The LadyKillers

That Hurts By Michael A. Black

 

I’ve been hit in the face… That hurts. I’ve been kicked in the groin… That hurts, too. I’ve been cut with an edged weapon… Yeah, it hurts, although the pain actually came later. And I’ve been shot at a few times. Luckily, they missed, but I have it on good authority that hurts as well, even if you’re wearing a Kevlar vest.

At this stage in my life, pain is my constant companion, due to a life spent in law enforcement and athletic endeavors. Many times, like the time my arm was sliced open, the pain doesn’t come right away. Sometimes your body has a way of muting it, especially in high stress situations. It’s only after things have returned to “normal” that the pain catches up to you, and then it’s usually with a vengeance. Having experienced a lot of things that hurt, it rankles me to no end when I read or see a hero in book, movie, or TV show shrug off the effects of some serious injury as if it were a walk in the park.

A good friend of mine mentioned that he laughed out loud while reading a mystery/thriller by a bestselling author whose protagonist immediately checked himself out of the hospital after being on the wrong end of a severe beating and went looking for the bad guys to settle the score. Take it from me, if he were real, that hero would have had to do his looking in a wheelchair. I suppose a lot of this distortion is a result of authors doing their research by watching television episodes or movies, where the heroes and heroines routinely get clubbed, stabbed, and shot and are still able to shake off any debilitating consequences and save the day. Back in the day I used to wonder how those TV detectives used to get knocked unconscious each week, and never even wake up with a headache. In one episode the redoubtable Harry O was shot in the arm by a sniper with a rifle, and only sustained a small blood stain on his jacket sleeve. I don’t think he even went to the hospital.

What a man!

This unrealistic portrayal of violence in fiction does a disservice not only to the readers who’ve “been there,” but to the general reading (and watching) public as well. In what was originally a well-meaning intention to reduce the depiction of gratuitous violence and bloodshed, these ridiculous scenes ultimately created a false narrative that violence really wasn’t so bad, and that no long lasting effects were experienced by the victims. That’s not correct. Violence has consequences, both physically and psychologically.

While I try not to use excessive or gratuitous violence in my writing, I do try to show that the recovery time is often a long process. In A Final Judgment, my PI protagonist, Ron Shade, sports a pair of “raccoon eyes” for several days as well as a trip to the ER after being in a championship kickboxing fight. And Frank Leal ends up in the hospital in Random Victim after getting into a real knock-down, drag-out battle with a big, ’roided up biker. Even Mack Bolan, the Executioner himself, was wearing bandages after saving the world in the latest adventure I’ve just finished writing. So my advice is to keep it real, and don’t let those fictional heroes off too easily. Besides, it often makes for a more interesting narrative if your protagonist has the deck stacked against him or her.

Hobbies for Characters By Michael A. Black

You have to be careful giving your characters hobbies. If the hobby is something really unique, it can be inimical to the main plot. If it’s something mundane, it can put the reader to sleep. I think I’ve mentioned before that I used to skip the cooking sections in Robert B. Parker’s Spenser series. I suppose it could be argued that working out was also one of Spenser’s hobbies, but I always enjoyed those. It seemed logical that a tough guy like the Boston PI would have to keep in shape. My own private eye, Ron Shade, is also into extensive workout sessions at the gym, but the only time you’ll see him pick up a frying pan is when he’s going to hit someone over the head with it.

Olivia Hart, one of my main characters in my police procedural series, is a female bodybuilder. I did include one scene in the first book in that series, Random Victim, in which she cooks a meal for her partner, Frank Leal. Leal is left feeling hungry a half-hour later, and the meal isn’t even Chinese. She also offers him a unique desert: a sliced apple.

In Pope’s Last Case and Other Stories (soon to be re-released as an e-book by Crossroad Press), my protagonist, Vince Pope, often jokes that his hobby is drinking. Pope is a former PI who married a very rich and socially prominent woman, Laura, and doesn’t need to waste any shoe leather anymore. He does have a hobby of investigating the murders they seem to be coming across, however.

