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. 

Recap

    I want to join the parade of those who've put out a Year in Review. 

    As with the rest of the community, I lament the shrinking of the short story market. The articles I read speak about the expanded opportunities for shorts. My inbox tells me about contraction. Honestly, I'm not sure where we stand. A flurry of emails marked the last third of the year. Down and Out folded, the first one said. The anthology we'd planned won't be published. We've found a new home, a later message reported. Your story will appear. But expect delays in publication. There has been a pro wrestling quality to this year. The hero looks beaten and down on the mat. He struggles to get his snakeskin boots back under him. Will he get up? I don't know. 

    We're left with uncertainty about the state of publishing for the year to come. That is unfortunate. No one like existential ambiguity. 

    And I'm sorry that a pall hangs over our publishing scene. It clouds what might well be my most exciting writing year ever. 

    In April, Severn River Publishing released my debut novel, The Devil's Kitchen. The second book in the series, The Hidden River, followed in October. Getting a novel into print had been a long sought-after goal. I'm thrilled that the dream came to fruition. 

    Eight new short stories found homes this year in magazines and anthologies, along with one reprint. I better enjoy the moment. My submissions declined in 2025, so my short story numbers may dip in the coming years. 

    One story, "The Kratz Gambit," got short-listed for a Derringer and then subsequently included in The Best Private Eye Stories of the Year. 

    My traveling companion and I ventured out more. Many of the mystery conferences offer a spotlight moment for debut authors. We took advantage of the opportunities. Besides promotion, the conferences offered collateral benefits. I finally had the chance to meet Rob Lopresti and others in person. I appreciate the chance to shake hands with folks who have been helpful to me along my writing journey. I count those meetings among my year's highlights. 

Despite the difficulties, the community of writers was a great source of support. In particular, thanks to Michael and Josh. You weathered the crises when your anthologies suddenly died. You found new homes and brought them back to life. Thank you for your efforts. 

    I appreciate the wider circle of writers as well. Thank you for inviting me to guest blog when I was seeking to promote my books. I appreciate your emails of congratulations and encouragement during the year's high points. Thank you for attending the conference panels and taking the time to say hello. As president of the local Sisters in Crime chapter, I'm grateful for your willingness to volunteer your time and speak at our meetings. Thanks for promptly and graciously answering your emails. 

    And to you writers and your kick-ass stories, thanks for inspiring me to do better. 

    It was an uncertain year. Your support proved to be constant. Please know that I appreciate it. 

    Until next year. 

Lair, Lair

What does it take to make a good secret lair?

For a project I’m working on, I’ve been giving the topic some thought. The appeal of secret lairs seems universal, although the forms may vary. As a child, one of my favorite books was The Secret Hideout by John Peterson. Two brothers, Matt and Sam, find an old book describing the Viking Club. They resurrect the club and locate its hidden hideout. The story was the stuff of childhood dreams.

My traveling companion, on the other hand, leaned more towards The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. It is impossible to calculate how much money has been spent at Home Depot over the years pursuing a fantasy of replicating the garden. 

The secret garden isn't a traditional lair but sometimes my traveling companion gets to make the rules. 

(She also promotes Flavia de Luce's chemistry lab in The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie and subsequent books. I'm not sure it's secret, but no one else is allowed inside Flavia's workspace.)

Lairs come in all forms, though they share common elements. Typically, they are away from civilization. Think Superman's Fortress of Solitude tucked away in the frozen tundra. Isolated and high-tech, the lair provides a sanctuary for the superhero. The Batcave follows this model. I grew up watching the Caped Crusader slide down a fire pole hidden behind the bookcase in Bruce Wayne's study. This seems the second-best reason to have a house lined with walls of shelves.

Secret technology doesn't have to be the sole purpose of a hideout. In The Count of Monte Cristo, we find many of the familiar elements. On a secluded and deserted island off the Tuscan coast, Dantes finds a secret cave. When he gets by the seemingly impenetrable rock blocking the entrance, Dantes is led down a path built from a series of crafted and natural formations. In the back of a dark cave, he discovers a chest filled with unimaginable wealth.

Lairs offer a place to privately display treasure or trophies, a laboratory to craft new and better weapons, and a sanctuary for rest and recovery. The best hideouts have all these elements stashed in a secret location. The surrounding environment is either so tranquil or forbidding that no one suspects what lies beneath the thin outer shell. 

