The Problem With Pronouns

 I have been struggling for several years to become consistent at using "they/them" pronouns for someone I love, someone I've known almost half my life. During almost all that time, I and others referred to this person with "she/her" pronouns. I don't give a damn what, if any, gender this person is. The struggle arises from other factors.

I grew up speaking English. Like many of you -- including the person in question -- I have studied another language. So I have some appreciation of the profound differences between speaking one's native tongue and speaking a language in which one is not fluent. I believe these differences explain why changing my pronoun usage has been so difficult. Caveat: I'm not a scholar in linguistics or any related science. I'm describing an experience, one which I've done my best to study from the inside. (Second caveat: the English people under thirty-ish have learned may well be more flexible in structure.)

When I speak English, the basic building blocks require no conscious thought or effort. Verb forms, the ordering of parts of speech, and other such features of the particular language I speak -- all these fall into place at what I'll call a pre-conscious level. And from what I can tell, pronouns fall into that category. In the English I learned in the mid-1950s, the English in which I'm fluent, a single known human being takes the "he" set or the "she" set of pronouns. (Unknown humans are another story. I don't know whether, at some time before my era, using "he" for all unknown individuals was automatic, but it isn't for me.)

So, the building blocks are in place. Next comes adding the substance of what I want to say. This does require conscious choices. Even more deliberate is the next layer, one of nuance. Does the word that has come to mind have the right connotation? Is it sufficiently evocative? Will it fall pleasantly on the ear?

The final step, if I'm to use "they/them" for a single known person, amounts to slapping a filter on the top of this stack of words and meaning. It's the very last step before I open my mouth. Indeed, it often comes a fraction of a second later, and what I say comes out with hitches and interruptions, last-minute saves. 

Here's the ironic and most upsetting aspect of this process: the more I care about the content of what I'm saying, the more emotional significance it has for me and for the person I'm saying it to, the harder it is to remember to add that filter. So the more it matters, the more likely I am to sabotage the communication and hurt someone I love.

I understand, at least to some extent, why pronouns matter so much to this person and others like them. (Phew! Got it right that time.) Gender is a deeply personal matter, and being referred to with the wrong pronoun -- at least, for this person and many others -- feels like an attack. They don't see the errant "she" as just a part of speech. They view it as an insistence that what they know and feel doesn't matter. And even if it happens rarely, just knowing that it could happen means that every minute in the unreliable speaker's company is an ordeal of continuous stress.

I wish this person would make their own attempt to understand. And I have a more desperate wish, even less likely to be granted: that they, and others facing the same impasse, could revisit the symbolic heft they accord pronouns. Giving pronouns such power makes no-win situations, broken relationships, and broken hearts nearly inevitable.

A wonderful passage that applies to writing stories

 I just came upon a wonderful quotation in a wonderful book -- Once Upon a Wardrobe by Patti Callahan. It concerns George, an eight-year-old boy who is very ill, and who greatly cherishes C.S. Lewis's The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. (It twinges a bit for me to resist putting in an Oxford comma.)

"George knows you can take the bad parts in a life, all the hard and dismal parts, and turn them into something of beauty. You can take what hurts and aches and perform magic with it so that it becomes something else, something that would never have been, except you make it so with your spells and stories and with your life."

This speaks to me as a writer, and may similarly speak to other writers, and to those wrestling with those hard and dismal parts of life.

Release Day!! for picture book WHEN IT'S WINTER

The wait is over! If you like winter, cute kids, cute dogs, and/or picture books with lovely illustrations, I hope you'll check out my newly released When It's Winter with illustrations by Barbara Dessi. I've been previewing pics and text alternately over the last few days (just scroll down), and I hope I've whetted your appetite.

Here's the cover, once again.

Here's the blurb.

"What makes winter special? This picture book celebrates the many fun activities and sensory experiences of the season. Follow a girl and her dog through the play and discoveries of a snowy day, and on toward bedtime.

"The first person narrative will encourage new readers to claim it as their own. The repetition of the phrase 'When it's winter . . .' will encourage children to chime in, and be of assistance to early readers."

