Snow, skis, and a long drop

Here's a conversation I had this weekend, fifty feet up in the air.

Me: "I can't believe this chair lift doesn't have a safety bar. I just cannot believe it."
Juan: "You're gripping a little tight.  Scared?"
"Hell, yes. I'm scared of heights and here we are, fifty feet off the ground on a wooden bench in an arctic gale and an ice pack below us. And no bloody safety bar."
"First of all, it's a mild breeze. Second, it's snow beneath you."
"Yeah, fifty feet beneath me."
"Forty. At most."
"Whatever, man. This is 2013, they should have safety bars on chair lifts. On all of them."
"Fall off chairs a lot, do you?" 

I don't, actually.  But a fear of heights is not always logical. And guess what? I had a small boy, my favorite small boy in the world, next to me.

Think about that. An eight-year-old boy, whose thigh is maybe a foot long, which puts him twelve inches away from a drop that would do some serious damage. And it does get windy up there, it really does.  So imagine how terrified I was, holding on for dear life and then having my son perched on the edge of the precipice next to me. I managed to wedge my ski poles in front of him but I can't think they'd really do much but slow any descent, maybe serve only to stab him on the way down.

Yeah, I know, tough life when your biggest problem is with the ski lifts at Park City, Utah.

But it did make me wonder, because you have to agree we live in a pretty litigious society these days. Being a former civil lawyer, I can attest to that, people sue for anything and everything. It's like a sport.

So tell me if I'm nuts, but I genuinely couldn't understand why so many lifts there didn't have safety bars. Ironically, the resort requires kids to wear helmets before they let them have ski lessons.

"Put on your helmet, boy, now go jump off a cliff. You'll be fine."

I suppose I'm wondering whether I'm overreacting because of my own fear of heights, or whether other people think that all lifts should have safety bars. I know the resort owners don't wanna, it costs money, and I just found a wonderfully disingenuous article in the Seattle Times on the subject.

The story is about a four-year-old boy who fell off a lift, and is titled,

Another child falls from Utah chair lift

Which I'm glad I didn't see before I left, for obvious reasons.  Anyway, it starts this way:

"A young skier who fell from a Utah lift was riding a chair that had a safety bar, proving the device isn't fail-safe and may even have its drawbacks, ski resort executives said."

Which makes me an idiot, right? Yes, until you read on a little bit: "The boy was with a ski instructor and another young child near the top of the lift, getting ready to push off the chair when he slipped."

Which means the safety bar wasn't down. Duh.

If you're a skier, or if not, let me know if you have an opinion on this. I'll only add that, even if somehow safety bars aren't worth their weight, they make my experience so much more pleasurable. It's not fun to spend fifteen minutes thinking you and your wee laddie are about to go splat, it severely undermines the enjoyment of the ski experience. Believe it or not, for this reason alone I'd probably avoid going back to Park City. Is that silly?

I'll say one thing for the place, though, the pizza slices were as delicious as they were huge.

Your emergency is . . . what??

When a police officer responds to a 911 call, often the first he knows of it - and all he knows of it, is the 'call text' that appears on his laptop. It tells him where to go and the reason for the call.

On Thursday evening, our first call popped up on screen:

"Can't take it any more. . . wife keeps yelling at me. . . no wpns, no intox. . . "

So. Sober and unarmed, a man called the police because his wife was yelling at him.

But off we go. Because, you know, he called 911 and things aren't always as they seem.

Turns out they've been married 30 years, which I wasn't expecting. Low income people, living in close quarters in a studio apartment on the east side of town. The officer separates them and we talk to the caller outside on the landing. Within seconds it's clear that what they need is a marriage counselor, but the cop is polite, respectful, and takes the time to talk about the man's problems, reminding him there's two sides to every story and maybe calling 911 when voices get raised isn't a permanent solution.

The other side becomes clear when we talk to the wife. She tells us that despite having been married that long, he won't let her have a key to the apartment. She tells us, too, that earlier that day she was at the unemployment office for an hour longer than he'd expected, which made him mad. He never hit her, ever, she says, but it's clear that he basically controls and monitors her every move.

All's well when we leave thirty minutes later, but nonetheless we leave shaking heads. We don't even talk about it, really, I mean what can you say?

Maybe you just look at the bright side: no one was drunk and there were no weapons involved. And thirty years married is pretty impressive these days, don't you think?

A Tragedy in Kaufman, A Shock For Us All

By now, I expect you've read about the prosecutor gunned down as he was on his way to work. If not, read this. You'll know, too, that I don't often touch subjects that are fresh in the news or dwell on matters of great seriousness because this blog has always lived on the lighter side of life.

But I can't let this pass.

