Great Depression New York City. His Plan A was a career in journalism or advertising, but his family couldn't swing the college tuition past one year at Columbia. In 1938, he packed up and moved to Los Angeles, where an industrious young man might had a better shot --and Allen was born a self-promoter extraordinaire. He had brains, charisma, and pure sales guile. 

Allen caught on quickly as a magazine editor and studio publicist. Soon, he'd build a major L.A. literary agency--P.G. Wodehouse was a client--and was matching authors with studios. Allen's punchy gossip column, The Hollywood Merry-Go-Round, dished movie industry dirt in 73 newspapers on Wednesdays and Saturdays. In 1941, he leveraged his contact list to launch a radio quiz show version of his column. It only ran in L.A. and targeted that insider audience--and it was a hit. 

In 1949, he expanded the show to television, in a celebrity panel format. Here, and wisely, Allen sensed his limits. Print and radio were one thing, but television demanded a more versatile and lightning-witted host. He turned to rising talent Steve Allen (no relation) to front the show while Irwin stayed behind the camera to produce.  

This was 1950. Allen was 32. He had presence, instinct, a massive platform, well-placed friends, and all the insider skinny. He'd spent a decade hobnobbing with studio bosses--and watching the bosses lose power to independent producers. In this new game, the independent producer bought rights, commissioned a script, convinced a director and lead actors to sign on, and pitched the package deal to the highest bidder. 

And now Allen had production experience.

ACADEMY AWARDS AND MONITOR LIZARDS

Allen's first packaged sales were a catch-all, a noir picture with Robert Mitchum and comedies with Groucho Marx and Frank Sinatra. With a few projects under his belt, Allen took a shot at directing. A documentary, of all things, but the departure was smart. He wouldn't be directing actors so much as controlling the visuals, and as was his gift, he was on trend. 

The post-WWII years marked a leap forward in ocean exploration. Ships were more capable. Submarines braved deeper depths. This was the Jacques Cousteau heyday, and conservationist Rachel Carlson had written the best-selling and award-winning The Sea Around Us (1953) that captured these new oceanographic insights. Allen bought the rights and put it on the big screen.  His version played up the gore and toned down the poetics, which infuriated Carlson but scored at the box office. 

Independent producers self-financed, and sending film crews out to sea cost a small fortune. Instead, Allen contacted marine organizations and scholars worldwide for their ocean film. In all, he assembled 1.6 million feet of stock footage and edited the contributions down to a 62-minute narrative without ever getting wet. The Sea Around Us won an Oscar. 

Warner Brothers took note. Allen sold them not one but three packages. He delved deep into their stock footage vaults to stitch together The Animal World (1956) and its scenes of grazing herds and hungry lions. For his dinosaur segment, Allen had to be talked out of stationary plastic models and actually animate a dino fight. For his high-concept The Story of Mankind (1957), Allen hired Grade A-actors like Hedy Lamarr, the Marx Brothers, Vincent Price, and Peter Lorre--for one day's work each. Everyone breezed through a key historical figure spliced in around stock footage. The movie revels in thin excess and reached that near-reverent status of delightfully bad cinema.

But it was a spectacle, and Allen was the happy sidewalk barker. 20th Century Fox was looking for spectacles to spice up their summer sci-fi adventure. These were the drive-in years, when the blockbusters got held for winter. Allen sold Fox a three-package deal. First up would be another run at Arthur Conan Doyle's The Lost World (1960). 

The 1925 film version is remembered for its innovations in stop-motion. Fox even brought in that same stop-motion team to create a modernized dino battle royale. Allen, though, had been upsold on dino action before. Too expensive, too much production schedule lost. Instead, he insisted the crew dress up young monitor lizards and alligators as dinosaurs. His lost jungle was stock-footage Brazil, his plot not much more than a premise. The drive-in crowd loved it; critics and city theatres, not so much.

For his part, Allen was playing to the crowd. More importantly, he'd introduced what would become his most winning formula: complicated disaster scenario, large cast getting bumped off one by one, a show for the show's sake.

A FANTASTIC VOYAGE

Allen's follow-up, Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea (1961), leaned into public interest in new super-cool subs and the dawning of the Space Age. A synopsis: Admiral Harriman Nelson and his high-tech submarine battle saboteurs, bureaucrats, and a giant squid to save Earth from the Van Allen Belt caught on fire. Importantly, the Van Allen Belt cannot possibly, under any scenario, catch on fire. It's in space. In an Irwin Allen movie, it's best not to examine the holes. Seriously, icebergs sink. This time, though, Allen crafted an A-ish movie. The Lost World had made Fox a small profit. Voyage's $7 million haul tripled its budget.

