Double Dealing

 

    One reason I always liked going to the courthouse was the snippets you'd see or hear while passing down any random hallway. Pick a floor, get off the elevator, and wander. Think of it as trolling for dialogue. 

    Or sometimes it's handed to you. A while back, I was looking at a probable cause affidavit. A PC affidavit, is a document in which a police officer sets out the reasons why the officer believed he lawfully took a defendant into custody. They aren't intended to be works of literature. This one, however, led with the sentence, "I found the defendant, highly intoxicated, standing outside his trailer along with his mother and both his girlfriends." 

    Setting and conflict immediately apparent. I had an opening line that compelled me to keep reading. I wanted to know more about the defendant's double life.   

    Yesterday, while looking up something else, I took an internet detour and discovered the following story about an old trial. In a roundabout way, it reminded me of the affidavit.

    William Brodie lived as a respectable citizen in Edinburgh, Scotland, circa 1786. His grandfathers were lawyers, his father a deacon (president) of the Wrights and Masons Guild. William, as the eldest son, learned his father’s trade: repairing and building cabinets.

William Creech, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

    When his father died, William inherited a tidy fortune and became Deacon Brodie, leader of the Guild. With this position, he also became a member of the Edinburgh City Council.

    Sadly, William possessed an uncontrolled passion for gaming and cockfighting. He kept two mistresses in separate houses where they raised the children they bore him, but were, apparently, unaware of each other. (Here, perhaps, you see the tangential connection to my PC affidavit.)

    His expenses outstripping even his successful business dealings, Deacon Brodie turned to burglary. With access to customers’ houses for his cabinet work, he would make wax impressions of their keys and return at night to steal their possessions. He personified the double life, by day a leading citizen, by night, a cunning thief. His exploits grew, and William added accomplices, including a locksmith, George Smith, an escaped thief, John Brown, and a third man, Andrew Ainslie.

    In March of 1788, he conceived a plan for the big score. He schemed to burglarize the national tax office. The plan, however, failed when, by varying accounts, Brodie fell asleep, or his nerves failed him. He fled to a mistress’s house to establish an alibi.

    One accomplice, Brown, snitched on Smith and Ainslie. Brodie, however, unaware that he had been left out of the confession, skipped the city. Once he ran, all three confessed against him.

    Brodie escaped to Holland but sent letters back to his mistress (not the alibi, the other one). These letters were discovered, traced, and he was arrested. While in Holland, Brodie had been taking forgery lessons and making plans to slip off to America.

    At trial, the prosecutors had a problem. By law at the time, a felon could not give testimony, thereby rendering Brown legally unavailable. The Crown cleared this evidentiary hurdle, however, by pardoning Brown of all crimes. The prosecution also agreed to use Ainslie as a witness and prosecute only Brodie and Smith.

    The trial began on August 27th, 1788. As if Brodie didn't have enough trouble, the presiding judge was Lord Braxfield. In the book Some Old Scots Judges by W. Forbes Gray, published in 1914, Lord Braxfied is described as: 

He came dangerously near being destitute of principle and character.    Unscrupulous, tyrannical, coarse, dissipated, illiterate, he was morally almost    featureless. He had a hard heart, a tainted mind, a cross-grained, domineering    nature, and an uncouth exterior. A noble aspiration or a lofty motive he was    incapable of appreciating. Without faith, without hope, without charity, he moved    continually in a world of sordid interests and ignoble purposes.

    One defense attorney, John Clerk, emboldened himself for final argument by drinking a bottle of claret. He then vigorously attacked “the villain of a witness [Brown] who I tell your lordships is not worth his weight in hemp.

    Against the weight of the accomplice’s testimony, the flight, the letters and evidence obtained from the search of Brodie’s home, a wine-soaked argument proved insufficient. Brodie was found guilty.

    Accounts vary, but as a city father, Brodie had either personally redesigned Edinburgh's gibbet or, at the very least, approved its construction. Either way, it was upon the gallows he helped build that both aspects of his double life came together. William Brodie was hanged on October 1st, 1788. 

Public Domain

 Robert Louis Stevenson found inspiration in the tale of Deacon Brodie’s duplicitous life. Stevenson wove elements of Brodie’s life and nature into his story of a divided human, “The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.” Incidentally, Stevenson’s father owned furniture made by Brodie.

Crime, sex, literature, and law—Deacon Brodie’s case was too cool to ignore. I am therefore making it my Trial of the Month for August.

Dicing a Potato

     The July/August issue of Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine contains my story, "Potatoes Au Rotten." I am always thrilled to learn that one of my tales is appearing in the magazine. Their website says that they've changed print services due to a variety of issues. If you receive a hard copy of the magazine, I hope you get it soon. 

    I'll gratefully wait. As hinted by the title, the story features a reappearance of a series character. He is a private investigator who moonlights as a marketing rep for the Potato Advisory Board. The details of this employment arrangement were explored in some of the early stories, but the short answer is that, unlike his PI clients, the Board's checks always cash, and the corporate job offers better dental insurance. The principal character is forever known simply as the "Spud Stud." With "Potatoes Au Rotten," the kind folks at Hitchcock have published six Spud Stud stories. 