Since I write the Executioner novels under the name of the series original creator, Don Pendleton, I have to abide by Mr. Pendleton’s original concept of the character. Thus, Mack Bolan, the Executioner, doesn’t really have any hobbies, per se. I usually put him on the gun range maintaining his marksmanship skills, or in the gym working on self-defense and keeping in shape. As far as other hobbies, he doesn’t really have the time. His partner, Jack Grimaldi, usually remarks that “it’s hard work saving the world in each book.”

As far as my own hobbies, I enjoy a good workout session at the gym. My running has been a bit limited this past year due to a back injury, but it’s been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. My Uncle Gordon taught me how to carve wood (interlocked chains and a ball in a box). I’ve always enjoyed that, too. Sadly, in recent years I’ve been hard-pressed to find the time to pick up the carving tools. And I love to draw. In my youth, I had the dream of becoming a comic book artist, much to the chagrin of my parents. (I still wish I had all those comics I collected back in the day, but my mom tossed them out.)

I’ll put a pic of some of my carvings as well as a drawing I did for the old-time radio play we did at the last PSWA conference. And I just remembered that Spenser used to do wood carving in the early books, so we seem to have gone full circle in this one.

Hobbies are a great way to unwind, and probably should be included more often than they are in fiction. The selection of a hobby probably tells more about a character’s psyche than a ton of expository prose.

Favorite Food By Michael A. Black

 

Some writers are very adept at putting their favorite foods into their work. Robert B. Parker used to have Spenser cooking a fine meal for his lady love, Susan, all the time. Parker capitalized on this by putting out a Spenser Cook Book, if I remember correctly. For a guy like me, whose idea of eating out is a quick stop at Portillo’s (or In and Out if I’m in Vegas or California), having my characters cook a gourmet meal is about as likely as having them spout off some Latin phrases. I mean, I can cook when I have to, but Chef Boyer Day doesn’t need to feel threatened. I have no problem writing a knock-down, drag-out fight, or a good old fashioned shootout, but describing someone cooking a meal would be way beyond my powers and abilities. Plus, I would find it kind of boring. I used to skip the parts of those Spenser novels detailing his culinary talents.

Now I do have a funny food story that I can relate so this one won’t be a total loss. It dates back to my army days during basic training at good old Fort Polk, Louisiana. As soon as we arrived at the reception station we were told we’d be fed and given a chance to get some sleep. It was late at night when I found myself standing in a line outside the mess hall at parade rest waiting for the sergeant to admit the next group of GIs. We had to call out if we wanted “hard eggs” in advance. There was no choice of over-easy, scrambled, or fried. And you took what you got. But the Army lived up to its pledge of “three hots and a cot.”

A few days later I got my first assignment to KP duty, or “Kitchen Police.” It started at 0400 hours, or four AM. We trudged down to the mess hall in the darkness and reported to the mess sergeant. Little did I know that we wouldn’t be released until 1900 hours that night and we’d have to scrub the entire kitchen area down with soapy water and brooms after every meal. The sarge was a less than jovial sort, and told us that we were having turkey for dinner. After directing us to these large freezers he stooped down and opened one of the drawers. I saw a pair of turkeys sitting on a pan and was amazed at how brown they already looked. The mess sergeant emitted a growling sound, and said, “Get out of here.” As if on cue, the brown turkeys turned white as a hoard of cockroaches fled with incredible speed. The mess sergeant started pulling the turkeys out of the freezer and told me to grab the ones in the next drawer. I opened it and saw all the cockroaches that had fled from the first set of drawers were now residing on the turkeys in this one. The critters repeated their disappearing act, and I didn’t even have to yell. I was amazed at their speed and unity of movement, but after all, this was an army base.

I turned to the mess sergeant and asked if there were other turkeys we should use.

“We’ll start with these,” he said.

“You mean we’re going to use these?” I asked. “But what about all those cockroaches that were on them?”

He grinned. “What the troops don’t know won’t hurt ’em.”

I debated asking about the four of us on KP, who knew better, but I figured it was a good time to keep my mouth shut. He continued with my edification.

