"One more thing. Mr. Bangston has a paper for you to sign. It trades your silence about all conversations between us and any and all information concerning our research project that you might have learned in exchange for the squashing of a warrant for your arrest for terroristic activities against a DOD facility—firing eight rounds of 9mm at security guards. That would be a major felony, and we know the federal judges really well. There might be a warrant for Mr. Behane as well, but his quiet recovery would be reward enough for us."
Bangston stood and held out a paper for Bubba to read and sign. It seemed to cover every conversation that Bubba could ever remember having with anyone, anywhere, at anytime, about anything. He signed. No one offered to shake hands before they left.
Bubba walked out to the nurses’ station and told the RN that Mr. Behane might be suffering from Lyme disease, he'd gotten into some ticks up north. The nurse said thanks, they could start on that quickly, if he weren't allergic to penicillin.
Bubba left. He headed for home. He decided that Mickey Behane could find his own way from Orlando Airport to Bartow County Hospital. Remuneration ought to be able to cover that. He'd done more than he'd planned. Tim would stay on his land or not. Anyway, what was one immigrant, more or less, to Florida? They were thick as fleas anyway.
Copyright © 2006 Mitch Alderman
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REEL CRIME by STEVE HOCKENSMITH
No one loves a cliché more than Hollywood. So perhaps it's fitting that success in the entertainment industry so often hinges on an old saw: “It's not what you know, it's who you know.” Or translated for twenty-first century Tinseltown, “Brains shmains. Your uncle's a production exec at Paramount? Welcome aboard!"
The HBO crime drama The Wire went the who-you-know route when recruiting many of its writers. But no one could accuse Wire creator/executive producer David Simon of nepotism. Uncle Dave didn't hire a gaggle of nieces and nephews to write his critically beloved series. Instead, he hired some of his girlfriend's work buddies.
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The Wire's Detectives Moreland (Wendell Pierce) and Freamon (Clarke Peters). Photo by Paul Schiraldi, courtesy HBO.
* * * *
The catch being that Simon's girlfriend is Edgar-winning crime novelist Laura Lippman. And the “work buddies” were similarly acclaimed authors Dennis Lehane and George Pelecanos.
"When I started hanging with Laura, she kept saying, ‘You gotta read [Pelecanos]. He's digging the same mine as you,'” Simon recalls. “So I finally read [Pelecanos's 1999 novel] The Sweet Forever, and after that I had to go back and read all the others."
Simon felt a kinship with Pelecanos's gritty take on the modern American city: Both men hail from the Washington, D.C., area, and all of Pelecanos's books are set in and around the District's most crime-riddled neighborhoods.
So Simon asked Pelecanos about writing for The Wire, his epic exploration of Baltimore's drug trade, police, politics, working class, and desperate poor. Pelecanos said yes—but he wanted to contribute more than just scripts. He had some names to share too.
"After George came aboard, he started saying, ‘Should we go get some other guys? Should we get Lehane? Should we get [celebrated Clockers author Richard] Price?'” Simon says. “They're all friends."
And all Wire writers, eventually.
While Lehane and Price have turned in a handful of scripts over the past few seasons, Pelecanos actually joined the staff full time. And in the world of episodic television production, “full time” doesn't mean nine to five. It means six to six—and that's on an easy day.
Working alongside Simon and fellow Wire writer/producer (and former Baltimore cop) Ed Burns, Pelecanos helped shape characters and story arcs, create scene-by-scene breakdowns for every script, cast actors, supervise pre- and post-production, and “put out fires when needed.” The Wire may be filmed entirely on location in Baltimore, just thirty-something miles from Pelecanos's home in Silver Spring, Maryland, but the writer might as well have been commuting to the moon, considering the amount of time he had to spend away from home.
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George Pelecanos
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"We worked twelve to sixteen hours a day for seven months, no joke,” Pelecanos says.