    The email from Hitchcock notifying me of publication got me thinking about the elements that make a good mystery series character. Perhaps I should have thought about the question sooner, but it wouldn't be the first time that I was late to the party. 

    Researching the question proved harder than I thought. I couldn't find a definitive article on the subject, so I compiled the following list gleaned from several sources. As I began the catalog, I immediately started grading my protagonist on a 1-4 scale. (On my phone, I have a potato emoji that looked pretty cool for this analysis. Alas, I couldn't figure out how to move the graphic to the Sleuthsayers blog.) 

Minimal Backstory (2)

    The sources suggest that a good series character needs an easily explainable premise. The character should be capable of being described in a sentence or two. An abbreviated backstory fits the limited space of a short story. 

    The PI/Potato Pitchman requires a few sentences to explain. The set-up takes a bit. I've scored him a 2 on this one. 

A Flexible Social Circle (4)

    For a series to succeed, the sleuth has to encounter a variety of different people presenting an array of problems. 

    After a slow start, the Spud Stud bounces back. He works with food products. Everyone eats. He can meet anyone in the potato retail business. Over the course of the series, he's dealt with grocery store employees, P-listers on the glamorous potato social circuit, and corporate bigwigs. This category earns him a 4. 

A Strong Central Theme (2)

    The Spud's investigations bring order to chaos. He seeks to find truth, bringing him into conflict with those who want to keep it hidden. I want to give my Potato Palladin strong marks on this one, except that these elements are hallmarks of mystery fiction. I've settled on a 2. 

A Baked-in Reason to Encounter Crime (1)

    Successful series characters have a reason why people come to them with their investigative needs. Usually, it's occupation. The Spud Stud is a PI. But the cases in the published stories all arise out of his work as a marketer. Neither the profession nor the location offers a natural locus for crime, so I've scored him a 1. But see the Social Circle thoughts above. Everyone, sooner or later, comes to a grocery store to buy food. Any place people gather, and money is exchanged, offers an opportunity for misdeeds. Perhaps the grocery store as a den of iniquity is under-appreciated. 

A Quirk that Advances Plot (2)

    We all read them. The characters with eidetic memories or super sensitive noses. They draw us in if only to see how the special skill will resolve the current mystery. The Spud is fully versed in the potato varietals sold on the American market. He knows his way around a grocery store. These tidbits of arcane knowledge come in handy, but maybe they're not as cool as knowing the batting average of every baseball card ever read. The Spud Stud scored a 2 here. 

A Distinctive Voice (4)

    The unique way a character expresses himself, shaped by his experiences and personality. The character's voice makes them instantly recognizable. 

    With no false modesty, allow me to state that the Spud Stud may be the leading mystery-solving, potato marketing representative in American short fiction today. The unique position sets him apart from all the world-weary cops and chocolate shop operating librarians who occasionally trip over bodies. His voice is his own. I've given him a 4. 

Conclusion

    The Spud Stud delivered a mixed score. The categories, though, may be useful not only for evaluating my character, but also for thinking about building your own. Constructing a character to carry across several stories means creating someone easy to explain, quick to place at the scene of a crime, and compelling enough to grab a reader's attention. 

    Anything else I should have added to the list? 

Bonus

    Writers often get asked about their sources of inspiration. This story has its roots in an old New Yorker magazine article about Taco Bell's test kitchen. The fast-food chain is not having the best month. This tidbit may help the CEO feel better. 

Until next time

Wedding Words

 

My word count is down this week. In my defense, I’ve been distracted by Independence Day, the World Cup, and celebrity weddings.

Jeff Belmonte Creative Commons

My invitation to Taylor and Travis’s wedding is, I’m sure, lost in the pile of unsorted mail on the dining room table. If they’re reading this, I’d like to publicly apologize for missing the fete. I’m glad it went off without me. I’ve been by Crate and Barrel to buy a gift, but I couldn’t find Kelce or Swift listed in their registry.

In truth, the celebrity wedding I’ve been thinking about was Dua Lipa marrying Callum Turner. She sings. He acts. I confess that I am unfamiliar with either artist’s oeuvre or even their career highlights. What caught my attention was a story describing how they met.

I clicked on a Huffington Post article about the newlywed couple. (It’s one of things I’m prone to do when avoiding work.) In addition to details about their splashy multi-day Italian wedding festival, the story related their first encounter. Turner reports that the pair were seated next to one another at a mutual friend’s birthday dinner. They discovered they were both reading the same book. They had both, in fact, just finished the first chapter.

“So we’re on the same page,” Turner claims to have said to his future wife.

A good line nestled in a charming story—this meet cute could kick off a movie on the Hallmark Channel. (In my fantasy version, they bonded over my book. In truth, the pair were both reading Trust, by Hernán Díaz.)

The HuffPost article went on to discuss the role of reading generally in dating profiles. Reading as a social cue for potential partners is not limited to Turner and Lipa. On a dating profile, when one is seeking a possible connection with similar interests, emotional maturity, and a splash of intelligence, the books people choose may provide some of the best evidence.  The idea—what you read says a lot about you—may not be a startling psychological insight. But it was good to see that reading played an important role in a social media culture. The article felt less like celebrity trivia and more like a validation of life choices.