“Besides, trainee, you’ll soon find out that the cockroach is a completely edible insect. You don’t even have to cook ’em.” He set one of the turkeys on the counter. “You’d best remember that when you go on bivouac for your POW training.”

A few weeks later I found out what he was talking about, but I managed to refrain from eating any cockroaches. Needless to say, I lost about thirty pounds over the course of those nine weeks.

The Witching Hour By Michael A. Black

 

Traditionally, midnight has usually been designated as the witching hour, but for me it’s always been a bit later. Most nights when I was working the midnight shift, things didn’t start to get wild until a few hours after that. The stroke of midnight itself, except on New Year’s Eve, was generally pretty quiet. The bars were still in full swing, and the serious drinkers were just bellying up to the bar while the amateurs were fading from the festivities.

I used to enjoy grabbing a cup of coffee from one of the all-night donut shops or stop-and-robs, and settle into a strategically located parking lot so I could listen to this program that broadcasted old time radio shows. The shows ranged from comedies (“Fibber McGee and Molly,” “The Bickersons”) to mysteries (“Johnny Dollar,” “The Fat Man,” and “Philip Marlowe, Private Eye”). They ran about thirty minutes in length, and sometimes included some of the original commercials. I’d listen to the chorus chant, “Bromo Seltzer, Bromo Seltzer, Bromo Seltzer…” and wonder what that stuff tasted like.

If it stayed quiet, I’d get to listen to the entire program. If not, I’d have to dump the coffee out the window and respond to some call. Since I was a sergeant I could pick the ones I wanted to respond to, unless we were exceptionally busy or the call was a hot one. One of the things I remembered from Supervisor’s School was if the call was exceptionally dangerous or dirty, a good supervisor will respond to be there with his officers. I always tried to abide by that one.

Normally, the bars didn’t close until three or four in the morning, and that’s when the real witching hour started. The parking lots would swell with the exodos from the liquor establishments and inflated disputes and beer muscles would often lead to trouble. Learning to maintain a conspicuous perimeter presence was usually the best tactic. The trouble spots always made themselves known with a perpetual regularity. Alcohol brings out the worst in people and a good deal of restraint was necessary in dealing with the drunks. It was also a great time to pick up on a DUI.

One of the best deterrents for obnoxious behavior at closing time was making a traffic stop within the vicinity of the problem places. The sight of those emergency lights flashing, an intoxicated motorist being handcuffed and placed in a squad car, and the bright yellow beacons of the approaching tow truck worked wonders at dispersing the crowds. The down side was that processing a DUI arrest took the officers off the street for an hour or so, but running a squad was always like doing a juggling act.

Those late bar closure times were primarily responsible for me coining my now-famous quote, “Nothing good ever happens at three in the morning.” But one other thing was usually in play, too. If we got through that critical time, that witching hour, without anything major happening, the rest of the shift would usually slow down a bit. Then it became a waiting game to beat the clock by staying awake, finishing up all the paperwork, and cruising through those areas of the various beats to make sure the guys were still out there looking for burglars and troublemakers.

My favorite part of working midnights was always the feeling of relief as the sun started to creep up over the eastern horizon. It would begin as a hint of light rising up into the darkness. Before you knew it, the dark sky would begin to lighten, suffused with a pink tincture, which would morph into a yellowish haze as the bright orb of the sun began to raise up silhouetting houses and trees against its brightness. By the time I’d finished the paperwork, reviewed and approved the reports, made sure the prisoners had been properly checked and fed, set up the paper work for the bond hearing, filled out the sergeant’s log, and passed the torch to the supervisor replacing me, the witching hour would be relegated to a distant memory. When I walked out those doors to the parking lot, the sun would be shining, the sky would be blue, and I would be looking forward to going home to hit the sack.

Getting rest was crucial because I knew the next witching hour would be waiting for me down the road that night.

Who Knew? By Michael A. Black

 Who knew?

Who knew what? Who knew whom? Who knew why?

