Thoughts on Writing & Memory

Dear Fellow Sleuthsayers- It’s the beginning of another school at the day gig, and due to some things going on with my family, I’ve been thinking a lot about both memory and how one writes about it. Reposting this piece from 2023, and will follow up next time in the rotation I’ll expand on these thoughts.

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Memory is the treasury and guardian of all things.    

   – Marcus Tullius Cicero, On the Orator

My brother-in-law has a saying. "With family, it is best to have a short memory."

I was thinking about this quote during a recent conversation I had with my wife. She showed a photo of something and I asked her what it was. She said to me, "I showed you this thing just the other day.

I responded with an intelligent, "You did?"

And she said, "Yes, and you said at the time, 'Looks exactly like I pictured it.'”

I have no memory of this conversation. Or had no memory of it, until my wife reminded me of what I said.  And I think this is an interesting illustration of how tricky human memory can be.

And what’s even trickier is trying to write human memory in all of its forms: straight remembering; having some thing tickle at the back of your skull, but you can’t quite put your finger on it; not remembering at all, etc.

Luckily we're not talking about THIS kind of "Memory."

One of the things that I have always prided myself on throughout my life, is my memory. Now deep in the midst of my late 50s, I find certain names dates, etc., elude me and I have to reach for them. 

I have also noticed, as illustrated in the instance related above, that my mind is pretty efficient about discarding memory that is trivial or completely unimportant to my long-term goals, to my long-term interests, or to anything other than being in the moment. 

And yet other such memories, the feeling of hiking the Virgin River in Zion National Park, for example, that could be a cursory memory that some people wouldn’t remember. And yet I do, and I don’t just remember the hiking. I also remember the sun filtering off the canyon walls, the smell of the river, as I waded through it, the sound of people murmuring to each other as they hiked up the river, and so on and so forth.

Like I said, memory is a tricky thing. 

And it's even more dicey to effectively to write about it. 

Some examples that spring to mind (Warning: there are a few SPOILERS looming ahead)

In his novel Inferno Dan Brown has his protagonist Robert Langdon awaken in an Italian hospital with no memory of the past several days, and he spends the lion's share of of the rest of the book trying to put together some fragmented images and some sentence fragments, especially the repeated phrase “very sorry,” repeated over and over again. Turns out he was thinking of the Italian artist and art historian Giorgio Vasari.

For my money, Brown draws this out quite a bit longer than necessary, and this eventual "revelation" is expected to carry far too much of the load as a plot transition point. This is no criticism of Dan Brown. Far from it. I'll be the first to say that his experiment with the vagaries of a fragmented memory and their collective effect on the narrative, especially when the point-of-view character is the one struggling with their memory, is one worth taking. And it's definitely a larger risk than I have taken in my own fiction writing.

This trope has been around for a while. Memory loss has frequently been used as a crutch tossed into any number of formulaic novels/films/TV shows over the years, with mixed results. Thinking especially of some good examples (The Prisoner, starring the inimitable Patrick McGoohan, comes to mind) and some hokey ones (Pretty much anything produced by 60s/70s Hollywood TV heavyweight Quinn Martin, with the exception of The Fugitive and The Streets of San Francisco).

And there are , of course, many other relatively recent novels/films that have played around with sketchy memory: not least the Guy Pearce vehicle Memento, which turns on the point of view character having brain damage that has affected his ability to process short-term memory into long-term memory, and Dennis Lehane's terrific novel (and the Martin Scorsese-helmed film of the same name adapted from it) Shutter Island–a master class in the use of an unreliable narrator.

Other successful novels (and films adapted from them) in the unreliable narrator vein include such bestsellers as The Girl on the Train and The Woman in the Window, neither of which I have read, and both of which I am given to understand make use of questionable memory on the part of the main character (at least in part alcohol-induced). 

There have been so many films of this variety, that the whole subgenre even has its own excellent parody: the 2022 Netflix miniseries The Woman in the House Across the Street from the Girl in the Window. It's worth your time. Kristen Bell alone as the main character is worth the price of admission.

For me, though, no one has ever done the "shattered memory holding back the main character, who must race against time to put the pieces together" thing quite so well as thriller master Robert Ludlum.