Apparently, it is not just what people read. The habit of reading is also attractive. As generations become defined by shorter attention spans, the notion that a person can unplug from devices and focus their attention on a three-hundred-page book signals that this potential mate possesses patience and curiosity; quiet markers of desirable traits in a serious relationship. In short, reading can make you hot.

As I mentioned earlier, by reading the piece, I learned that Dua and Callum got hitched. Congratulations and best wishes. But the article’s real benefit to me was that it added to my growing realization of reading as a shared event. I spent most of my reading career thinking of it as a solitary activity. I retired to a quiet space to work through a book on my own. Writing, however, began to reshape my thinking. In his memoir On Writing, Stephen King observes that a character begins in the writer’s mind but is finished in the reader’s. When readers talk with me at book clubs about my stories, I hear the details they’ve filled in about my principal characters. They’ve sometimes taken them places I never imagined. Together, we’ve created something. These discussions helped me realize that readers and writers are participating not in two solitary activities but rather in a single communal experience. As I’ve grown, I view writing/reading less as monologue and more as conversation.

The HuffPost article develops this idea. Books spark dialogue and arouse our brains. They help bring people together. As readers and writers, we help build community. So read a story, then tell someone about it. You never know what might happen next.

The HuffPost article can be found here. The Latest 'Green Flag' For Modern Daters? Reading. | HuffPost Life

 

BSP: Black Cat Weekly ran my story, “An Alien Idea,” in the June 28th issue. My story, “Thou Shalt Knot,” appeared in Boots, BBQ, and Bloodshed, the SINC North Dallas anthology on July 1st. If anyone marries because of these stories, please let me know.

 

Until next time.

A History Mystery

Abraham Lincoln sat behind the counsel table in the Springfield, Illinois courthouse. Beside him, his clients, Archibald and William Trailor, waited anxiously. They would soon, all observers knew, be convicted for the murder of Archibald Fisher. The gallows awaited them both.

The prosecution’s case was simple. William Trailor, from Warren County, Illinois, traveled in May 1841 to Springfield to meet his brothers, Archibald and Henry. All three, described as "sober, retiring and industrious," were joined by William’s housemate Archibald Fisher, a handyman rumored to have saved a fair sum through odd jobs and frugal living.

Arriving in Springfield, they met Archibald Trailor, a carpenter. After lunch, all four walked around town. The three brothers soon separated from Fisher. That night, when Fisher did not return, the brothers searched for him.

The next day, they searched again without success. After another fruitless day, William returned home alone.

The story circulated through Warren County that Fisher had died and willed his fortune to William. The local postmaster notified Springfield of the suspicious circumstances. Within days, all three Trailor brothers were arrested.

After interrogation by the mayor and state attorney general, Henry Trailor confessed. He claimed his brothers killed Fisher and stole his money, admitting to helping hide the body. Despite the town’s efforts, Fisher’s remains were not found. Lincoln later wrote, “[E]xaminations were made of cellars, wells, and pits of all descriptions, where it was thought possible the body might be concealed. All the fresh or tolerably fresh, graves at the grave-yard were pried into, and dead horses and dead dogs were disinterred.”

The mood of the public darkened. Even though the body had not been recovered, it seemed clear that only a speedy trial followed by prompt punishment might avoid a lynching. During pretrial hearings, Henry Trailor repeated his confession. The investigators testified that they found deep buggy tracks and signs that something had been dragged through the grass. The tracks, they reported, ended near a pond, a perfect place to hide a body. Investigators further claimed they found human whiskers on a club near the tracks. Finally, a responsible local woman testified that she had seen two of the Trailor brothers walk into the woods with Fisher. Later, she saw them return from the woods alone.

The crowded courtroom felt hot on the cusp of summer, 1841. The heat must have seemed even more oppressive for the defendants. The weight of the evidence and the ire of the townspeople pressed down on them.  

Lincoln called his sole witness, Dr. Robert Gilmore, a respected physician. Gilmore testified that Fisher had lived with him and, due to a head injury in his youth, was forgetful and prone to wandering. He suggested Fisher likely wandered off and lost track of where he was.

The doctor offered proof to support his theory: Archibald Fisher was still alive and recovering from illness at the doctor’s house. The ailing man had no memory of his time in Springfield and had journeyed all the way to Peoria before recovering his mind.

The charges were dropped and the Trailors released.

The day after the trial, Lincoln wrote to Joshua Speed that “[w]hen the doctor’s statement was first made public, it was amusing to scan and contemplate the countenances and hear the remarks of those who had been actively in search of the dead body: some looked quizzical, some melancholy, and some furiously angry.”

The Trailor trial explores the limits of the criminal justice system. Henry’s testimony followed three days of interrogation, prompting a false confession. This case, from before Miranda rights, should remind us of today’s constitutional protections. Confirmation bias appears—authorities let conclusions drive facts. Finally, “junk science” is evident too: the whiskers were cow hairs, and the pond grass was matted by children playing.  