Those are the standard questions we ask ourselves while reading through a mystery novel. From a writer’s standpoint, I usually like to figure these things out before I start writing. I’m what you call a plotter. There’s another type of writer who likes to let the characters lead them through the story and look forward to discovering who knew what and when and why as they forge ahead. These writers are called “pantsers,” because they write by the seat of their pants. Now, while neither technique is “right or wrong,” each has its own advantages and disadvantages.

Pantsers always say how much fun it is to sit down and see where those muses will lead you, and I agree. It is a lot of fun. The characters are usually very engaging because there’s a degree of uncertainly imbued into them. I used to write that way, back when I was a college undergrad. I’d sit down and write that first line, having no idea where it would lead. Soon I’d be enjoying the ride as the characters popped up and the story began to unfold. It usually didn’t take me long, however, to realize that I’d either gone off on a tangent or written myself into a corner. The only way out was to go back and see where I’d gotten off track and toss out all the stuff that developed after that point. One of the nice things about computers is you can always copy this extraneous stuff and put it into a special file that you can call up for another project. But the sad fact remains that if you’re a pantser, you’ll more than likely run into this problem of going off on a tangent. This goes hand in hand with writing yourself into a corner. Remember that old cartoon about the guy who was painting the floor and was making such good progress that he kept backing up until he realized he’d painted away from the only exit and was now stranded against a wall in a small, unpainted section. If you don’t know where you’re going when you start painting, it’s easy to do.

Plotters, on the other hand, do a lot of thinking before they even start writing. Oftentimes, they do an outline, which lays out the story in some sort of fashion. This may be a scene-by-scene chronology, or it may be something as simple as a one sentence description of what happens in that particular chapter. Regardless, outlining is sort of like writing a first draft in your head, and then putting it down on paper. And let me hasten to add that these outlines shouldn’t be chiseled in stone. When I do an outline it always remains flexible. While I usually have the basic structure of the story down, it’s always subject to change if, during the writing journey, I see an interesting possibility pop up. Case in point: I just revised the outline for the project I’m currently working on after realizing the pacing was a tad off. That’s another benefit of having an outline. It shows you how the story is laid out, and if the plot is flagging at any point, you can easily spot it and make the adjustment. They also help you get started each day. When I sit down to start writing in the morning, I merely have to look at my outline to see exactly where I’m at in the story, and know where I have to go in the next scene. No writer’s block there.

It’s been said, erroneously so, that outlines tend to produce works that are rigid and wooden. It’s also said that they stifle creativity. I’ve found both of these statements to be false. As I previously stated, doing an outline is basically writing a first draft and working out the plot. That doesn’t necessarily lend itself to rigidity or woodenness. If you take the time to work out the plot beforehand, and know where you’re going and why, you won’t be writing yourself into a corner as you get near the end asking who and what. I use the simple analogy of a road map. Plan the route you want to take knowing the final destination, and you’ll be a lot less likely to get lost. And if, during the journey, you realize that you want to change the route, you can always do so. You’ll waste less time by planning ahead, and ultimately produce more work. It’ll also give you more time to revise and polish your prose.

Once again, neither process is wrong, although I feel that outlining is superior. However, since writing is an individual endeavor, I always encourage writers to find what fits best for them. It’s also supposed to be fun, so make sure it is. But in the end, it’s up to you when and where you ask yourself, “Who knew?”

Animals in Books by Michael A. Black

I’ve always loved animal stories. One of my cherished childhood memories is my grandmother giving me a comic book version of Jack London’s White Fang. I had a pet dog at the time and imaged him pulling a sled through the snow like the heroic dog in the book. Then somewhere along the line I remember reading a book called Dingo in which a man recounted a tale about a god that had been reincarnated as a man, who remembered all his adventures as a canine. When I was in fifth grade, one of my classmates who lived in my neighborhood was murdered and the teacher bought a copy of King of the Wind, a wonderful horse story by Margarete Henry, and would read a chapter to the class at the end of the day. She wrote a dedication in the inside cover to our departed classmate and placed the book in the library. The next year I took the book out and did a report on it, since I’d already “read” it. It sounds sneaky, but I was really terrified of my sixth grade teacher so I needed all the help I could get. Speaking of help, remember that old Jimmy Stewart movie, Harvey? I could’ve used a six-foot invisible rabbit companion in my grammar school days.