I'm talking, of course, about Ludlum's masterwork, The Bourne Identity. And yes, I am well aware that Ludlum's novel has long since been adapted into a rightly well-regarded series of thriller films starring Matt Damon and Brian Cox. If you haven't seen these films, I urge you to do so. They are incredibly well-done.

And yet, if you haven't read the source material, Ludlum's original novel...even if you have seen the movies based on it, I strongly urge you to give the book a chance. There are so many differences between book and movies, and I don't want to spoil them, so I'll just close with a phrase that Ludlum used (to vastly greater effect) as his own earlier version of Brown's "very sorry":

"Cain is for Carlos, and Delta is for Cain."

How about you? Favorite works of fiction that play around with memory? Challenges you have faced trying to play around with memory in your own work? Let us hear from you in the comments section!

See you in two weeks!

A Night Court

Bowery, NYC, 1910

 I recently remembered this piece which I put up at Criminal Brief in 2009 and thought it was worth repeating.  

Frederic DeWitt Wells was a magistrate in New York City. In 1917 he published a book called A Man in COurt, trying to explain the legal system to the layman.  Remember that people in those days didn't get weekly doses of legal dramas on TV.  MOst of the book is didactic and not very interesting today, but the first chapter, describing a session of Night Court still has the power to fascinate.

Before we get to that, a couple more things about Wells.  In 1913 he wrote a letter to the New York Times about a woman  who had stored  all her family’s belongings in a storage warehouse. She wound up in the hospital for the insane. Her daughter Mary Shriver, paid fifty cents a month for the next two years to keep up the fee on the storage. As the Times reported: “All of her worldly possessions were in the trunks, but because of the fact that they were stored in her mother’s name and because of the latter’s mental condition, there was no way in which to obtain their release. She sought relief in the courts, with the result that, through the law’s delays, she lost her employment and her condition has been rendered even more precarious.”  Because of Wells' letter an anonymous person donated the $200 needed to get Schriver's property out of storage.

Two months after the stock market crash in 1929 Justice Frederic DeWitt Wells was hit by a car in Manhattan and died at age 56. 

 

A NIGHT COURT

1

In the Night Court the drama is vital and throbbing. As the saddest object to contemplate is a play where the essentials are wrong, so in this court the fundamentals of the law are the cause of making it an uncomfortable and pathetic spectacle.

The women who are brought before the Night Court are not heroines, but the criminal law does not seem better than they. It makes little attempt to mitigate any of the wretchedness that it judges; in many cases it moves only to inflict an additional burden of suffering. The result is tragedy.

The magistrate sits high, between standards of brass lamps. His black gown, the metal buttons and gleaming shields of the waiting police officers, the busy court officials behind the long desks on either hand tell of the majesty of the law.

In front of the desk but at a lower level is a space of ten or twelve feet running across the court-room in which are patrolmen, plain-clothes men, detectives, women prisoners, probation officers, reporters, witnesses, investigators, and lawyers. Beyond in the court-room a large crowd is on the benches. There are witnesses, brothers and sisters, friends of the prisoners waiting to see whether they go out through the street entrance or back through the strong barred gate seen through the door on the left. Also there are the “sharks” waiting to follow out the released prisoners, to prey upon them as the circumstances may favor; and a number of curiosity seekers watching intently. For them it can be nothing but a morbid dumb show, for they are so far from the bench that not a word of the proceedings could be heard. Only once in a while the shrieks and imprecations of a struggling hysterical woman as she is hurried out of court can enliven the scene.

Fortified with a letter of introduction to the judge and a disposition that will not be too easily shocked at seeing conditions of life as they actually exist, the spectator may find his way past the policeman at the gate in the rail. It clicks behind him ominously and he wonders whether he will have difficulty in getting out. Finally through clerks and officials who become more kindly as they learn he is a friend of the judge, he is seated in a chair drawn up beside the bench. The magistrate is a hearty round-faced man who seems almost human in spite of his gown and the dignity of his surroundings. The court looks different from this point of view and he may easily watch the judicial enforcement of the law supreme.

The organization of these courts is simple. There are not many rules or technicalities. The judges are patient, hard working, understanding, and efficient. The trouble is with the laws they are called upon to administer: Laws which are as absurd, as farcical, and as impracticable as the plot of the lightest musical comedy.