As a writer’s blog, however, I’d like to focus on the story. Abraham Lincoln penned a fictional tale about the murder trial and published it in the Quincy Whig on April 15, 1846, under the title, “A Remarkable Case of Arrest for Murder”. Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine republished that story in March 1952 as “The Trailor Murder Mystery”. Finally, Otto Penzler included it in The Best American Mystery Stories of the Nineteenth Century (albeit labeling it a curiosity rather than an example of compelling storytelling or distinguished literary style).

Abraham Lincoln, therefore, can rightfully claim to be America’s most famous mystery author. To the list of his accomplishments: rail splitter, lawyer, politician, president, please add crime writer.

Until next time.

------------------

For more information, see Logan and Lincoln by William Townsend in The American Bar Journal, February 1933.

Dogged Pursuit

     Occasionally, a meeting delay can be a good thing. 

    I keep the book, Useless Etymology within easy reach on my desk. I enjoy stories about word origins. I've now and again incorporated a few of them into blogs. Useless Etymology offers short snippets on a variety of words. The book is entertaining and easy to set aside when the other meeting participants sign on to their computers. 

    Last Monday, while I waited for the meeting to kick off, my attention wandered to the backstory for the word, feisty. 

Blackoranges, Public Domain

    I like the imagery evoked by feisty. The Cambridge Dictionary defines the word as "active, forceful, full of determination." For me, it brings to mind a creature who is spunky. Sometimes I get an image of Muffin, the dog down the street that is always ready to defend her property line. At other times I picture an indomitable elderly individual--the kind of character who might get cast in The Thursday Murder Club. 

    Delving into its origins, I learned that in the 19th Century, a feist did, in fact, refer to a small dog. (If you've ever been cussed out by a Pomeranian, you see the connection.) In "The Bear Hunt," a poem composed by Abraham Lincoln, he refers to a feist (although he spelled it fice.)

    Feisty has always been a descriptor for dogs. 

    But here is where the etymology grabbed my attention. Feist comes from the Middle English phrase fysting curre or feisting cur. Most people recognize cur as a synonym for a dog. Feisting means to break wind. (Fizzle has the same root.)

    To be feisty than is to be a stinking, flatulent, little dog. 

    Muffin's mom would be horrified if she knew. 

    Useless Etymology cites an 1811 source that discussed how feist and dog became thoroughly merged. Picture a group of 19th-Century, high-society women sitting in the parlor, sharing tea. Each socialite had a small dog planted on her lap. If someone accidentally broke wind, the dog would be available to assume the gastrointestinal blame. 

    Like many words throughout the English language, the archaic definition of feisty has fallen away. The word became more associated with other characteristics of small-breed dogs and then moved on to other creatures. Still, the next time you're watching ESPN and a commentator describes the underdog team as being feisty, I hope you'll wonder if there is, by chance, an alternative reason why the team can't wait to get out of the locker room and back on the field. 

    Bonus Etymology:

    As a related linguistic tangent, I found aske-fiske, a now-obsolete English term for a fire-tender. It dates from around the 15th Century and literally means ash blower. According to Etymonline, an online etymology source, aske-fiske often described a bellows rather than a human tasked with the job. I'll let you make the connection between flatulence and a bellows. Some war-like Norse clans also used the term for a cowardly fellow who preferred sitting in the corner by the fireplace than pillaging among the neighbors. 

    At last Monday's meeting, the other participants eventually appeared. I started the meeting with a smile on my face. Fortunately, everyone behaved themselves. If someone in the meeting had acted feisty, I might have fallen out of my chair. 

    Until next time. 

Change of Direction

     My turn to blog has circled around again. Originally, I had planned to use this space to talk about Malice Domestic. I'd rhapsodize about the forums I attended, impart the things I'd learned, congratulate the award winners, and, naturally, laud the high-level conversation conducted at the panel in which I participated. 

    The rough draft turned out to be a pretty boring read. Consequently, I've switched directions. 

    The longer I work at writing, the harder it is to find value in the planned events at a conference. Occasionally, I glean a nugget. And I still believe there is merit to an occasional refresher course on the lessons I should already know. But the thunderclaps of insight are becoming increasingly rare. 

    That's not to say that I didn't benefit from attending Malice Domestic. Rather, at this stage, the value I gained was subtle and harder to articulate. I renewed many old friendships, established several new ones, and plotted some future opportunities. None of the details fit well to a column like this.     

    Some months back, Michael Bracken modestly proposed in a SleuthSayers blog post that writing conferences should schedule less time for panels and more time for standing in the hall. The hallway, outside the meeting rooms, he noted, was where the real business got done. 

    More than ever, I found that I concur. But it is hard to talk about afterward. 

    And perhaps, it should be so. 

    The word "hall," according to Etymology Online, comes from the Old English heall, meaning a large space covered by a roof--think Beowulf's great hall or a market hall. The word later morphed into a term for a passageway as a castle's private rooms became separated from the common areas by doors. 

National Archives College Park Public Domain

    The heart of the word heall seems to be the roof. It protected the space from the elements. In some explanations, the roof concealed or shielded the room's occupants. The hall, in its oldest form, was a place of cover, protection, and concealment; it's only fitting that what happens in the hall, therefore, stays in the hall. 