Since animals have always been an important part of my life, it seemed only natural that I’d put them into my fiction. My fictional private detective, Ron Shade, has a couple of pet cats, one of which, Rags, he acquires as a rescue in the second book in the series, Windy City Knights. He ends up taking the animal with him on a job interview with disastrous results. One guy reviewed the book and said Shade was stupid for bringing the cat along, but circumstances dictated that he had little choice. Cats are normally considered a staple of the cozy mystery line, but I’ve always thought my stuff was more hardboiled. However, I also wrote a short story about a polydactyl feline called “Six Toed Ollie.” The story behind that one is a bit less in the tough guy classification, but it does contain a crime of violence that the car helps solve. I’d been approached by an editor to contribute a story to an anthology called Crafty Cat Crimes. The criteria was that the story had to contain a cat and a crime. It sounded easy enough, and I knocked one out, naming it after one of my felines, and it was accepted. About ten months later the editor contacted me and wanted a couple small changes to the story. I told him I’d get to it, and went to work on the afternoon shift. While I happened to be in the station that evening when some citizens brought in a small abandoned kitten. He was coal black and had six toes on both front paws. I figured it was a sign and immediately adopted him. Since I’d already named the cat in the story Ollie, I christened this new one Sammo, and he became my companion and writing partner for many years.

I’ve used dogs in my fiction, too. In my short story, “Inquest,” the hero’s life is saved by a big dog named Feller. He plays an important part in the tale, and was actually based on my cousin’s dog who was part boxer and part German shepherd. I remember reading a movie review of Darker Than Amber years ago in which the reviewer criticized the hero being saved by a dog. All I could think of was, that person probably never had a pet. With the advent of service animals, society has suddenly found out how much an animal can enrich one’s life. I can think of a lot of lives that have been saved by our four-legged friends.

Mentors by Michael A. Black

Thank God for mentors. They’re special people. I’ve been very fortunate in my life to have had many good ones. Looking back, it’s doubtful that I would have made it without them.

Growing up I was fortunate to have the right kinds of friends. My friends and I lived in a close-knit neighborhood, and although one of the kids in my class, who lived across the alley from me, was murdered when we were in the fifth grade, crime was relatively minor. Well, my buddy’s little brother and his friends also found a dead body in a quarry down the street from us. But one of the men who lived across the alley was a police officer, so knowing that pretty much kept us in line. I give my dad a lot of credit for mentoring me and some of the neighborhood kids. He was active in the Boy Scouts, as was the father of another one of my buddies, Mr. Harold Strohm, who took us on our first small craft airplane ride. They were men’s men, and led by example.

I’d like to credit some of my teachers in Grammar school and high school as being mentors as well, but I can’t think of a single one who would be even remotely qualified. My sixth grade teacher literally tore up one of my short stories in front of the entire class. I still remember the furious look on her face as she did it. After school I waited around and fished it out of the garbage. None of them really encouraged me, but in fairness, I was far from an ideal student. During grammar school I was constantly being bullied by my older classmates. Classes were so crowded and disorderly, I remember one instance where the punk who sat in front of me got out of his seat, pinned me in my desk, and head-butted me three times. The teacher was engaged with other students and didn’t even notice. I had a goose egg on the side of my head the size of pair of grapes.

All this bullying led my father to buy me a set of weights and enroll me in judo classes. The dojo was on the south side of Chicago, and I’d credit my first sensei, Gene Wyaka, with being one of my first mentors. Gene took an interest in all of his students. I studied with him for years and won several trophies at tournaments, and gained the self-confidence I needed to begin to fight back. At the end of my freshman year in high school, I was goaded into a fight with a big upperclassman. It was as if all those past transgressions came to the surface. I beat the guy with a fury that I still regret to this day. As I’ve said before, nobody wins a fight.

College came next and once again, only a few my professors could qualify in the mentor department. Most of them were too caught up in their own egos, and cared little about the constant flow of students through their classes. I do treasure the handful of them who took an interest in me and helped me through this rough period in my life. I can think of two, Mary Sue Schriber and James McNeice, who took the time to help me become a better writer. Well, Orville Baker was supportive, too.