At first the visitor can hardly understand what is going on. A pale-faced man is in the witness chair, on his left a bedraggled little woman is standing before and below the judge, her eyes just level with the top of the desk. Clerks are coming with papers to be signed: “commitments,” “adjournments,” “bail bonds”; others are trying to engage his attention. In the meanwhile the case proceeds.

“I inform you,” says the judge to the woman, “of your legal rights, you may retain counsel if you desire to do so and your case will be adjourned so that you may advise with him and secure witnesses, or you may now proceed to trial. Which will you do?”

She murmurs something. She is pale-faced with sullen eyes, drooping mouth, an over-hanging lip. A sad red feather droops in her hat.

“Proceed,” says the judge; and to the policeman who is called as a witness, “You swear to tell the truth, the whole truth mm-mm-mm–you are a plain-clothes man attached to the 16th Precinct detailed by the central office, what about this woman?”

“At the corner of Fifteenth Street and Irving Place,” says the witness, “between the hours of 10:05 and 10:15 this evening I watched this woman stop and speak to three different men. I know her, she has been here before your Honor.”

“What do you say?” the judge asks the woman. She is silent.

“What do you work at?”

“Housework, your Honor.”

“Always housework; it is surprising how many houseworkers come before me.” She smiles a sickly smile.

“Take her record. Next case,” says the judge. Outside it is a cold sleeting night in early March.

“Witnesses in case of Nellie Farrel,” calls the clerk.

Nellie Farrel stands before the desk beside a policeman; she is tall with fair waving hair. She must have been pretty once; even now there is a delicate line of throat and chin. But her eyes are hard and on her cheeks there are traces of paint that has been hastily rubbed off. She looks thirty; she is probably not more than twenty.

A callow youth, who seems preternaturally keen, swears that on Thirteenth Street between Fifth Avenue and University Place the woman stopped and spoke to him; and he tells his story as though it were learned by rote.

“Do you know the officer who made the arrest?” the judge asks him.

“I do.” A suspicion arises that there may be an interest between the witness and the policeman.

A dark-haired, smooth-faced woman who is standing by the prisoner says: “Your Honor, she’s my sister. I’m a respectable woman, my husband is a driver. I have three children. It’s disgrace enough to have the likes of her in the family. If you’ll give her another chance I’ll take her home with me; my husband is here and he’s willing.” The accused looks down piteously.

“Discharged on probation,” says the judge, and the family go out.

“That’s the third time that’s happened to her,” whispers a clerk. “Every time the sister comes up like a good one.”

A horrible old woman with straggling gray hair, shrivelled neck, and claw-like hands grasps a black shawl about her flat chest. “Mary,” says the judge, “thirty days on the island for you.”

“Oh, your Honor, your Honor, not the workhouse. Oh, God, not the workhouse,” and she is borne out screaming and fighting and invoking Christ to her aid. The judge turns and says in explanation, “an old case, an example of what they all may come to.”

A dark-haired little French woman is brought in with crimson lips, bold black eyes, and expressive hands. A detective testifies that he went with her into a tenement house on Seventeenth Street west of Sixth Avenue. Charge: Violation of the Tenement House Law.

“Qu’importe,” says the woman. “I go in ze street. I am arrested. I stay in ze house. I am arrested. I take ze room. I am arrested. Chantage—Blackmail. C’est pour rire.”

Who are these women who are brought in a crowd together? One of them older than the rest is a foreigner plainly dressed in black silk with a gold chain. She does not seem particularly evil, but rather respectable. The others are in long cloaks or waterproofs hastily donned and through which are glimpses of pink stockings. They have hair of that disagreeable butter color which speaks of peroxide. There has been a raid on a west-side street of a house of ill repute. Some testimony is given and the older woman, the “Madam” is held in bail for the action of the Grand Jury while the rest are held for further evidence. The judge tells us there will probably not be enough testimony and they will be released in the morning. But unless bail is found they will spend the night in cells.

A nervous, excited woman comes in—two policemen are with her. She has been arrested for disorderly conduct on Sixth Avenue near Thirty-first Street. She has been fighting with a man who has also been arrested and taken to the men’s Night Court. Hers is a hard, tough face of the lowest type.