And here's the Amazon link! (It may take you to the Kindle edition instead of the paperback I've told it to use, but you can get over to the paperback with one click.)

When last I checked, "Look Inside" wasn't yet functional for the Kindle ebook. If you encounter that problem, feel free to email me at kawyle@att.net, and I'll send you the first couple of illustrations. (You could also "look inside" the paperback, though it'll display single pages, i.e. half of the illustration at a time.) (Of course, you could just buy the book . . . . 🙂 )

Happy reading, all!

One more advance look before Release Day!

 Only one more day before the release of When It's Winter, the picture book on which I collaborated with the wonderful Barbara Dessi! Here's a final advance peek at Barbara's wonderful illustrations.

The book follows a day-long arc, and this image comes close to bedtime. I love everything about it.

a peek at another line from upcoming picture book

 In keeping with my pattern of alternating looks at art and text in my upcoming picture book When It's Winter, here's another line.

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When it's winter ... my dog helps me make a snowman.

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(The illustration for this line is one of my favorites, but you can see that soon enough, with the book's Amazon release scheduled for Tuesday, October 26th.)

Tomorrow, another picture!

next advance look at illustrations in upcoming When It's Winter picture book

 Here's another advance look at Barbara Dessi's lovely illustrations for When It's Winter! My only challenge is deciding which ones to share before the book comes out (Amazon's Kindle and paperback editions) next week.

And I've chosen . . . this one!

Tomorrow, I'll share another line from the book. And two days after that, if all goes as it should (fingers, toes, and eyes crossed), the book will be available on Amazon.

another advance look at the picture book When It's Winter

 I've decided to do something a little different this time as I lead up to, or count down to, the release of When It's Winter. (That'll be the release of the Kindle and paperback editions on Amazon, with wider release of the paperback, and a hardcover edition, to follow when logistics permit.) I'm alternating advance peeks at illustrations and at text.

Today's line:

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When it's winter ... I can make a cloud just by breathing.

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What did illustrator Barbara Dessi do with this line? And what part will the little dog play? You can find out in just a few days!

And since I hate to end this post without including any art, here's the cover again. 

Announcing the release date for picture book When It's Winter -- on Amazon, at least -- and pre-release plans

 After some dithering, I've decided to release my picture book When It's Winter, illustrated by Barbara Dessi, in five days, on October 26th. That is, I'll be releasing it on Amazon. I would love to release it on IngramSpark as well, in the hope of interesting some bookstores -- but it appears I won't actually receive the physical proof copies of either the paperback or the hardcover edition until mid-November or later. I am restraining myself, just barely, from releasing IngramSpark's version of either edition sight unseen.

Wish me luck! Patience has never been my strong suit.

In the meantime, I'll post a few advance peeks at illustrations in the days leading up to the release, in order of their appearance in the book. (I already did a cover reveal in a previous post.)

Oh, okay, here's the first one . . . .

What do you think the text is for this winter scene?

By the way, the dog shows up in almost every spread. 🙂

Picture book cover reveal!

 I don't have a firm release date, for various logistical reasons, but sometime this month (Fates willing), my picture book When It's Winter will make its appearance. And here's the front/Kindle cover!

As you can see, it's illustrated by Barbara Dessi, and I'm delighted with what she hath wrought. The book will be available in Kindle, paperback, and hardcover editions.

Closest to the Fire: A Guide to American Law and Lawyers is now available!

 One last fanfare from the weary trumpeter who heralds my new releases, with this third release in just over three weeks . . . .

After belatedly admitting to myself that my 2015 nonfiction book, Closest to the Fire: A Writer's Guide to Law and Lawyers, had an unduly limiting and therefore misleading subtitle, and after keeping track for six years of all the updates the book could use (and posting them on the book's website), there is finally an updated and somewhat retitled edition. Closest to the Fire: A Guide to American Law and Lawyers still has plenty of tips and story ideas for authors and aspiring authors, to help them get their legal facts straight and explore the less drearily common legal plots and settings -- but I hope the revised title will now offer a clue of the book's value to law students, other students, visitors to this country, and any Americans who want to better understand the legal landscape in which they live.