After college Uncle Sam came calling… Duty, honor, country… It was in the Army that I learned the true meaning of leadership, “the art of leading and directing men to accomplish the mission,” and brotherhood. I served with numerous NCOs and officers who became my next set of mentors. Their names are imbedded in my memory forever, as we stood shoulder to shoulder together in a foreign land: Captain Brauner, Lieutenant Lynch, Lieutenant Stubenval, Sergeants Mills, Hollshaugher, Duvall, Odin, Welch, Hill, and Howard to name a few. They were all good men who took the time to pass on the fruits of their most valuable experience. As time passed, I was promoted to sergeant and became a mentor for the constant flow of newbies. I took pride in the role and did my best to emulate those who had taught me.

Since I spent my Army years as an MP, it was only natural that I became a cop after my discharge. Once again, I found a camaraderie among the ranks of my fellow officers, and many of my supervisors. (I’m not going to name any of them because I still have close ties to the department) As the years passed, I got promoted to sergeant and it was my turn to become a mentor once again. Helping someone else avoid the mistakes that I’d made was what it was all about. Sharing my experiences, while letting them find their own way, was something that my mentors had done for me.

I could talk here about grad school or the usage of my GI Bill to pick up degrees in criminal justice and Spanish, but I won’t. Dr. Len Jellema, one of the professors I met in my second college experience, turned out to be one of my greatest friends and mentors. He helped show me the way as far as fiction writing.

I’ve had many more mentors as far as my writing goes as well. Writers, especially mystery writers, are a generous lot. The help and advice that some of them gave me helped me develop my style and find my voice. Again, it’s better that I refrain from naming anyone specifically, but they know who they are. I’ve since stepped into the mentoring role to help new writers, and I’ve tried to incorporate the things I’ve learned into the creative writing courses I teach. Hopefully, I’ll be able to continue with some form of the mentoring role. It’s a way to give something back.

News and Next Week: Multitasking

News

• Camille Minichino’s story “The Magnesium Murder” (#12 in the periodic table) is included in the anthology Sleuthing Women II, released September 5. She’s now working on The Aluminum Murder, of course.
• Jean Rabe's novel, The Dead of Night, releases September 15th. It is the second in my Piper Blackwell series. ONE WEEK TO GO, then my second Piper book comes out.
• Ann Parker's next in the Silver Rush series, tentatively titled FALL ON A DYING NOTE, is making a ghostly appearance here and there on the web, such as here and and here, which she finds simultaneously thrilling and terrifying.
• Ellen Kirschman talks with San Mateo County Sheriff Carlos Bolanos about her latest mystery novel, The Fifth Reflection:  Wednesday, 9/13, 6:30 PM at the Downtown Redwood City Library. Put it on your calendar. It will be hot and she's not talking about the weather.
• Margaret Lucke will appear with authors J.J. Lamb and Bette Golden Lamb to celebrate the launch of Margaret's new mystery, Snow Angel, and the Lambs' new medical thriller, Bone Slice. When: Sunday, September 17 at 4 pm. Where: Book Passage, 51 Tamal Vista Blvd, Corte Madera, CA. All are invited.
• Michael A. Black is at the C3 (Crimes, Creatures, and Creativity) Conference in Columbus, Maryland this weekend.
• Priscilla Royal's brain is off in frolick mode. It has disappeared, and she can't be held responsible for anything until it returns. 
• Camille Minichino is plugging away at three classes with a total of 67 students. Anyone have an extra red pencil?

Next Week

Multitasking. First they said it was the only way to survive the information revolution, then they said it eats our brains and leads to poor work product. Which is it, People Who Know Things?  Join us next week as we discuss multitasking while drinking coffee and writing our todo lists. Kind of. Not really. What was I talking about?

Seriously, join us. Every writer knows the pain of multiple deadlines, or the penalty you pay when you sign up for a conference but forget to book the flight, or family and pets who can't QUITE remember what you look like. Join the conversation next week!