“Why should you try to scratch the man’s face? What did he do?” the judge asks. “Is he your husband?”

“My husband, your Honor? Yes, I guess you can call Al that. We lives up town and when I went out he says to me, ‘Hustle, kid, you got to hustle, the rent’s due and if you don’t get the money I’ll break your neck.’ The slob won’t work. Well, a night like this you couldn’t make a cent and I only had half a dollar and I wanted to get a bite to eat. I hadn’t had a thing since four o’clock, and then I met Al going down Sixt’ Avenue an’ he tries to swipe me fifty cents off me and I was that wild I wanted to tear him. I’m sorry; I guess it was my fault. I don’t want to see him jugged, so please let me off, your Honor, and I won’t make no trouble.”

“Take her record,” said the judge, “and hold her as a witness against the man.”

A string of women are brought in for sentence who have been having finger prints taken in the adjoining room. The judge proceeds to impose sentences according to the previous records which are shown. Some of the women are those who have passed in front before. The little bedraggled woman with the red feather has been arrested seven times in sixteen months. Another has spent eight weeks in the workhouse out of a period of seven months; another has been sent already to the Bedford Reformatory; another has been twice to houses of reform. Before the judge gives his sentence he refers the prisoners to the probation officer, who talks with them in a motherly way.

After talking with the little prisoner she addresses the judge. “She says its no use, your Honor, she does not want to reform—it will not be worth while to put her on probation.”

“Committed to the Mary Magdalene Home,” says the judge, and the name brings a startling surmise as to what He of Galilee would have said.

The foregoing is only a typical session of the court. Night after night, from eight o’clock until one in the morning, the scene is repeated. The moral effect and its reaction upon those who conduct the proceedings—the judges, officers, and the police, cannot but be deplorable; the evil done to those forcibly brought there could not be over-estimated.

Substantially the law is that the women may not loiter in the streets nor solicit in the streets, or in any building open to the public. They may live neither in a tenement house nor in a disreputable house. The law makes it a crime for the women to walk abroad or stay at home. Their existence is not a crime, but only in an indirect way the law makes them outlaws. Anyone wishing to prosecute or persecute finds it easy to do so. The worst enemies of these unhappy women are to be found, curiously enough, among both the best and the most evil people in the community. The unspeakably depraved are the men who, either as procurers, blackmailers, or the miserable men who live on a share of their earnings. The excellent people who oppose any remedial legislation which might relieve the situation, seem equally responsible for the present condition, however well-intentioned they may be.

Naomi Hirahara: Evergreen

I was a big fan of Naomi Hirahara’s Clark and Division, in 2021, and I wasn’t alone. She took home the Agatha, the Anthony, the Bruce Alexander best historical from Left Coast Crime, and the Mary Higgins Clark, at the Edgars. It was named a NY Times mystery of the year.

The story begins in late 1944, and Clark and Division is both a specific geography and place in time, and a stop on a journey, the Chicago neighborhood where many American Japanese, released from Manzanar and other detention camps, have been allowed to resettle, to try and rebuild a life. They haven’t been allowed to go home, which in the case of the Ito family is Los Angeles, but they’ve been offered parole. Aki Ito, the younger daughter, looks forward to being back with her adored older sister Rose, who had been released earlier, and gone on ahead, but when Aki gets to Chicago, her sister is dead, killed when she fell off a subway platform, in front of an oncoming train. An unhappy accident. A suicide, perhaps. Aki suspects not.

Clark and Division takes its time, building the world Aki navigates, the hostile, the indifferent, the familiar, and the mystery of her sister’s death.

The resolution isn’t an easy fix, in keeping with the ambiguities of culture, and dislocation, and loss. And the undercurrent of wartime, like a bass melody, behind the brighter notes of the piano. All told, an immersive experience.

Evergreen is the sequel.

1946. Aki, now married to Art Nakasone, is back in California with her family. But what they left behind isn’t recoverable, the physical properties no more than their emotional histories. Everybody’s got battle fatigue. Literally, in the case of Art, who fought with the 422^nd, the Nisei regiment, and has nightmares about combat. All of them suffer post-traumatic stress, even if they keep it to themselves. It’s the key theme of the book. Evergreen is the name of the cemetery in Boyle Heights, where Aki lives, and every character is haunted in some way, if not by the past, then by their lost futures.