I didn't know Mark Hasse, though maybe our paths crossed at a conference somewhere. I'm shocked at his death nonetheless because by all accounts he was nothing but a white knight, looking out for the good people of Kaufman and putting away the bad guys. And I desperately hope that with the Texas Rangers, the FBI, and agents from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives on their trail, the bastards who shot Mark Hasse will be brought to justice.

There are prosecutors all over the country, I think, who will feel the reverberations of this crime and I was interested to read that it's already being talked about in the media: the fear that we all carry within us, the danger that is slight, never discussed, but lurks in the back of our minds.  Could it be me?

In my short career as a prosecutor, not even five years, I've been in three situations where I felt threatened, where I looked over my shoulder every night for two weeks. Trust me, it's no way to live. Only once did I truly believe someone might be angry (and stupid) enough to retaliate but of course how can you ever know?

Erik Nielsen, a former ADA here and now a trainer of prosecutors, wrote on his Facebook page: "we routinely deal with very dangerous people; people whose thoughts on life and violence are skewed or completely severed."  He said what I was thinking the moment I heard about this shooting: "Every prosecutor has this fear."  HuffPo quoted him today with an article entitled just that.

This hits home for me not just because I am a prosecutor (because of one of those threats I mentioned, I am now a gun owner) but because I ride out most weeks with the cops. I see the guns and tasers they carry, the vests they wear, I know about the hand-to-hand training they receive. For sure, the dangers they face are tenfold, a hundredfold, what we are likely to encounter but thinking about this incident makes me realize how defenseless and unready we prosecutors are for naked aggression.

But as Erik said and as the people who shot Mark Hasse need to know: you can't stop justice with a bullet. You can scare the good people who prosecute cases and you can even kill us. But guess what? The moment you do that others will step into our shoes, and you will lose that fight because there are more of us than there are you, there are more good people than bad.

I am confident that the cowards who did this will be caught, but I am absolutely certain that the wheels of justice will continue to turn. And the bad guys who stand there with guns drawn trying to slow or stop the good guys like Mark Hasse will never, ever prevail.

RIP Mark Hasse.

Am I "big-nosed and mushy?" See for yourself!

I've started watching this new show, The Following, with Kevin Bacon. It's about a serial killer (of course!) who uses literature as his guide and to lure followers to do his bidding. Edgar Allan Poe is his inspiration, no less. Cool idea.

Anyway, last night there was a scene where the bad guy, a writer, encounters an attractive older woman who was surprised at his looks. She says something like, "I thought all writers were big-nosed and mushy." It's James Purefoy, just so you know, a handsome devil if ever I saw one.

My first thought was, "Hey, lady, we're not all--" and then I thought, "Well, my sister used to call me 'big nose' and I'm way mushier than I used to be..."

But now you can answer that question yourself because I just had my first live TV interview, about AS SHE LAY SLEEPING.

It was a strange experience and I'm not sure I was at my best: no make-up, no warning what the questions would be, no meditation session beforehand. And yes, a couple of nerves; two, maybe three. Oh, I should add that I spent some time in the Green Room while waiting, a room painted white and red for some reason and no M&Ms or bottled water in sight. Maybe they break those out for the fancy guests.

Right, the interview. It was fun, and quick. Rather like. . . oh, never mind.   (You've probably never arm-wrestled a gorilla.)

Here it is:

Release day: AS SHE LAY SLEEPING

Today is a lot more low-key than when The Bookseller came out, but it marks the release of my second book and first work of non-fiction. The book is called AS SHE LAY SLEEPING, and details my experience prosecuting a 25-year-old murder case.

One of the reasons that it's more low-key is how I feel about the book. I want as many people to read it as possible, of course, but that's because I want people to see what it is we do here (why I started this blog, as you know) and what it's like to get so deeply involved in a case like this. So much of these big cases is about the families of those involved and it's no surprise to readers here that I became good friends with the son of the victim in this case, a musician my age who turned out to be one of the most fun, interesting, and truly good people that I've met.

And it's because of him that I've decided that should I ever see royalties on the book, they will go to HAAM, the organization that provides "access to affordable health care for Austin's low-income, uninsured working musicians, with a focus on prevention and wellness." *

The writing of this book was never about making money for me, it was about telling an incredible story, one that featured a lot of fascinating (and sometimes bizarre) people. I hated that the victim, Natalie Antonetti, might be forgotten once the trial was over and the media returned to more mundane news stories. And frankly, I want my kids to read the book one day and know in detail about the most grueling and compelling case of my career (so far!).

Before I forget, here's the cover (click on it to go to its Amazon page):

I've been asked several times, so in case you had the same questions I can say that I had no input whatsoever on: the cover, the sub-title, or the reference to being a "best-selling author." The latter surprised me, but it turns out to be true: I was on BookPeople's bestseller list for December and am a number one best-seller for one of the Amazon sub-categories of mystery.