As the only slightly overblown back cover copy says: ""The legal landscape can be a minefield. Here's a map."

The book is meant to be consulted in any order the reader chooses, with the Table of Contents and Index as a guide -- but I've been told by readers of the 2015 edition that it makes surprisingly entertaining reading, even starting from the beginning and plowing on through.

Here are the links to the book on Amazon -- including Kindle Unlimited -- and Barnes & Noble. Happy reading!

last pre-release excerpts from Closest to the Fire: A Guide to American Law and Lawyers

 I wasn't sure what excerpt or excerpts to include in this final pre-release post. In the end, I decided on two excerpts, the first having to do with what juries can get away with.

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G. Jury Nullification and Other Shenanigans

One open secret about juries is that in criminal trials, jurors don’t have to do as they’re told. This is a big part of why we have juries at all. They’re a failsafe against laws that may be unduly harsh or out of step with current societal values. If the law is unjust, the jury may simply refuse to apply the law. Such a refusal is called “jury nullification.” This power can be extrapolated from several U.S. constitutional provisions. In addition, four states, Georgia, Indiana, Maryland, and Oregon, have state constitutional provisions or statutes saying the jury is the judge of, or has the right to determine, both “the law” and “the facts” of the case. (In Indiana, it’s Article I, §19 of the state constitution.) Twenty more states have more limited provisions that apply to civil suits for libel, presumably due to the importance those states accord to freedom of speech.

Judges, understandably, would just as soon that jurors didn’t know they have this option. The defense generally won’t be allowed to argue that the jury should ignore the law. The most the defense may be able to do is get a jury instruction (see 27.B.) citing the “judge of the law and the facts” language if it exists in that state — and then largely contradicting it by saying that the jury should follow the law as the judge has explained it to them. **A clever defense attorney might be able to hint, just enough, at the possibility of jury nullification that even if the trial judge intervenes and tells them to ignore what the attorney said, the jury will have picked up the clue.**

(There's also something called "jury vilification" -- but it's something a judge does. If a judge unjustifiably ignores a jury's verdict, e.g. by directing an acquittal after the jury has convicted when the evidence could justify conviction, that's jury vilification. See 5.C. re judicial misbehavior.)

If a jury does break the rules, it’s not so easy to do anything about it, especially if the verdict’s already in.

During a trial, including while the jury is deliberating, there are various things a judge can do if informed that a juror has misbehaved. If, for example, some other member of the jury reports that a juror has hidden a powerful motive to rule for one party or the other, or has done significant research into some factual or legal issue, the judge may dismiss that juror and interrogate the other jurors to see whether their own ability to deliberate impartially has been affected. The judge could admonish (lecture) the other jurors, reminding them of their duty, or could even surrender and declare a mistrial (see 9.D.). It’s anybody’s guess what most judges would do if confronted, mid-trial, by the knife-shopping expedition out of which Henry Fonda’s character made such hay in Twelve Angry Men. Different judges will allow different amounts of latitude to juries who perform experiments with items already in, or similar to items in, evidence. **But one could base a story on such events, aiming for anything from farce (“but Henry Fonda did it!”) to tragic irony (e.g. an acquittal prevented by a mistrial, followed by conviction of the innocent defendant in a second trial).**

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For my last pre-release excerpt, I'm serving up a rather timely discussion about the First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, and what it actually protects.

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1. The First Amendment

The First Amendment plus the Fourteenth (see the intro to this chapter) prevent the federal, state, and local governments and their agents from:

>> “establish[ing]” any religion;

>> “prohibiting the free exercise” of any religion; 

>> “abridging” the “freedom of speech,” the “freedom of the press,” “the right of the people peaceably to assemble,” and the right of the people “to petition the government for a redress of grievances.”