A lair might be a laboratory or a vault. It might even be an entire country, as in Wakanda. Perhaps it’s just a piece of one. If you have a free month, pick up Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand. (Spoiler alert) She describes Galt’s Gulch, an isolated place tucked deep into the mountains. The men of the mind have run away there, striking against the government in the dystopian United States. They hope to prove how desperately the world needs original thinkers. They hide away until society collapsed. According to Wikipedia, Rand based Galt’s Gulch on Ouray, Colorado. If you choose to hide out somewhere, Ouray is a pretty good place.

Secret lairs don’t have to be fancy. The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles retreat to their sewer headquarters when they need to rest, work out, and eat a pizza. But even this subterranean hideout has a laboratory and dojo.

Of course, when I think about writing a secret lair into my story, the archetype will always be James Bond. Every movie had a visual stunner. Blofeld’s headquarters in Spectre had elegant lines and a desert atmosphere. A viewer could compare it with Gustav Graves’s Ice Palace in Die Another Day. It may also hearken to the Fortress of Solitude.   

The contrast is Raoul Silva’s hideout in Skyfall. Silva's lair challenges many of the tropes. It is ugly and crumbling. Still, this abandoned mining island holds a wealth of technology. It creates a potent image of a deteriorating world. The location matches Silva’s decay.

Personally, I like Crab Key. It could be because Dr. No defined the Bond standard. It has everything: a remote location, a tranquil tropical setting, and secrets, including a nuclear reactor. Crab Key established the Bond tropes. I like it. I’m a company guy.

What about you? Do you have a favorite hideout for either heroes or villains?

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BSP: Thanks to all who have helped make the release of The Hidden River, the second book in the Johnson and Nance series, a success. The series publication has been the highlight of my writing this year. I'm also proud to be included in The Best Private Eye Stories of the Year for 2025.

Until next time.

A History Mystery

I like dabbling in historical mysteries. They're some of my favorite stories to read. I especially like the challenge of building a story set in a different time. I like researching enough detail to tell a credible story and finding the hinge fact that brings disparate past characters together and also connects contemporary readers to a historical event.

I think that historical mysteries offer something besides their entertainment value. By shining a light on an earlier era, they remind us that the problems we grapple with are not new. Along the way, the stories may offer a different perspective and teach us things we don't know. Or maybe just help us to better understand things we think we already know. E. L. Doctorow said, "The historian will tell you what happened. The novelist will tell you what it felt like."

If we scribble out a list of themes from contemporary fiction, the list likely includes good versus evil, alienation from society, the struggle to survive, battles against power, corruption, or prejudice, heroism and courage. We find all these themes and more in the historicals. The themes are what connect us to the stories. How people cope with these universal problems has changed very little. A historical tale reminds us that we are not the first. The specific event may change, but the themes remain the same.

Like science fiction, historical storytelling builds worlds. The tales allow a writer to obliquely touch on a contemporary problem. An immigrant story with a MAGA warrior and a border wall may easily polarize readers. The act of choosing sides may detract from the ability of a reader to lose themselves in the story. A historical setting may facilitate an easier consideration of us versus them. We can reflect and consider the contributions of all sides without the baggage of modern labels. The author can touch on issues without being overtly political.

If politics is defined as the acquisition or use of power, then crime fiction writing always seems to be political. The stories deal with upending or restoring order. One value of historical stories is that they allow us to view political questions at arm's length.

How far back must we go before a writer may call a story historical? A standard definition is that the story must be set fifty or mere years in the past and be based on research, rather than autobiographical experience. I prefer a more subjective answer. A story is historical when it deals with a time when the world was markedly different than the present. In our technological era, that shortens the gap. A world without cellphones, door cameras, and a ubiquitous internet feels like a historical period.

In 16^th century England, Dutch and Flemish settlers arrived in Norwich. Cheap, skilled, Protestant workers escaped political and religious oppression in the Catholic Low Countries. Queen Elizabeth authorized the immigration wave motivated by religion and economics. England had sheep; the settlers brought experienced weavers.