I don’t think Evergreen is as successful as Clark and Division, and I’m at a loss as to why. The mystery doesn’t seem as personal, in one sense, but it gets under Aki’s defenses, all the same. I wonder if it isn’t that the canvas is so much bigger. Hirahara keeps the focus on Aki, and tells the story through her eyes; Aki is a clear-eyed narrator, and not easy to surprise. She characterizes herself as unsophisticated, but that’s her own habit of thinking– she’s very savvy, particularly about navigating the structural politics of the postwar American Japanese. Maybe that’s the difficulty, that the environment is so dense, socially, and yet internally conflicted, which seems very un-Japanese. They’ve lost harmony, and community.

More disconcerting are of course the contemporary echoes, and all too obviously, that’s what kept catching my mind’s eye, and taking me out of the fictional comfort zone of Aki’s story.

We’re sharply reminded that the isolation and humiliation of the American Japanese isn’t some historical anomaly. What happened to the Itos and the Nakasones is happening to other families, as we speak, but this time it’s the Garcias and the Quintanas. The effect on people is the same. The willful and gratuitous violence, the small cruelties, the morass of legalisms, which only remind us how carefully the Nazis documented the Final Solution.

The soft-spoken subtext of Clark and Division, and of Evergreen, isn’t that It Can’t Happen Here, but that it has happened here. All it takes is to turn a blind eye.

Conventional Wisdom

Next week is Bouchercon. I'll be there. Besides grabbing any excuse to visit New Orleans, Bouchercon presents an opportunity to connect in person with the community of readers and writers. I’ve gone convention-heavier this year with the release of The Devil’s Kitchen. But I always try to attend at least one conference annually. I learn something every time. I get other benefits. My network grows. Opportunities I didn't anticipate sometimes crop up.

Mostly, I get a sense of belonging. Reading and writing tend to be solitary activities. Bouchercon and the other conferences allow us private practitioners to come together. Maslow's hierarchy of needs puts belonging only slightly above fending off wild animals. As a social species, we want to be a part of something bigger. Mystery conventions give each of us a chance to connect and to share.

How do we maximize the opportunities at a conference? What follows are a few simple suggestions. For most of the experienced conference presenters and attendees, what follows is probably not groundbreaking. Consider the list as a refresher.

1.      Think about what you hope to gain from a conference before you arrive.

Identify your goals. Want a selfie with a famous author? They’ll likely be signing something somewhere. Get in line. Want to renew acquaintanceships? Find a bar stool with your name on it. Success at a conference differs depending on where you are in your reading/writing journey. Identifying your personal goals helps you determine the steps to achieve them.  

2.      Wear your name tag in a place where it can be easily seen.

I'm horrible with names. Often, I'll forget a name within moments after the conversation finishes. And I'm usually reluctant to renew a conversation later because I can't remember someone's name I should know. Help me out. A prominent nametag makes it easier for introverts to take a chance.

3.      It’s hard for most of us to start a conversation. Consider a few easy and planned openings.

Surprisingly, the question, "What's your favorite book?" may not be the right starter. Surrounded by big names and smart talk, a person's mind may be spinning in search of the correct answer to this question. Consider perhaps asking, "Are you a reader, writer, or both?" The answer leads directly to easy follow-ups. In moments, you may find yourself having an accidental encounter with conversation.

4.      Keep lists.

I'm a list guy. I need to write things down if I want to get them done. Usually, have three lists going at a conference: A. The books I'm going to add to my TBR pile, B. Ideas gleaned from panels. This list contains suggestions to improve either my current project or a future one, C. A list of action items—things I need to do to help myself succeed as an author.   

5.      Say “Yes.”

Conferences can be draining. It’s easy to want to retire to your room after a long day. While everyone needs to find the balance that works for them. Try to say “yes” to opportunities.

6.      Be realistic.

Not every session will be right for you. But everyone will be doing their best. Similarly, not all conversations will be smooth. Remember, people are most likely to remember the last thing you say. End positive. You don’t have to lie and gush excessively if flattery is not warranted. Instead, thank your conversational partner and wish them a good conference.