Allen was going bigger, bolder. His budget asks grew accordingly, but Fox was getting nervous. They hadn't signed him to swing for the fences. His next film, Five Weeks in a Balloon (1962), proved Fox right to worry. The Jules Verne adaptation only recovered half its $2.4 million cost.  

But television was booming. Fox needed bold, weekly adventures, and Allen had been thinking ahead. When the Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea production wrapped, he'd put the expensive submarine sets in storage for future use. Voyage the television show didn't just have the glow of a recent winner. It had paid-for, movie-grade staging. 

Season one of Voyage (1964) found a solid audience in its ABC Monday night slot. The light sci-fi, Cold War-esque format earned decent reviews. It made money, too, despite Allen's insistence on movie-like production value to match his sets. It was aboard the Seaview that the Rock-and-Roll came alive.

Network execs were listening when Allen pitched his second series. Imagine, Allen told CBS, the Swiss Family Robinson, but as space colonists hopelessly off-course. Such a family could navigate weekly crises and yet manage to grow closer. 

Great, CBS said, until they saw the pilot. Goose the conflict, CBS said, and add more tech. Allen wrote in an antagonist, Dr. Smith, and a talking robot full of warnings. Toss in more impossible science and a lot of production sharing with Voyage, and Lost in Space was born.

Allen's shows clicked with audiences. Until they didn't.

SOCKED

In 1966, Batman hit television as a craze no one expected. Batman ran opposite Lost in Space and quickly stole Allen's prized young viewership. Allen was forced to fight camp with camp. He turned to catchphrases and wackier plots, but that only stemmed the bleeding. 

Voyage also had lost steam. It'd devolved into creature-of-the-week romps, with Allen recycling costumes between his shows to keep costs down. Meanwhile, Lassie was winning the time slot while definitely not battling sea monsters. Then there was the fact that Allen ran the two priciest television sets in town. Voyage was scrapped. Allen wrapped Lost in Space rather than accept the network's cost-cutting demands.

His third series, The Time Tunnel (ABC, 1966), scored an Emmy but not an audience. The fourth, The Land of the Giants (ABC, 1968) set the production budget back $250,000 per episode despite Allen's penchant for stock footage. The network cuts its losses after two seasons.   

Four shows, all respected for their ambition and entertainment value, all quick to develop a cult following, all too expensive for television. 

What Allen needed was another run at the big screen--and his timing couldn't have been better. Audience tastes were shifting back toward event movies, what he dubbed a movie movie. 

Allen's next act had arrived. It would definitely rock and roll.

Thoughts on Finding Time and Space to Write

Ladies and gentlemen of the crime community, we take great pleasure in introducing Mr David Heska Wanbli Weiden. Please give David a warm welcome.

— Leigh

author David Heska Wanbli Weiden
photo by Aslan Chalom

            David Heska Wanbli Weiden

            I am delighted to join the SleuthSayers roster! It’s a pleasure to join writers whom I’ve known for some time and others that I’ve yet to meet. In this introductory post, I thought I’d share some thoughts on publishing and marketing a debut novel (spoiler alert: during a pandemic!) and also on finding space to write one’s second novel, although I hasten to add that no one should take any advice from me on this topic, given that it’s been five (!) years since my debut was published. I am happy to report that the sequel, Wisdom Corner, is forthcoming in 2026, and I also have an edited anthology forthcoming from Akashic Books titled Native Noir.

            By way of background, my debut novel, Winter Counts, was published by Ecco/HarperCollins. It’s the tale of Virgil Wounded Horse, a vigilante on the Rosebud Indian Reservation in South Dakota. I’m an enrolled citizen of the Rosebud Sioux Tribe (known as the Sicangu Lakota nation in our language), and so it’s no surprise that I set the novel there. I wasn’t raised on the reservation, but I spent a great deal of time there growing up, as my mother was born there and our family still has a presence on the rez. Indeed, I “own” three small parcels of land on the reservation, although that land is held in trust by the federal government and is leased to white ranchers, who pay rent for the use of the land (the princely sum I receive ranges from 75 cents to several dollars per annum.)

            I wrote and revised Winter Counts in the period from 2017-2019 and was extremely fortunate to secure representation from a literary agent, the wonderful Michelle Brower, in 2018. On submission, we were lucky to have a number of Big Five imprints interested in the manuscript, and Ecco offered a two-book deal, which we accepted. Publication was set for August 2020, and I excitedly attended to all of the details of publication: copyediting, proofreading, cover design, audio book creation, etc.

            And then the global pandemic happened.