The arrivals were known as Elizabethan Strangers, or simply Strangers. They both revitalized and disrupted the local economy. The Strangers brought differing customs and languages. Most residents of Norwich were glad they came. Some were not. Angry residents claimed that the immigrants took jobs rightfully belonging to Norwich citizens. In 1570, there was an unsuccessful revolt against the new arrivals.

For the current Black Cat Mystery Magazine, Michael Bracken compiled an issue of historical stories. Set during World War II, my story, "Masterpiece," deals with the challenges of coping with or combatting France's oppressors during the Nazi occupation. There's not much mystery about who the good and bad guys are in this one. That's usually what happens when you drop Nazis in the mix.

Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine has also kindly included "The Tangled Web They Weave," in the November/December issue. When I began to think about writing a story, immigration questions were headlining the news. I wanted to touch upon the issues.

And because the Strangers were weavers, the story lets me introduce the metaphor of a society as a cloth made from many diverse threads. Stunning in its originality, I know.

The 16^th century historical example does not perfectly align with our modern world. Nor does the story offer a solution to broad immigration or national sovereignty issues. But answering those questions was never the purpose. "The Web They Weave" is a whodunit. If it stimulates anyone to reflect upon the place of immigrants in the United States, that's a bonus.

Until next time.

Old Words

     In the heart of the French Quarter, opposite the rear garden of the St. Louis Cathedral, sits Faulkner House Books. The store is named after William Faulkner, who rented an apartment in the building in 1925. In that space, he began writing his first published novel, Soldier's Pay.

    My traveling companion and I visited the store at 624 Pirate's Alley when we were in New Orleans for Bouchercon. As we neared, a pair of priests with collars askew and bags over their shoulders strolled away from the cathedral. They surprised me. I don't think about priests as coming off shift. But there they were.

    Inside, Faulkner House felt like a time capsule. The store exists in a space not originally designed for retail. It's a small store. Shelves leak into other rooms. Poor lines of sight abound. An oak table doubled as the sales counter. A stack of books had been temporarily moved to make way for a retail transaction. The store really should be encased in amber. 

    You expect to feel ghosts in an establishment like this and, therefore, you do. Outside these doors, hurricanes and plastic beads are the fashion. Tacky T-shirts promote guttural conversation. In here, literary specters silently whisper. They tell you that the muses expect you to aim a little higher. 

    While worshipping at Faulkner House Books, I bumped into a list of lost words that Joe Gillard compiled. These are terms that once occupied a place in English, have been kicked off the varsity, but, perhaps, should be brought back. The words fit the setting. Faulkner House is an ideal place for clinging to an antiquated way of practicing English. What follows are a few examples: 

    • Collywobbles--Stomach pain or sickness resulting from nervous anxiety. 

The current state of publishing has given me a case of the collywobbles. 

    • Fabulosity– An exaggerated statement or story that is entirely made up.

They loved hearing about his vacation adventures although it was all fabulosity. 

    • Honeyfuggle--To compliment or flatter someone to something you want.

We can probably all think of someone who needs to be honeyfuggled. 

    • Pelf--Money, especially when acquired through fraud or deceit.

The critic accepted pelf in exchange for the glowing review. 

    I'm going to stop listing examples. Although I tried to craft sentences outside of a political context, all of the words I selected kept forcing rumination on the state of national affairs. With each term, my spirit sagged. Time to withdraw to a happy place, like Faulkner House Books.

    If you're queasy or merely want to latibulate– hide in a corner– consider taking time for a quick holiday. Visit your local bookstore, especially if it's in an old house with creaky floors and a bready smell. The environment offers a great place to restore the soul. Although you may leave poorer in pocket, I'm convinced you'll depart chirky and gladsome.

Until next time.

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BSP: Last Tuesday, October 21^st, was Publication Day for The Hidden River, the second in my national park series of dual timeline thrillers. This one is set in the Everglades. Thanks to all for your well-wishes and encouragement.

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A Day for Writers and Lawyers

A week from today, my son has a birthday. Around our house, that‘s reason enough to celebrate. For those with a more global perspective, Tuesday, October 14^th, marks the 959^th anniversary of the Battle of Hastings. On this date in 1066, the Norman army, led by William the Conqueror, defeated the forces of King Harold II of England. Harold was killed—shot in the eye with an arrow, according to legend. Shortly thereafter, his troops capitulated. The reign of the Anglo-Saxon kings of England came to an end.