Of course, that kind of time commitment is no laughing matter for somebody with other deadlines to think about—like the ones in book contracts. So you won't find Pelecanos listed as a producer on the series’ fourth season (which wraps up in December). Though he came back to write the season's penultimate episode, “That's Got Its Own,” he chose to dial back his hands-on involvement with the show.
"Obviously, it was limiting the time I could spend with my family, and ultimately it was going to impact my novel writing, as well,” says Pelecanos (whose latest book, The Night Gardener, was greeted with rapturous reviews in August). “I made the right choice to pull away from my producing duties. When I saw the [fourth season], I was a little bit envious that I had not been an integral part of it. They did a great job without me."
Despite Pelecanos's case of producer envy, there's probably one aspect of The Wire he doesn't miss: playing in someone else's sandbox. As a novelist, he's used to following his own gut. But a TV series is a collaboration, and everyone's got their own gut to follow—which is why the writer's room can sometimes seem like a sumo ring.
"We argued passionately, to be honest with you,” Pelecanos admits. “We were passionate about the show, and we all thought we were right. Conflict isn't fun, but it gets you to a place."
Such as the doghouse, for instance. Which is why Laura Lippman's name won't be popping up in the credits for The Wire anytime soon.
"In some ways, I have to serve as an editor, in that I have to make all the episodes connect and I have to give them the same tonality,” Simon says. “So there's a lot of rewrites and a lot of arguing. I asked Laura if she was interested, but she quite correctly said, ‘That's the last thing we need!’”
* * * *
Lisa Scottoline was offered her own it's-who-you-know TV opportunity recently. But it didn't lead to a behind-the-scenes gig. It's putting her front and center on national television.
A trial lawyer years before she became a bestselling writer of legal thrillers, Scottoline has done on-air commentary for Court TV from time to time. (She was one of the cable network's go-to legal analysts during the O.J. trial, for instance.) So when Court TV started looking for high-profile mystery authors to serve as on-air hosts for a new show, America's Crime Writers: Murder They Wrote, Scottoline was at the top of the list.
* * * *
Lisa Scottoline
* * * *
And what a list. Five episodes of the true-crime series have been produced so far, and the first (which premiered Monday, November 13) features Michael Connelly revisiting one of the strangest murders he covered during his days as a newspaper reporter. In subsequent entries, crime-fiction powerhouses James Ellroy, Faye Kellerman, and Jonathan Kellerman examine baffling real-life mysteries.
Scottoline closes out the show's brief run on December 11 with an episode focusing on a case she knows well: the 1979 murder of Susan Reinert, a school teacher and single mom. Though living a seemingly mundane life in suburban Upper Merion Township, Pennsylvania, Reinert was actually the target of a bizarre conspiracy that probably claimed the lives of her two children, as well. (The kids’ bodies were never found.)
"The Reinert case really strikes close to home for me,” Scottoline says. “I grew up in Lower Merion, which is about ten minutes from where I live now. The high school [where Reinert taught] is exactly like my high school. And I'm a single mother and have been for most of my life. So I feel like I knew her."
Shockingly, the men accused of Reinert's murder were coworkers of hers: her school's former principal and an English teacher with whom Reinert was allegedly having an affair. Yet many aspects of the case remain murky even after all these years. Scottoline hopes her episode—and her
unique perspective on the case—can help shine some light into the shadows.
* * * *
Lisa Scottoline
* * * *
"Sometimes in lesser [true-crime] shows or books, it's all about serial killers and the bodies mounting up, and none of the deaths really have the dramatic impact they deserve,” she says. “That's why I think it was important to do justice to Susan Reinert. And I think we did that in this show."
Of course as a former trial attorney, Scottoline has had plenty of practice talking about justice. Yet she quickly discovered that what works in a court room doesn't necessarily work on the boob tube.
"I'm sort of glib and talk a lot, and [on TV] you have to talk slower and not be so Italian,” jokes Scottoline (who'll let actors do all the talking if a proposed Fox series based on her Rosato & Associates books takes off). “I had to sit down on camera, which was very hard for me. I never sit down. I was like, ‘Can't I stand up and pace?’ And they said, ‘No. Sit still. And don't use your hands so much.’”