    Fully geeking on the etymology of conference words, I spent a little time researching "panel." 

    Seamstresses and fans of craft cozies shouldn't be surprised to learn that the word panel comes from a French term meaning a piece of cloth, generally a rectangular one. The same root word is used for a glass pane. 

    Sometime around the 15th Century, panel made the jump to refer to those summoned by French authorities to serve as jurors. Once called, jurors' names were inscribed upon a rectangular piece of parchment (cloth). By the late 16th Century, this notion of panel had been diluted to include any group of people who gathered together to advise and consider. 

    And now, a distinguished foursome sitting on a dais behind a cloth-covered table holding forth and sharing their insights has become a panel. But the word remains particularly apt for Malice Domestic, Bouchercon, or any of the other mystery conferences. 

    Remember the original meaning of panel as a rectangular square of cloth? Heavy fabric made a great wall covering. The word panels also developed in that direction. Panels became the term for specific wall or door sections. And it's here that things started to take a dark and nefarious turn. 

    Bordellos and other disreputable places would be outfitted with panels. In these seedy establishments, at least one could be slid back and allow for customers to be robbed, beaten, or possibly killed. By the 19th Century, a panel-house had become slang for a bordello. 

    Panel, therefore, has the twin traditions of an erudite gathering combined with a dash of thievery and bodily harm. 

    Halls and Panels--two words with suggestions of secrecy. Perfect words for a mystery conference. 

    Until next time. 

  
 BSP: Panels do provide a great time to tout new works. Thanks to all who helped me release The Firefall by attending one of the launch events. I appreciate your support. 

Another Round

 

Today marks a milestone in my writing journey. It is Publication Day for The Firefall, the third book in my Johnson and Nance series. As with the first two books, I’m over the moon. For much of my writing life, I wondered if I’d ever have a book published. And today, number three drops.

                The happy coincidence of my regular blog rotation occurring on publication day got me wondering about what I might write to mark the event. I knew what I wanted to say-- Buy my book! Buy my book! --but in a subtle, more indirect way.

                When responding to a short story call, I sometimes type the key words into my search engine and follow random threads. I’ll search for these internet Easter eggs until I land on something that strikes my fancy.

                I tried it. I entered “new book thoughts” into my computer. The search engine processed the request. She knew that I was searching for books on “new thought.” I got long lists of books about positive thinking and envisioning success. I promptly exited. I was positive—I’d had a good day. And I was positive I didn’t want to talk about other people’s books. I wanted to talk about mine.

                Typing in the words, “starting a new book,” led me to YouTube videos about writing books, ads for publishing houses happy to make my book a reality for a small fee, and writer’s software packages to make novel-writing a veritable breeze, complete with a sliding bar to chart my incredible progress.

                Finally, I entered “advice for writing a book.” Various websites broke the mysterious process of novel creation into manageable steps. The number of bite-sized steps varied wildly. One expert chose seven, another twenty-three, and a third settled on thirty-one. The secret sauce for writing, I determined, lay buried in some obscure prime number. That whole search had a Dan Brownesque feel to it. I abandoned it in three steps: point cursor, click, exit.

                I gave up. My reliable technique for shorts failed me. I began to wonder if I’d have anything to say. (Readers may be wondering too at this point.) Fear crept in.

                The Nigerian American writer Uzodinma Iweala said that, “Anybody who tells you they’re not scared when starting a new book project is a very good liar.”

                Perhaps that’s what best describes my emotion today. I have a giant, joyous, celebratory fear. I worry that people may not like The Firefall. I worry that the publisher may lose interest. If they ask for more, I worry that I won’t be able to find something to say. And I love having a book out there in the world that generates all these worries.  

                To combat the fear, I’ve taken the advice of Terry Pratchett. My sons and Rob Lopresti both nudged me to read some of his Discworld books. Pratchett once said that the only writing superstition he had was that he “must start a new book on the same day that I finish the last one, even if it’s just a few notes in a file. I dread not having work in progress.”

                And so, I do. The best way to combat the fears that creep into a void is to avoid the void. I’ll spend a little time today typing on the next book in the series.

                I also take heart from something I read in the foreword to Of Mice and Men. In his journal, Steinbeck wrote:

                “It is strange how this goes on. The struggle to get started. Terrible. It always happens…I am afraid. Among other things I feel that I have put some things over. That the little success of mine is cheating.”

                If a Nobel Laureate can be plagued by bouts of self-doubt, I think it’s okay for the rest of us too. I’ll type something, just to prove I can.  

                And celebrate The Firefall. I’ll spend a little time doing that too.

 *****

                It’s been a good month for writing. Besides the novel, my short story, "Masterpiece," is a finalist for a Derringer Award. That’s an excuse for another round.

 

                Until next time.

A Sleep or A Scrape

As part of an irregular series of blogs looking at notable trials from this month in history, I'd like to enter Mr. Peabody's Wayback Machine. Let's revisit 1845 and the murder trial of Albert Tirrell. Although old, the case offers an opportunity to consider the roles of defense attorneys, prosecutors, and novel defenses. 