Harold may have been among the last casualties of the Battle of Hastings. Today, however, I should like to consider the first.

The Normans invaded England at Pevensey in East Sussex. No troops lined the shore to oppose him, for Harold's army was in the north of England, repelling an invading Norwegian army. From the landing beach, William marched his men on toward Hastings. Harold raced his troops down from the north to confront this group of invaders. The Anglo-Saxons seized the high ground at Senlac Hill and prepared to fight a defensive battle.

The Carmen de Hastingae Proelio presents the oldest source on the Battle of Hastings, written in 1067 or 1068. On the eve of battle, the Normans were dispirited. Not surprisingly, since they, clad in chain mail, must charge the Saxons’ shield wall uphill. Harold’s infantry waited for them there, his lines braced for the attack by the invaders.

According to the epic, out from the mass of Norman soldiers rode a lone man, Ivo Taillefer, the jongleur, minstrel, or storyteller to William. He positioned himself between the two opposing forces. While astride his horse, he began to juggle his sword, catching and throwing it into the air again and again, while singing the

Song of Roland, a lyrical poem about a heroic French warrior who served under Charlemagne.

A man should suffer greatly for his lord,

Endure both biting cold and sweltering heat

And sacrifice for him both flesh and blood.

Stanza LXXXVIII, line 1117

Incensed by the bravado, a Saxon soldier rushed from the lines to kill the provocative Taillefer. Tailllefer, however, snatched his sword in mid-air and struck down the man. Singlehandedly, the warrior storyteller then charged the English lines. Inspired, the Normans loosed their arrows, and the battle began.

We might pause the story to consider the warrior storyteller, the person who finds battle and literature to be complementary. Their experiences with death, valor, inhumanity, and a community of individuals locked in a common lead some to contemplate the big questions of life.

In that moment, the warrior storyteller became a literary figure himself.

“Taillefer, who sang right well,

Upon a swift horse

Sang before the Duke

Of Charlemagne and of Roland

And of Oliver and their vassals

That died at Roncesvalles."

Wace, Roman de Rou, lines 8013–8019

Taillefer also enriched the lives of storytellers to come. The Norman victory at Hastings was “an event which had a greater effect on the English language than any other in the course of its history,” according to H. R. Lyon.

William the Conqueror’s coronation at Westminster Abbey on Christmas Day, 1066, was voiced in English and Latin. He, however, knew Norman French. From that day, three languages were spoken throughout Britain, gradually melding into one. It is estimated that the Norman conquest added 10-12,000 words to the English language.

A story from the times illustrates the new world in which the conquered English found themselves. In a 12^th century miracle tale, a traveling friar named Brother William met a mute man. Falling to his knees, the infirm man sought a blessing. Brother William laid hands upon the man who suddenly could speak both English and French. The local priest, Brichtric, witnessing the miracle, complained about the unfairness. Brichtric had served the church faithfully for many years, yet he could not understand his French-speaking bishop. This total stranger, however, could now speak to the entire country, knowing both languages. Brichtric wailed at the injustice.

Before William's coronation, the Anglo-Saxons had a single word, kingly, a direct and straightforward expression for the actions of a king. Following the conquest, three synonyms entered the language:

royal, regal, and sovereign. Writers gained the capacity to express shades of meaning with the tools of expanded word choice. Walter Mead illustrates the point, citing a famous example from Time magazine, “Truman slunk from the room to huddle with his cronies,” while “Ike strode from the chamber to confer with his advisers.”

Legal doublets also came into existence. A legal doublet is a standardized phrase consisting of two or more words used frequently in Legal English. Such phrases couple terms that are synonyms. The origin of many doublings can be traced to a French (or Latin) and English word pair to ensure that the reader understood the phrase's significance. Aid and abet and

null and void represent examples of legal doublets.

Whether your goal is to clarify (or obfuscate) a legal document or to craft a story full of shading and nuance, the events of 959 years ago expanded your toolbox like no other event before or since. Raise a glass to Taillefer, the warrior storyteller who started it all. Raise another for Sam, whose birth, nativity, parturition, and delivery came along nine centuries later.

I’ll be traveling on the day that this blog posts. Apologies for failing to reply to comments.