Fate or Free Will by Michael A. Black

I usually try to avoid discussions about such things as fate and free will. Fate implies a bit of whimsy that events are somehow predetermined. It’s more of an amusement or superstition than a doctrine. Free will, on the other hand, holds that we have the freedom to make decisions regarding our actions without any external coercion and in accordance with one’s own morality and sense of values. I remember hearing the phrase, “free will,” a lot back in the day when I used spend a lot of time in courtrooms.

One particular day still stands out in my mind. I’d worked a full midnight shift, and had to report back that night for another one. That meant that I had to try to grab some shut-eye during the day, except on this particular day I had my regular monthly court call: Zero nine hundred for misdemeanors and thirteen hundred for traffic and ordinance call. Getting off at eight gave me just enough time to grab something to eat on the way. Then it was a matter of trying to stay awake while playing the waiting game in the courtroom. God help you if you fell asleep in front of the judge. Normally, Hizoner would do his standard spiel to all the defendants when he first got on the bench, and then the call would begin. Bond hearings would go first, and depending on how busy a night it had been, this could last anywhere from forty minutes to an hour. The nine o’clock call would then begin, usually around ten or ten-thirty. This was supposed to proceed in the order that the defendant’s checked in, but that never seemed to work out. Once the judge had gone through the call, he’d take a break. A recess, he called them. The judges would retreat back to their chambers, and the midnight shift coppers would sit there and try to stay awake while the overworked state’s attorneys would confer with the defense attorneys. This was where the deals were made. If things could be worked out, the judge would be notified that everybody was ready, and the call would be resumed. The coppers were required to step up when their cases were called.

I was so beat all I could think of was going home and trying to get a few hours sleep before having to report back to work that night. Falling asleep on duty was as bad as dozing off in court. I was thinking about those wee hours in the dead of night when the volume of calls subsided slightly and a consuming fatigue would wash over you. I was working midnights when I came up with my now famous quote: “Nothing good ever happens at three in the morning.” But I digress. Back to the courtroom. After beginning the “deal roll,” things were proceeding fairly well. The case would be called, the defendant, his attorney, the state’s attorney and the judge would be advised that an agreement had been reached. As part of this process, Hizoner would ask a series of questions, one of which would be phrased, “You are pleading guilty because you are guilty and doing this of your own free will.” Usually, the defendant would answer “Yes,” and plead guilty, and the judge would generally accept the deal after hearing a bit of mitigating background info given by the defense. The state would normally not object or offer anything in rebuttal, sentence would be pronounced, and best of all, the officer would be released. In other words, sleep was only a few plea bargains away.

This particular time, after hearing that a mutual agreement that had been worked out by the state and the defense, the judge went into his standard spiel, saying, “And you are pleading guilty to this charge because you are in fact guilty, and doing this of your own free will?” The defendant shook his head and said, “No, I ain’t guilty.” A stunned silence fell over the proceedings and things came to a screeching halt. The state’s attorney rolled his eyes, the defense attorney looked like somebody’s stomped on his toe, and the judge’s face turned beet red. I smiled to myself and thought about that doctrine of free will.

“Counselor,” the judge said, his tone heavy with irritation. “I’ll call a brief recess while you confer with your client.”

The gavel was banged; the judge left; the attorney ushered his client off to the side; the state’s attorney began reviewing the other cases in his massive court call; and I went back to my uncomfortable seat and tried not to think of those soft pillows, those velvety sheets, the fluffy blankets, or the ticking alarm clock.

When things resumed about ten minutes later, all the players reassembled before the bench and the judge marched back in. “Have we reached an agreement?” Hizoner asked.

“We have, your honor,” the state’s attorney said.

The witnesses were re-sworn and the litanies were repeated. The judge reminded the defendant that he was still under oath, and repeated the long spiel once again. When it came to the “free will” part, the judge paused, motioned for the court reporter to stop recording on her stenographic machine, and said, “I take it, young man, that your attorney has counseled you regarding this matter?” The guy nodded. The judge squinted, looked at the defense attorney, the state’s attorney, and me, and motioned to the court reporter to begin again. He also added in a stentorian tone, “Know that I am not bound by any stipulation to accept the terms of this agreement, should I deem it inappropriate.” In my mind’s eye, I saw that soft pillow being whisked away.