            The Covid-19 years now seem very far away, but it is difficult to understate the impact the virus had on the publishing world in the early stages. My entire book tour was canceled as was every planned event, including a live book launch in my hometown of Denver. Indeed, every brick-and-mortar bookstore in the country had closed, which did not bode well for hand sales of the novel by booksellers. Naturally, I was devastated, as it seemed like all of my hard work was going down the drain. But, people were dying, and I was of course grateful that no one in my family was affected (although I did contract the virus, just weeks before the first vaccine was released) and I mourned for those lost, including a former classmate. The impact of Covid-19 was catastrophic for citizens of my reservation, as there were few opportunities to quarantine on Indigenous lands and many Native nations did not have the resources to purchase medical masks before federal funds began to be distributed. (Jumping ahead of the story a bit: after my novel was released, private book clubs began to ask me to join them virtually; I never charged a fee, but I did request that they donate to the Rosebud Sioux Tribe Covid fund, and I was gratified to raise a fair amount of money for my people to purchase masks and other items.)

         For those of us with books published in the first wave of the pandemic, there were no templates on how to move forward. Given that the usual model of in-person book promotion was not possible, I made the decision that I’d utilize every option offered to discuss the novel. And indeed, that’s exactly what I did. In the year after the book was released, I engaged in nearly two hundred events: virtual bookstore readings, podcasts, virtual festival appearances, radio broadcasts, meetings with private book clubs, print interviews, television appearances, and even an Instagram takeover of the HarperCollins account. I also wrote several dozen blog posts and articles, including an op-ed for the New York Times. I was grateful for these opportunities to talk about the novel and the issues in the book, and my initial awkwardness with video appearances lessened to some degree. Happily, I believe that my work paid off, as the novel was able to attract significant attention in the press as well as dozens of positive and rave reviews. Sales were excellent, and the book made a few bestseller lists as well as receiving twelve awards in the U.S. and England.

            The point here is that book promotion and marketing apparently changed as a result of the pandemic years, and this change may be permanent. I’ve spoken to veteran authors who told me that they never participated in any virtual events before the pandemic, but that these appearances are now standard for them. To be sure, there are some authors who have such a national presence that they can eschew these virtual gatherings, but for most of us, Zoom events are now the norm. For example, about one hundred private book clubs adopted and discussed Winter Counts, and I made a virtual appearance for about half of those. It’s always a pleasure to speak with these enthusiastic readers, but these meetings take time and energy, of course.

         And that brings me to the issue of writing the second novel. I’ll confess that I’ve sometimes felt like a slacker when I observed folks in my writer friend group publishing novels every couple of years (or even more frequently!) But I know that each of us has a different process and different circumstances. Like most, I’ve maintained a day job as well as family responsibilities. Raising teenagers—at least in my house—ensures a steady stream of issues that demand immediate attention. In addition, many of us maintain side jobs and passion projects. In my case, I’ve made it a priority to give back to the Native American and writing communities, engaging in fundraising, mentoring, and various forms of professional service. But these activities also take significant time and attention.

            This brings me to the practical advice on finishing a second book, although I’ll repeat my caveat that I’m not sure I’m the person to advise on this. For me, the most intense bursts of creativity have occurred when I’ve been in attendance at artists’ residencies. I’ve had the exceptional good fortune to be in residence twice at MacDowell, Ucross, and Ragdale, as well as once at the Vermont Studio Center and once as Artist in Residence at Brown University. For those who aren’t aware, these residencies are spaces for artists to work, uninterrupted, in the presence of other creatives. At MacDowell, located in the woods of New Hampshire, each artist is given a cabin or studio in which to work by themselves; lunches are silently dropped off at the front door. In the evenings, a communal meal allows for discussion of work projects and other topics. In 2018, I wrote the final chapters of Winter Counts in two weeks in an intense period of focused creativity in the Garland studio at MacDowell. In the last several years, I’ve worked on Wisdom Corner at other residencies with similar results.

            For those struggling to find time in which to write while juggling family and other responsibilities, artists’ residencies can be a godsend. Many of these residencies charge no fees and some even provide travel stipends. For the best-known residencies, admission is competitive while others are less so. But, despite the benefits of these residencies, I’ve found that there are vanishingly few crime or genre writers at these spaces. It’s tempting to infer that there may be a bias by the judges against genre writers and in favor of literary fiction authors. I can’t definitively answer that question, but I can share at least one data point. For the last two years, I was a judge for a well-known residency (I’m not allowed to say which one), and, in that time period, there were exactly zero crime writers who applied for admission. Perhaps this was just an anomaly, but my sense is that crime and genre writers are either unaware of these residencies or believe that these spaces are not for them. This is most certainly not true! I urge crime and genre writers to apply to these residencies as well as other conferences, festivals, and events. I’ll briefly note that many general writing conferences—such as Tin House, Bread Loaf, and Sewanee—are also frequently overlooked by genre writers.