Twenty-two-year-old Albert Tirrell was no paragon of virtue. The scion of a wealthy Weymouth, Massachusetts family, he left his wife and two children to maintain a relationship with Maria Bickford, a prostitute living in a Boston brothel. Although they traveled and were constantly together, she refused to abandon her profession. Maria was successful in her work; she could afford a maid and expensive clothing. The relationship between Bickford and Tirrell was described as volatile. Maria reportedly said that she enjoyed quarreling with Albert because they had such a good time making up.  

In September 1845, local authorities charged Albert with adultery for cohabiting with Maria while married. He surrendered, posted a bond, and returned to Maria.

Albert visited her at her disreputable boarding house after her last customer on October 26^th, 1845. Late that evening, the proprietor saw and heard the couple arguing. The next morning, the proprietor and his wife heard a scream and a heavy thud from the upstairs room. They heard someone running down the stairs and out the door. Maria was found on her back, a neck wound nearly cutting off her head. Someone had set fire to the bed on which she lay. At the foot of the bed was a bloody razor. A man's walking stick and vest in the room were found spattered with blood. The landlord also found a letter addressed with the initials, "A.J.T. to M.A.B."

National Police Gazette

At about the same time, Albert Tirrell arrived at a nearby stable and requested a horse. He had gotten into a little scrape, he reported. When the police tried to find Tirrell, they discovered he had fled. From Weymouth, Tirrell traveled through Vermont to Canada. There, he boarded a ship bound for Liverpool. Bad weather forced the ship back to port. He journeyed to New York and booked a boat for New Orleans. He was arrested in Louisiana.

Tirrell hired Rufus Choate to defend him. A protégé of Daniel Webster, Choate is considered one of the great American lawyers of the 19^th Century. An outstanding orator, he was famous for delivering the “longest sentence known to man.” (1,219 words)

The prosecutor presented a strong circumstantial case, relying on the abovementioned facts. The witnesses, however, all resided in the brothel, and no one was beyond impeachment. Additionally, no one witnessed the murder. Still, robust evidence pointed toward Albert Tirrell.

Then Rufus Choate began his defense. His strategy was three-pronged. Maria may have killed herself, the defense argued. Choate’s associates impugned Maria’s character and suggested that suicide was “almost the natural death of persons of her character.” This theory suffered, however, from the violent nature of the injury to her neck. The defense team also presented evidence of Albert’s good character before he was ensnared by the lascivious Maria. Choate suggested another resident of the boardinghouse might have done it. And finally, the defense argued that if Tirrell had killed her, it was while he was sleepwalking.

A parade of friends and family testified to his sleepwalking habit beginning as early as age six. They elicited testimony that the somnambulism had increased in frequency and manifested bizarre behaviors. These episodes, according to his family, included window-smashing and threatening his brother with a knife. The dean of the Harvard Medical School testified that a person in a somnambulistic state could rise, dress, kill, set a fire, and escape.  

It is an essential element of most crimes that the defendant intended to commit the offense. As a society, we criminalize behavior that a person knows or should know is wrong. But if they don't understand, then punishment serves no purpose. Usually, this applies to young children or to the insane.

Harvard Art Museum

On March 27th, 1845, Rufus Choate gave his closing argument to the jury. He began by telling them he did not intend to take up much of their time. He then talked for five hours non-stop. The court recessed for a meal, and when the court resumed, Choate continued for another hour and a half. He spent much of the postprandial argument focused on somnambulism.

The jury deliberated for two hours before acquitting Tirrell.

The strategy worked again when the prosecutor tried to convict Tirrell of arson for setting the room on fire.

Tirrell later wrote to Rufus Choate asking the lawyer to return half his legal fee. He argued that he shouldn't have to pay so much for a case where it had been too easy to persuade the jury of his innocence.

I do not want to leave the blog with the impression that somnambulism serves as a get-out-of-jail card. According to an internet search, the defense has been tried perhaps sixty times. Most of the time, it has not been successful. Sleep scientists say it would not work today; Tirrell's behaviors, especially the flight, cannot be explained by sleepwalking. Even Tirrell did not get away completely. He went to prison for the original adultery charge. The judge refused to dismiss the case and sentenced him to three years.

Besides an interesting fact pattern, the case highlights the roles of the prosecutor and the defense. The government must prove each element. The government needs a clear message to explain the defendant’s actions. It has a problem, even today, when a victim comes from a marginal or ostracized part of the community.

The defense, meanwhile, succeeds when it undermines even one necessary element of the government's case. To do this, sometimes an astute lawyer presents a unified theory; other times, he or she scattershoots. Sometimes, the defense merely picks at the government's case, testing its reliability and challenging the credibility of the witnesses on which it rests. In other cases, the attorney prosecutes the defense—putting forward an alternative theory that explains the evidence and exonerates the client.

Choate tried all of the above. He picked at and maligned the government's evidence. He highlighted matters the prosecutor had not brought up--chiefly an eyewitness. He also put forward several alternatives. Choate's chief theory, the one that keeps the murder case of Albert Tirrell in the public eye, was the defense of somnambulism. A novel defense that in this case worked. 

Albert Tirrell's murder trial is the March Trial of the Month.

Now go get a good night's sleep.

Until next time. 