Though she hasn't seen her episode yet, Scottoline's guardedly optimistic that her on-camera performance turned out alright. But don't ask her if she feels like Court TV's Robert Stack.
"How dare you?” she roars with mock indignation. “I prefer Court TV's Katie Couric."
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NOT THE TYPE by EVE FISHER
Carrie met Thomas Porter and knew at once he was the one she'd waited for. Oh sure, his face could have been a little less long, his lips fuller, a little more hair on his chest and his head. But he was handsome enough, he would do ... and he wanted her.
The first time she saw him, he looked wistful, wondering, curious—at her. So, for the first time in her life, she came on strong—for her—and placed herself so that he almost had to speak to her. And he did. They talked, pleasantly, nothing too serious, but she let slip a couple of clever things she'd heard around the office, passing them off as hers, and his eyes lighted up. He liked clever things, she noted, and ransacked her brain for more.
He didn't ask her out. Carrie was used to that. She'd never been picked up at a party or in a bar in her life. She wasn't the type. But this time, when the man said, “Well, it was nice talking to you. See you around,” Carrie panicked. She didn't show it, but the next night she was back, waiting, her heart beating hard until he spoke to her again.
It took two weeks for him to ask her out. By then, she'd found out that he liked jazz, was an almost vegetarian, hoped to become partner in his law firm someday, and that he was almost as lonely as she was.
They dated for a couple of months before they became intimate. The relief Carrie felt when he finally dived on her, like a drowning man on a raft, overwhelmed any sensual feelings of her own. She had negotiated the second hurdle. Now to get through the next, and the next, until she had become a permanent part of his life.
She met his friends, who all had the same reaction on meeting her: surprise, hastily hidden. She didn't mind. She knew by now that he was getting over a bad breakup with a woman named Melissa, who'd turned his world upside down, changed his life, and then dumped him. Carrie put the look in Tom's eyes and his friends’ reaction together and knew that Melissa must have been her exact opposite: tall, beautiful, confident, overtly sexual. In a strange way, it gave her confidence. Carrie had been up against beautiful people all her life, and she knew that while beauty had innumerable advantages, it also had limitations, among them fickleness, arrogance, and a lack of attention to details such as cooking, cleaning, and soothing sympathy. Carrie excelled at details.
They were living together by Thanksgiving. Carrie put everything she had into making Tom happy. Feeling accepted as a couple, Carrie hosted a holiday meal at their place, inviting all of Tom's friends who were only too happy to avoid going home for a family reunion. Carrie was clever enough not to serve a traditional dinner; she served an endless buffet of hors d'oeuvres, desserts, and wine.
The evening was almost over when she heard Warren, one of Tom's friends, say “I heard that Melissa and Maggie are back from Pittsburgh.” She saw Tom pale slightly. Panic gripped her, but she made herself smile and say, “Well, that's nice."
"Yes,” Tom said.
"Probably see them at Mac's party."
"Yes,” Tom said. “Hey, Carrie, should I open another bottle of wine?"
"Of course."
That night Carrie lay beside Tom and made plans that ranged from getting a complete makeover to moving out to clawing Melissa's beautiful face to ribbons. How dare she come back after ruining Tom's life? How dare she come back and ruin Carrie's life? What on earth was Warren thinking, letting a bomb like that drop so casually at Carrie's party? If Warren thought he'd ever be invited back, he could just go to hell. And what if Tom ... No, that couldn't happen. She wouldn't let it happen.
The next morning, when Tom asked if she was all right, Carrie laughed and said she'd just had too much wine the night before.
Carrie didn't want to go to Mac's party, and she wouldn't have missed it for the world. She spent hours shopping for a new outfit and spent a fortune on a spangled gypsy affair that was so not her that when she finally tried it on at home she burst into tears. She tore it off, thrust it in the back of the closet, and ended up never wearing it at all.