The defendant nodded again, and the judge asked him how he wished to plead. “Guilty, and proud of it, your honor,” he said.

The judge banged his gavel, listened to the terms of the plea bargain, quickly accepted it and pronounced sentence.

I used my own free will to decide to blow off the traffic tickets and ordinance violations court call and headed home to get a few hours sleep before going back in that night. I figured if the brass found out and asked that I’d missed my second court call, I could always blame it on fate instead of free will.

Trends by Michael A. Black

Trends are funny things. They can crop up unexpectedly and stick around for a while, or they can vanish like the wind with no warning. Trying to chase them can be equally perplexing. Usually, if you try to latch onto a popular one, it’ll be over by the time you get your manuscript finished. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you can anticipate one and catch the wave, but other times that’s like trying to catch smoke with your fingers.

Let’s take a look at some trends, both passé and current. Since I’m currently working on a western novel, let’s start with that one. The dime novels of the late 1800’s started this trend, and it continued for over a century. It reached its zenith during the early 1960’s when TV was packed with western shows such as Wagon Train, Bonanza, and Have Gun Will Travel. Western had long dominated the movies as well. Remember High Noon or Rio Grande? (Dean Martin and Ricky Nelson shared a song in that one.) And the western novels of Zane Grey (Riders of the Purple Sage) and Louis L’Amour (Hondo and The Quick and the Dead) were always on the bookshelves. While they’re not the dominant force they once were, the genre is still around today.

Sometimes trends can mutate and piggyback onto a current one. An example of this would be the sword and sandal flicks of the late 1950’s and early 60’s. Movie makers in Europe primarily tapped into Greek mythology and cast the crop of American and British bodybuilders like Steve Reeves and Reg Park as mythological heroes like Hercules and Samson. These movies shared a lot in common with the western genre: a lone hero battling a sinister, powerful villain faces impossible odds and finds the strength to triumph. This could easily describe the western formula as well. Ironically, the sword and sandal trend ran out of gas in the late 1960’s when European directors dropped them in favor of making westerns. Iconic American actor Clint Eastwood, fresh from the Rawhide TV series, traveled to Italy to make the now classic “Dollar” series (A Fistful of Dollars, For a Few Dollars More, and The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly).

Eastwood was on the cusp of the next big trend that supplanted the western dominance when he turned in his cowboy hat and gunbelt for a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world (at that time), and starred in the ground breaking Dirty Harry. This introduced the transfer of the western trend to one of cops and robbers. Hill Street Blues, Hunter, The Rookies, Cagney and Lacey… they subsequently dominated the airwaves for several decades.

Of course, I’d be remiss if I failed to mention another concurrent trend that started in the 60’s and is still going strong: secret agents. Who can forget the line immortalized by Sean Connery in Dr. No when the beautiful woman at the baccarat table asked his name? “Bond. James Bond.” Not only did the Bond films spawn a slew of entertaining imitators (The Man from U.N.C.L.E., Our Man Flint), but it’s still going strong today. Just ask Jason Bourne, if you can find him.

There have been others. There’s the dystopian society trend of those hunger games that leave people with an appetite for more, and the vampires and werewolves who experienced a resurgence a few years ago with the Twilight series. But just like Count Dracula avoiding the coming dawn, those lovable monsters have been supplanted by the walking dead as of late. I hope none of you was working on that vampire vs. the wolfman novel… Well, just put it aside and perhaps you can submit it on their next go-around.

But how do you anticipate a trend? The obvious answer is, it ain’t easy. So the best advice I can offer is don’t try. Stay within the established parameters of the various genres and write the novel that’s taking your attention, and keep in mind that trends are cyclical. What goes around eventually comes around. As we come full circle here, let me remind everyone that at this time I’m working on a western. Will the genre make a comeback? Hard to say, but hopefully, it’ll find a niche and who knows… it might even catch a coming wave.