A Case of Berry Berry

    To paraphrase Garrett Morris's line from an old SNL skit, "John Milton been berry, berry, good to me." Especially since I've never been berry, berry good to him. 

Wikimedia commons, William Faithorn

    

    My knowledge of Paradise Lost, or the rest of the Milton canon, remains sparse. I watched Star Trek growing up. In "Space Seed," Ricard Montalban, playing the character Khan, taught me that it was better to rule in Hell than to serve in Heaven. He then got transported to Ceti Alpha V. Later, watching Animal House at the State Theater, I saw Donald Sutherland play a lecherous English professor. He deployed Milton to seduce Karen Allen.  

    And that, to this day, pretty much represents what I remember about John Milton. 

    

    Ignorance, however, has never stopped me from putting the poet to work. Years ago, I wrote a novella about Milton as a 17th-century sleuth. A blind, housebound poet became a solid stand-in for Nero Wolfe. "A Meter of Murder" won the Black Orchid Novella award and became my first story to be published in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine.  

        

    In January 2024, Hitchcock published "The Devil in the Details," my second effort at mining John Milton. In this contemporary story, a sodden English professor becomes convinced that he sees a how-to manual for committing the perfect murder written into the verses of Paradise Lost. Before writing the story, I should have read the epic. I owed it to Milton. He had become a go-to source for inspiration. Candidly, however, a good search engine can pull the quotes much more quickly. 

    

    I will confess that I was aware of my debt. When we visited London two years ago, I dragged my family to St. Giles-Without-Cripplegate. This Anglican church tucked within the Barbican is the burial place of John Milton. It's an easy church to explore. While the headline churches, like Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's are packed with tourists, we had St. Giles to ourselves. I paused, respectfully, before his statue. I gazed at the memorial beneath the gothic arches of the old church. In this quiet and overlooked space of literary history, I read the walls and learned, belatedly, about the final resting place of, arguably, England's second greatest poet. 

    

    I also read that in the 18th-century, while St. Giles was undergoing repairs; local drunkards stole parts of John Milton's skeleton. Inspiration, again, found me. 

    

    Oh, John, you've been the gift that keeps on giving. 

    

In the January/February issue, Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine published my story, "Paradise Stolen." (I know this blog runs on March 2nd, so it is no longer, technically, the current issue. But my March/April hasn't arrived yet, so I'm fudging.) In the story, I explore this obscure bit of grave robbing. My tale is loosely based on actual events. 

    

    And having completed a Milton trilogy, I may be forced to find another subject for story material. I hope you enjoy this one. It was fun to write. Drinking a pint and munching fish and chips while staring at a classic English church and calling the lunch "research" was pretty cool, too. 

    It's impossible to say with certainty whether John and I are finished. Milton, after all, said that "the mind is its own place..." Sometimes we don't know where it will lead. 

    

    If your tastes run more towards poetry, William Cowper, an 18th-century English poet, got worked to a tizzy over Milton's alcohol-fueled disinterment. He lived and wrote at the time. "On The Late Indecent Liberties Taken With The Remains Of Milton," his poem, expresses his outrage at the desecration. The poem is short; the title is almost as long as the piece itself. I found it at Poetry.com. 

    

    I hope you have a berry, berry good day. 

    

    Until next time. 

Genius

 

Today’s blog may end up sounding like a graduation speech. Blame the research. As frequently happens, while looking for something else, I ran across a fact that distracted me. The result of this detour was that…

We can all lay claim to genius.

The word “genius” has its roots in ancient Latin. The Romans believed that a deity or spirit watched over each person. Sometimes a spirit also protected a particular place, usually the family residence. In my mind, I picture a beneficent Dobby the house elf. I think it’s more accurate to the word origins, however, to equate the deity with what many refer to as their guardian angel. Because the connection between spirit and individual began at a person’s birth, it was called a “genius,” from the Latin verb gignere, meaning ‘to give birth or bring forth’. We more commonly see this Latin root of beginning in words like “genesis” and “genetic”.

The “genius” guided individuals to live into their destiny, be that common or exalted. Of course, we mostly have references to those who were led to greatness.

In the 18th Century, the word "genius" took on its contemporary meaning. Genius, with its divine element, got conflated with ingenium, a related Latin word for innate talent. A natural, god-given talent became our word, genius.

With the publication of The Devil’s Kitchen and The Hidden River last year, book clubs occasionally invite me to come talk to them. Invariably, there are questions from readers about how to write a book. Never forget you’re a genius, I tell them. It’s a line that plays well with listeners. I then explain the classical roots. The etymology suggests that we all have a unique nature. I encourage them to tell their story, tapping into that perspective. They don’t need to set a book in a national park; that’s where my Dobby led me. Instead, they should go to that place where they are guided.

I hope the advice lands; it has personal resonance. A decade ago, I wrote a historical mystery. It was good enough to procure an agent, but it never found a home. While the book was being shopped, my agent recommended that I write another book. This is, I believe, the agent’s answer to all life’s problems—write another book. The one she proposed had several market-driven elements. I wrote it, but I don’t know that my heart was ever in it. Perhaps that was reflected in the prose. To paraphrase David Hume, it fell dead-born, without reaching such distinction as even to excite a murmur…”

In the interim between submission and ultimate surrender, I wrote the draft of a book that eventually became The Devil’s Kitchen. It was a story I wanted to tell, possibly felt destined to write. The writing was more fun and the results more satisfying. Me and my genius and I got the job done.