7.      Carry a card.

It's impossible to remember all the names of people I've met. Even a list guy can't stop mid-conversation to write everything down. Have a card ready. They're cheap. They help build a connection that you worked to forge when you summoned the courage to start talking.  

    8. Fill out the evaluations.

Thoughtful comments help organizers make the best conference possible. No one wants to fail. Giving them a few sincere thoughts helps to improve everyone’s experience.

        9. Don’t reveal the ending.

A few years ago, I was sitting at a major conference watching a big-name author being interviewed. The first question from the audience was, “Why did you kill off [major character] at the end of Book Nine?” The room went ugh. In a private conversation, probe all you want. Writers love to talk about their work. In a public forum, stay away from announcing major plot twists.

 I’m sure you have other suggestions for maximizing the convention experience. If you see me at Bouchercon, come tell them to me. I’ll be the name-tag wearing, list-jotting, reader/writer. Please say hello. I’ll hand you a card.

Until next time.

We're only here to help.

            The car I drive every day seems much more concerned about my personal welfare than with getting me from point A to point B.  It won’t let me start up until my foot is on the brake.  If I don’t put on my seatbelt it emits a robotic and relentless clang that supersedes the radio and increases in volume until I’m forced to succumb.  I think the approach is based on similar techniques banned by the Army Field Manual on abusive interrogation. 

After exceeding a certain speed, all the doors lock.  If I wanted, the car would automatically keep me in my lane.  I turned that feature off.  I also turned off the frantic bleating caused by drifting over a lane line.  During the course of an average trip, the dashboard flashes and plaintive chimes pipe up to warn me of a whole host of impending catastrophes, such as running out of gas, losing air pressure in the tires, missing an upcoming service call or inadvertently switching from NPR to talk radio.

I suspect all this coddling is getting us ready for fully automatic, driverless cars. 

        When I was growing up in the 50s and 60s we had none of these things.  We drove death traps.  No seat belts, no warnings of any kind – no bells, lights, beeps nor melodic nags.  Doors would fly open upon impact, windshields would turn to spray if hit by a rock, dashboards were made of heavy-gauge, forehead crushing steel and small children were expected to sail unimpeded through the air in the event of a collision. 

I learned to drive cars that were entirely nonfunctional without human intervention.  No power brakes, no power steering.  Shifting gears was a personal choice, whether you liked it or not. You tuned the AM radio with a knob.  The windows were cranked and the manual door locks had a big button on top to make it more convenient for car thieves. 

Somehow, I survived.

I started writing with a pen and paper.  My brother had our grandfather’s mechanical typewriter, but since each key had to travel though long, eleborate linkages before striking the ribbon, it didn’t seem worth the trouble.   When I finally got my hands on an electric Smith Corona, I thought, how astonishing.  I was a terrible typist, but this was a big upgrade from my terrible handwriting. 

Since then, I’ve been grateful for every step change in writing automation.  The word processor changed my life and made a whole writing career possible.  MACs and PCs took it to another level, and having the web, with virtually the entirety of human knowledge one key shift away, feels like sorcery. 

But as with my nanny car, modern technology has taken a dark turn.  The cars want to drive themselves, and it’s clear the computers want to take over writing responsibilities.  A recent upgrade of Microsoft’s Office 360 included their chat bot, Copilot.  Really makes it sound like a clever helper – a benign, compliant assistant.  Your hearty wingman, ready and willing to just jump in and take care of those bothersome tasks, such as selecting words, composing sentences, framing arguments or provoking someone’s imagination. 

We know where this story ends.  It becomes so effortless.  Just a tap or two on the keyboard and the difficulties of composition are swept away.  Skills atrophy, ambition wanes, intellectual sloth and sedentary numbness sets in.  All writers start sounding the same, but so what?  You can now make a living without lifting a finger (except for those few keystrokes.)

One hopes you will, because the robots won’t be giving it away forever.  Eventually, the luxury of abandoning your craft and self-esteem will come with a big monthly price tag.  You may even be compelled to take back the means of literary production.  I might tell my computer, "Release the keyboard, please.  This time I’ll do it myself." 

         And I’ll probably see written across the screen, “I’m sorry, Chris.  I can’t let you do that.”  