            I’ll end these thoughts by noting that the landscape of publishing has certainly changed in the last decade for a variety of reasons. Not only the transformations wrought by the pandemic, but the consolidation of publishing as certain presses and imprints have merged or shut down. Many more changes are certainly coming given the economic uncertainty we face. In light of this, it’s in our interest as genre writers to remain aware of these challenges and adapt as necessary. To this end, I’m heartened by the formation of communities such as Crime Writers of Color, Queer Crime Writers, and others. These groups have tirelessly worked to open up spaces for writers previously marginalized from mainstream publishing, a positive development in our ever-changing industry.

Crime Scene Comix Case 2025-07-032, (Not so) Grand Theft Auto

Once again we highlight our criminally favorite cartoonist, Future Thought channel of YouTube. We love the sausage-shaped Shifty, a Minion gone bad.

Yikes! In this Crime Time episode, only one outcome is possible.

 

 

 

 

© www.FutureThought.tv

 

That’s today’s crime cinema. Hope you enjoyed the show. Be sure to visit Future Thought YouTube channel.

Midnight in Europe

NOTE 1

“I want to find whoever invented sex and ask them what they’re working on now.”  James Ellroy

NOTE 2

Tony Lane piece in The New Yorker, firewalled, about Dutch Leonard, the occasion being a new biography, Cooler Than Cool, published by Mariner, and a three-volume set from the Library of America.  Cheap at twice the price.

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2025/07/07/elmore-leonards-perfect-pitch

Cooler Than Cool: The Life and Work of Elmore Leonard

https://www.harpercollins.com/products/cooler-than-cool-c-m-kushins?variant=43113097527330

Library of America

https://www.loa.org/books/writer/206-elmore-leonard/

 

I’ve mentioned in a couple of past columns what an unexpected bonus it is to run across books by favorite writers that you haven’t yet read.  This happened to me recently with a Lehane, and a Leonard, and then I pulled an Alan Furst off the shelf, t’other day, Midnight in Europe, and realized I hadn’t read that one, either.  I’d obviously bought it, and let it slide off my radar.

I should remark that I thought Furst’s books fell off a little, in the middle, but then he came slamming back, the last couple.  I could be wrong, and it was me.  If you’re not familiar with his work, Night Soldiers came out in 1988, and Under Occupation, the fifteenth historical, and most recent, in 2019, so he’s maintained a consistent pace, across thirty years.  You want him to keep them coming. 

The novels are WWII espionage adventures, set in Europe - Occupied Paris more often than not - from the early 1930’s to the collapse of the Axis, in 1945.  They go down some odd and unexplored byways, with the big guns, Germany and Soviet Russia, casting a long shadow, but the characters in the foreground generally cautious about showing their true colors.  Sometimes, in fact, they’re not quite sure.  And neither are we, always.  But the stakes are life-and-death.  The business people are engaged in might seem like small potatoes, in one book, smuggling anti-Fascist newsletters into Italy, but Mussolini’s security police went after the Italian émigré community with ruthless terror tactics – surprisingly, to those later readers who’ve been schooled to think of il Duce as cartoonish.  He established the secret police in 1927, before the Nazis came to power in Germany, and Heinrich Himmler modeled the Gestapo after the Italian version. 

Midnight in Europe is about smuggling guns to the Republicans in Spain, in 1938.  It’s a doomed effort, but the people involved hope otherwise.  This points up two things about Alan Furst’s novels.  The first is dramatic irony.  We know that the Spanish Civil War ended in defeat for the Republicans, we know the Allies beat Hitler.  But at the time, these were unknowns, and unknowable.  The characters in a Furst book don’t know the outcome.  The second thing is that the books, over time, have narrowed their focus.  Night Soldiers covers a wide canvas, from 1934 Bulgaria, to Spain, to Occupied Paris, to a brief coda in postwar New York.  Later books, like Dark Voyage or Spies of the Balkans, are tight and contained, and sometimes too much so, confined, even.  But again, to the people living the immediate story, the events crowding them in are evil sufficient to the day. 

Like the Bernie Gunther novels that Philip Kerr wrote, over a comparable thirty years, the Alan Furst books, loosely connected internally, create a known world, in parallel to a past reality, that seems as authentic and recognizable to us as the world we inhabit. 

Fry and Laurie on the Case

You have no doubt seen plenty of British crime dramas but not the way Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie do them.