If you read the book, let me know if you like it. Perhaps via my Facebook author page, which is here. If you don't like it, well, I guess you can let me know that, too. :)

Happy Tuesday!


*Readers often assume that once a book comes out, its author begins rolling around in piles of cash. Writers know that's not true. Therefore, any musicians reading this need to continue to take their vitamins, exercise regularly, refrain from mixing their illegal drugs, stop double-fisting tequila, and use baseball mitts to catch baseballs, not their teeth. Likewise, administrators and fund-raisers at HAAM should continue their fine work in lieu of relaxing by their above-ground pool and acting like musicians re: the above-named vices.
Additionally, should this book somehow make a boatload of dollars I will retract this pledge with the sole purpose of paying off my and my wife's school debt. If you thought musicians were poor, you should see the debt carried by public service lawyers these days. We're like the federal government, but with good intentions.  Plus, musicians get to sleep in late.

Happy New Year!

Granted, a few days late, but I was in Paris so you can't hold that against me.  Or maybe you can, doubly.

Either way, I'm back and hoping everyone had a marvelous Christmas and New Year.

So, Paris.  I was there to do research on Hugo Marston #3 (as yet untitled, despite what you may have read on my website!) and it was as inspirational a place as ever.

But.  One thing that shocked me was the number of people there who still smoke.  And not just the crusty old boys grumbling under their berets about "garcons these days."  No, it was so many young people, lighting up and puffing away, people in their 20s and 30s who should know better.  A friend who lives there now posited that the French have a "life's full of risks" attitude and that to them dying from smoking is a risk, not a certainty.  On verra.

Anyway, moving on.  The highlight for me was a tour of the U.S. Embassy.  Can't go into details but I met a couple of splendid chaps who gave me the lowdown on the embassy itself, and also the Department of Diplomatic Security, where my man Hugo works.  Utterly fascinating and the two gentlemen were very forthcoming.   I will tell you that the interior of the embassy isn't nearly as grand as I'd imagined (and described in Hugo #1).  As one of the chaps put it, it's a government office so looks like a government office.  A few grand spots here and there but overall not the wood-floored, mahogany-paneled luxor you might think.

One important aspect to the visit: neither of my hosts laughed their arses off when I told them some of the things Hugo gets up to in the books.

Probably just being diplomatic.  (Geddit?!)

I also paid a visit to Pere Lachaise, the wonderful cemetery where the likes of Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde are buried.  Here I am:

I have no idea whose crypt I'm posing next to, seems like I should.

In other news, THE BOOKSELLER seems to be hanging in there.  Sales in Austin are good, anyway, as I made the December bestseller list (fiction, paperback) at BookPeople, number six as you can see here. 

And the book made another bestseller list, over the holidays.  I have no idea how remarkable (or not) it is but I hit the number one spot in the Amazon category for "booksellers and bookselling."  Must be quite a few other books in that category, otherwise they wouldn't bother with a category at all, right?  Right??  Here's a screen grab, check it out:

That's all for now, just wanted to wish you all the best for 2013.  If it's as good as 2012, I for one will be very happy.

The Nutcracker (a true story)

In continuation of a series of posts I have just started with this one, I bring you a true story.  It happened not recently, nor too long ago.  When it happened doesn't matter, actually, I post it today in honor of today's Ballet Austin performance of The Nutcracker.

You'll see why.

The allegation was assault on a peace officer, specifically that the defendant had grabbed "the victim's scrotum and twisted, thereby causing pain."

Now you see why.

Anyway, it went to trial before the judge.  Two witnesses who saw her hands go into his crotch area, but not the actual "grab and twist" testified to his pained squeal and subsequent bending over while gasping for breath.  Their testimony was utterly consistent with that of the officer himself who added the details about her grabbing this testicles and twisting.  (I wanted to do a reenactment, but couldn't find any volunteers.)

Now, trial can be a battle of words. The whole practice of law, really.  The defendant had no real response, no defense at all, I gather that she (yes she) just didn't want to plead guilty.  And that left the defense lawyer with little to work with.  Very little indeed.

But the chap in question (a good friend of mine, by the way) was brilliant.  He pointed out that the charging instrument said "scrotum" while the officer had said "testicles."  As a result, the pain had been to the latter and not the former.

Clever, eh?

I pointed out in my own closing that the pain did not have to refer to the specific body part, and even if it did "the court may take judicial notice that in accordance with the evidence at trial it would be impossible to squeeze one and not the other."  For good measure, since we were in that region, so to speak, I remarked that defense counsel was "splitting hairs."

I did not look at the defendant during closing, but I can assure you everyone else in that courtroom had trouble keeping a straight face.  Judge included.

It's can be a funny job, that we prosecutors have.  In every sense of the word.