The satisfying feeling of writing the story you want to tell suggests another derivation from that old Latin root. ‘Genial’, the word meaning friendly or cheerful, arises from that innate or inborn sense of genius.

If  you’ve set a writing goal as a New Year’s resolution, I hope you’re still working toward it. Remember you’re a genius. Go toward that innate destiny, and may it make you cheerful.

Until next time.

Playing Defense

The American legal system had an anniversary last week. The case merits a moment's reflection.

On the night of June 3rd, 1961, someone forced the front door of the Bay Harbor Pool Room in Panama City, Florida. The assailant entered the closed establishment, smashed a cigarette machine and a record player, and stole money from the cash register.

The local police investigated the burglary. An eyewitness, Henry Cook, reported seeing Clarence Earl Gideon at 5:30 am on the morning of the burglary, leaving the pool hall with change in his pocket and a wine bottle and a Coca-Cola in his hands. The police arrested Gideon and charged him with breaking and entering with intent to commit petty larceny. The burglary was a felony under Florida law.

Appearing before the judge without funds or an attorney, Gideon asked the court to appoint counsel for him. The judge ruled:

“Mr. Gideon, I am sorry, but I cannot appoint Counsel to represent you in this case. Under the laws of the State of Florida, the only time the Court can appoint Counsel to represent a Defendant is when that person is charged with a capital offense. I am sorry, but I will have to deny your request to appoint Counsel to defend you in this case.”

Clarence Gideon had an eighth-grade education. He ran away from home while he was in middle school. Drifting through life, Gideon spent time in and out of jail. Forced to represent himself at trial, Gideon did the best he could. He made an opening statement, cross-examined the government’s witnesses, presented witnesses on his own behalf, declined to testify in his own defense, and made a short final argument. Despite his efforts, the jury convicted Gideon. He was sentenced to five years in the state penitentiary. He petitioned the Florida Supreme Court for relief, claiming that his Sixth Amendment rights had been violated. The court denied his habeas corpus plea. Later, from his cell at Raiford State Prison, Clarence Gideon appealed to the United States Supreme Court. The petition, handwritten in pencil on prison stationery, again argued that he had been denied his Sixth Amendment rights and that those rights applied to Florida under the Fourteenth Amendment.

Petitioners flood the US Supreme Court with requests for relief. Rejection is the norm. From the stacks of petitions, however, the Court accepted Clarence Gideon’s crude plea. The justices appointed Abe Fortas, a future member of the US Supreme Court, to argue the case on Gideon’s behalf. On January 15th, 1963, he appeared. (Yep, there’s our anniversary.)

Among other points, Fortas stated the common understanding within the legal community. The first thing a lawyer does when accused of wrongdoing is hire an attorney. If licensed members of the bar need an attorney to represent them in legal proceedings, he argued, how much greater the need for a man without a legal education, or any education?

Eight weeks after the January arguments, the Supreme Court returned its decision. On March 18th, 1963, the court unanimously ruled that an indigent defendant’s right to the assistance of counsel is essential to a fair trial.  They overturned Gideon’s conviction as a violation of the Fourteenth Amendment.

Florida retried Gideon in August 1963. Gideon appeared with his appointed counsel. His lawyer undermined Henry Cook's testimony, suggesting that he had been the lookout for the actual burglars. He also located the cab driver who had driven Gideon from the area that morning. His testimony established that Gideon carried neither a wine bottle nor a Coca-Cola. The second jury acquitted Clarence Earl Gideon.

In the Supreme Court decision, Justice Hugo Black wrote, “reason and reflection, require us to recognize that, in our adversary system of criminal justice, any person haled into court, who is too poor to hire a lawyer, cannot be assured a fair trial unless counsel is provided for him. This seems to us to be an obvious truth.” Sixty years later, we take the right to counsel as automatic. Inside the courthouse, we tend to look a little strangely at defendants who do not exercise their right to counsel.  

The Gideon decision only extended to felony offenses. In 1979, the Supreme Court ruled that a defendant was entitled to counsel whenever incarceration was an authorized penalty. Scott v. Illinois extended the right to misdemeanors above the level of citations.

The case altered the legal and literary landscape. Among other changes, the public defender has become a writing and cinematic trope. The lawyers may be portrayed as heroes, villains, plea-machines, or crusaders. They may be lazy, overburdened, cynical, naive, or zealous. Henry Fonda played Clarence Gideon in the movie, Gideon’s Trumpet. 

From the standpoint of public policy, every taxpayer should be aware of the impact of the Gideon decision on criminal court budgets. Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas is. He criticized Gideon in a 2018 decision, Garza v. Idaho, noting in part the budgetary impact of providing defense counsel. Line-item budget analysis, however, may not account for the full social impact of court appointed attorneys. Humanity suffers if defendants lack representation when accused of a crime. One Clarence might explain those costs to the other.

Until next time.