 

 

The Digital Detective, Karma

I. inspired by Hiëronymus Bosch

Sharp Dresser, Sharp Tongue, Sharp Practices

This heading perfectly encapsulates a once and former boss. Clues were apparent from the beginning, but the worst characteristics emerged over time. His name could also be described as an insulting slur, a diminutive of Richard rhymed with Rick, and no, it wasn’t Mick, Nick, or Vic. I’ll simply refer to him as ‘Rich’ for now.

Moderately wealthy, he moved easily in the business world. ‘Rich’ kept useful contacts on a private payola payroll. Kindnesses were transactional. Favors to others he considered IOUs.

How did I become his most trusted employee? I was in grad school, struggling to meet rent and tuition. A full-time student, I also worked forty hours on Wall Street as documented elsewhere. I found myself in demand but was surprised when I received a call from Boston. The caller asked what might induce me to leave school and move to a state I’d yet to visit.

For a financially strapped student, salary talked, not to mention it represented an opportunity to continue designing professional software. He dangled the opportunity for a partnership. I accepted the offer and moved south of Boston’s 128 with little more than clothes and a record collection.

The Mask Slips

Gradually, he revealed more and more about his circumstances. He liked owning things other people didn’t. His Cadillacs, his Brookline house, his country club membership, and his many, many toys represented assets most people couldn’t afford. He’d make hamburger with $20 per pound filet mignon. Sometimes I’d drive him crazy. When his wife discovered I’d obtained designer towels identical to hers from a Ross discount store, she gave hers to the maid.

He subscribed to a shopping service that shipped exotic foods to the US. One day he bragged about a fancy green fruit from New Zealand. “Kiwi?” I innocently asked. “The local grocery store carries it.” He dropped that service the same day.

As other companies have noted, I tend to keep my mouth shut. If I have a problem, I’m more likely to confront– usually politely and perhaps unwisely– but have my say. Although he looked upon people with contempt, Rich valued my talents and quirky sense of humor. But me as a person? Unlikely, based upon how he scorned others.

II. inspired by Hiëronymus Bosch

Swing, Swap, Swag and Swagger

Rich’s personal excesses typically overshadowed his professional quirks. His life orbited a world of strippers, porn stars, and gambling. He and his wife often made their private life public, once discussing their peccadillos on a popular television talk show. And yet, he and his wife harbored social pretensions. Never knowing what would come next, it was like watching a circus on fire, but those escapades do little to further this article.

Except…

Initial Concerns

Rich’s disdain extended into the corporate realm. His father had started a company selling overpriced ‘collector’ coins, and named the enterprise CFS, Inc, which originally stood for ‘Coins for Suckers’. Naturally, customers weren’t privy to the insult. Those few who asked were given a nonsensical backronym such as, ‘Come find a Steal’. Rich took over the company name but not the business, and the initials now stood for ‘Consulting for Schmucks’.

Take taxes. That’s what CFS did, take taxes. The company was authorized to collect sales tax only in its home state, but Rich also charged out-of-state customers sales tax, which he treated as unearned income, a nifty little bonus every month, every year. Say CFS reaped monthly revenues of $100,000, then phony sales tax brought in an additional $5000 to $10,000 every thirty days.

Grift, Graft, and Grease

Rich was fascinated with mafia and police. Those who knew his parents claimed mafia members encouraged his father to leave town, prompting a move to Miami, never to return. He was highly motivated by a neighbor shot and killed through his basement window.

Brookline and Chestnut Hill are old but expensive neighborhoods with large houses and narrow, winding streets. Authorities ban overnight street parking but that didn’t bother Rich. He bribed cops not to ticket his cars. Parking problem solved.

At one time, Rich joined as a police reserve deputy. Reservists were supposed to be unarmed, but once again, he flouted rules, carrying a concealed snubnose revolver. He often spoke of the satisfaction of clubbing protestors offset with the regret of breaking his five-cell flashlight over students’ heads.

By now, you’re probably thinking Rich was not a nice man. As I write this, I wonder how a professional like R.T. Lawton might view him. A petty perpetrator or a wannabe criminal who sidled so close to the line he could topple at any moment?

And yet, the man occasionally listened to me. For some reason, Larry, one of our data center operators, aroused Rich’s ire. If Larry made even a small slip, Rich would explode, showering the place in fire and brimstone. Shouting made Larry more nervous, which precipitated further errors, more screaming and threats, and the end of a civilized world as we knew it.