Mac's party was crowded. Carrie's head was throbbing as she looked around, trying to find out who was Melissa without asking. Finally, she spotted a statuesque blonde she'd never seen before, standing by a window, talking to a small, dark woman. That was her. She could tell by the way Tom's back tightened slightly under her hand.
"You go mingle,” she told Tom. “I need to run to the ladies’ room."
Tom headed off, away from the blonde. Carrie's mouth tightened for a minute, then she relaxed. She went to the bathroom—she didn't believe in unnecessary lies—and then she came out and drifted toward the window. Warren was there, talking to the two women.
"Warren,” Carrie called out. “Have you seen Tom?"
"Oh, he's somewhere around. Carrie, I don't think you've met Melissa and Maggie."
"No, I haven't,” Carrie said brightly.
"Nice to meet you,” Melissa said. She was gorgeous, with her blond hair piled high and her black chiffon dress curling around her like smoke. “I've heard a lot about you."
"Really? I've heard a lot about you too."
Melissa smiled. “That's nice."
"So you just got back from Pittsburgh. What were you doing there?"
"Oh, I had a show,” Melissa said. “I'm an artist."
She would be, Carrie thought with despair. “Really? What do you do?"
"Mostly watercolors, but a little pen and ink.” The other woman had drifted away. “You haven't seen any of my work?"
"No, I'm afraid I haven't.” Tom had probably ripped them all up, Carrie thought. “But I'd love to."
"Well, Mac's got a couple of pieces, if you'd like to see them. They're in his bedroom. Would you...?"
"That would be wonderful."
As the two worked their way through the crowd, Carrie caught sight of Tom talking to Maggie. He glanced at them as they went, and she could see—could almost feel—his fear. Don't worry, she thought. I won't betray you. I'll defend you. And she went into the bedroom with her rival.
Carrie spent most of an hour talking to the woman. She was everything Carrie had conjectured, and worse. Two snippets of information made Carrie thrill with apprehension. At one point, when they were looking at the watercolor of a garden, with a chair arm, and a man's arm on it, and an “M” slashed across the corner, Melissa had said, “Yes, I did that when Tom was still—” and she broke off, leaving Carrie to fill in the blank with “still with me.” Later, when Carrie said she had to go find Tom, Melissa had said, “He's a such a sweet guy. It's a real shame...” And her eyes had been wet.
The bitch, Carrie thought all the way home. She's come back to get him back. To get him away from me. And then she'll just dump him all over again.
It'll ruin his life. And mine. And...
It was obvious that Tom had been rattled by seeing Melissa again. And, even though he'd been good and hadn't spent any time talking to her—partially thanks to Carrie's running interference—Carrie knew in her bones that sooner or later something was going to happen. He was nervous, he was jumpy, he kept glancing at the telephone.
Carrie found out that while Melissa and Maggie were roommates, Maggie was engaged to be married to some guy she'd met in Pittsburgh and was planning on moving back there within the month. This would leave Melissa at loose ends, probably broke—what artist ever made enough to pay the rent?—and Tom, with his good job, his good looks, his good heart, his good broken heart, was an obvious target.
Something was going to happen. Melissa, of course, would be the aggressor.
Over the next couple of weeks, Carrie kept an eye out at every social event for the dynamic duo, as she tagged them in her mind. They weren't always there, but neither ever showed up without the other. Best friends, she'd been told. She thought it looked ... well, Tom would have known, so that wasn't true. Carrie always made a point of speaking to them. She also made a point of never using Melissa's name, a tiny superstition that made her feel in control. Nobody seemed to notice. Melissa always chatted brightly, but Maggie was elusive, going off for a drink or simply standing still, quiet, plain, uninterested, uninteresting. Carrie pitied her future husband: He'd be bored to death in no time.
One night they came home from work and found a parcel on the doorstep. Tom opened it and found a watercolor of purple irises, signed with that slashing “M.” Tom was obviously embarrassed. “Isn't that sweet of her?” he asked twice.
"Very,” Carrie said.
Tom looked at her nervously. “It could go in the kitchen. By the window. Couldn't it?"
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