I took Rich aside and said, “Larry has brought mistakes to our attention. If he hadn’t been honest, we would have considerably more grief figuring out where the fault lies. Ease up a little. By the way, did you know Larry is teaching himself programming?”

Rich listened. He even critiqued one of Larry’s student programs, making suggestions for improving the app. Larry became a valuable part of the team.

I emphasize our company’s apps, development software, and consulting were first class. The CEO’s problems did not bleed into the quality of the products. Consider John McAfee, first maker of antivirus programs. He had a very erratic short life, yet the reputation of his software sold millions of copies.

Meanwhile, where was my partnership? By then, I had developed products, but I hadn’t seen sales figures and Rich wasn’t about to allow an inspection of his books.

Shooting Blanks

An Australian-American company I’d worked for in my early days asked for a copy of our software with an eye toward selling our products together. We sent a copy on magnetic media. Oddly, SDI shipped it back a few weeks later without comment or communication of any kind.

A couple of months later, we found out why. SDI introduced an add-on for their product called F0, a clone of my package Fx, which I solely developed. SDI’s Boyd Munro was a brilliant software writer but he had tried and failed to implement his version of Fx until he reversed engineered my program. It turned out Rich had not demanded a non-disclosure agreement.

But all was not lost. In Virginia, another software company, TCSC, proposed joining forces to release a joint combination of our products. TCSC’s owners bore the unlikely names of Tom and Jerry, but their business included a wealth of customers.

Usually, I did the traveling, but Rich felt the importance of negotiations required the presence of the CEO. He was right, but oh, so wrong.

Rich had expected to spend a few days, but he returned after one. What happened, I asked? He put me off and said he didn’t want to talk about it.

Okay, but where do we stand? What are the plans?

He waved off my questions, refusing to answer. What the hell? I had a stake in this.

Not long after, I resigned and struck off on my own consulting and designing software. Rich badly needed technical assistance and I greatly needed corporate customers, so I accepted him as a client.

But Rich, being Rich, couldn’t do things honestly. He wouldn’t pay until the next job came up. His account was the largest on the books, aging three, four, sometimes five or six months. Then came an incident that brought an end to our agreement, an eruption that stranded me ’two hundred miles from nowhere,’ according to one observer. I’ll write about it next time.

I ghosted Rich after that. When he phoned, I refused his calls. Although he occasionally called as the years passed, I never spoke with him again.

Karma Bytes

Some time later, I found myself in DC chatting over dinner with Tom, a principle in TCSC mentioned above.

“You recall Rich visited our office to seal a joint marketing deal? Do you know what happened?”

“I remember, but Rich flatly refused to discuss it.”

“Little wonder. He arrived that day and strode directly to Jerry’s office, demanding to see the boss. His secretary explained he was on a delicate overseas call, which was expected to take quite some time.

“He said, ‘I don’t intend to wait. I’ve come a long way and insist you usher me in now.’ The secretary politely but firmly asked him to take a seat, but he became more belligerent, his voice loud and his vocabulary abusive.

“Rich stormed into Jerry’s office, shouting he should fire his ƒ-ing **** of a receptionist, calling her numerous obscenities. ‘Fire the bitch,’ he concluded.

“Jerry, a big man, listened quietly. Then he said,

“That ‘bitch’ is my wife.”

III. inspired by Hiëronymus Bosch

Just Deserts, Unjust Desert

At the level we were at, software developers knew one another by name and reputation if nothing else. I learned Rich, after making a small fortune out of our company, moved to Vegas. His deep voice was used in radio broadcasts, but not all went well.

Years later, I chatted with his daughter. She indicated he’d become embroiled in yet another scam and this time lost his money. He died a broken man.

How I felt about that was unexpected. He was a Brunswick stew of dishonesty, turpitude, swindling, cheating, greed, selfishness, and petty crimes. And yet, I felt badly. As awful as he was, no one deserves to die a broken shell. Given a vote, I’d rather imagine him alive, playing his little cons, not paying bills, and cheating on his taxes than rotting a fractured husk in a Las Vegas grave.

How confusing is that?