None of these restrictions on government power are straightforwardly defined, and the definitions keep changing. What government actions constitute an “establishment of religion” is a particularly tangled thicket, with frequent litigation about whether a town hall may open with a prayer (currently, yes, if the prayers are theoretically open to all religions) and whether religious symbols such as Nativity scenes may be erected with public funds or on government property (currently, no, unless there actually are a variety of comparable secular displays in the same location as well).

[. . .] 

Freedom of speech covers only government restrictions on speech. If, for example, a magazine refuses to publish certain points of view, that’s not “censorship” in the sense of a violation of the First Amendment: the magazine, as a private entity, has every right to decide what speech it will tolerate.

The definition of “free speech” has been stretched over the years to include a good deal of nonverbal-but-expressive conduct, such as nude dancing (if the context is arguably artistic). It can also include loudly airing one’s displeasure at what a police officer is doing, though at some point such conduct could shade over into “disorderly conduct,” “disturbing the peace,” or interfering with the officer’s performance of their duties” (see 13.O.). When someone yells obscenities or insults at a police officer, states may differ as to whether police officers should be treated as having a higher threshold of endurance than the general public. More generally, there is often a two-stage analysis:

1. Did the state (or municipality) restrict expressive activity?

2. Did the defendant “abuse” their free speech rights to the point that they’re no longer protected?

The court may combine several balancing tests, looking at how much the state interfered with the speech, and at how much of a nuisance or injury the defendant’s conduct imposed on bystanders, nearby property owners, etc. If the speech had political content, even if liberally larded with obscene emphasis, the state will have to show more in the way of damage done.

Free speech definitely includes expressing unpopular and “offensive” opinions and trying to persuade people to come around to those opinions. That’s why rules that try to “protect” students at public universities from being offended or upset run afoul of First Amendment concerns.

What about “fighting words”? The idea that some insults provide so much provocation as to put them outside First Amendment protection came from the 1942 Chaplinsky case, in which the U.S. Supreme Court held that calling a city official a “damn racketeer” and a “damn Fascist” fell into an unprotected “fighting words” category. [. . .]To the extent the “fighting words” doctrine survives, it now refers only to personal insults directed at specific people, and does not allow even those insults to be punished under statutes that could also be used to punish a broader variety of offensive statements.

State and lower federal courts have often disagreed as to just what insults may still be treated as crimes. As already mentioned, there may be a tendency to treat insults directed at police officers as constitutionally protected comments on governmental activity, where the same insults aimed at a private citizen would have no such protection.

Some state college administrators, whose colleges come within the rules for governmental institutions, fall back on the fact that the Supreme Court never explicitly overruled Chaplinsky as allowing them to prohibit “offensive” speech. This argument has not fared well in the courts.

Another much-misunderstood notion is “clear and present danger,” for which the best-known example is shouting “Fire!” in a crowded theater. This example was used in a 1919 U.S. Supreme Court case that actually involved a very different sort of speech, namely encouraging young men to resist the draft during World War I. (This period was not exactly a high water mark for U.S. civil liberties.) If speech posed a “clear and present danger” of leading to consequences the government could legitimately seek to prevent, it could be prohibited and punished.

The Supreme Court overturned this ruling around fifty years later. Abandoning the “clear and present danger” standard, the Court held that speech could not be made illegal unless it incited “imminent lawless action.” “All of you go out right now and burn down the theater!” would presumably qualify.

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That's all! I hope these excerpts have been interesting and/or informative -- and that they've whetted your appetite for more. If you want to know about the many, many subjects from which I haven't taken excerpts, then tomorrow you can use "Look Inside" to see the Table of Contents on Amazon -- or, of course, get the book there, or at Barnes & Noble, or anywhere else you find it. (There may be a delay in the Kindle edition, for reasons too dull to relate. And whether there will be a non-Kindle ebook edition is currently uncertain.)

A short and a longer excerpt from this coming Friday's nonfiction book release

 Two excerpts for the (nonexistent) price of one today -- a short introduction to the section on the pace of legal proceedings, and a longer (all right, long) look at RICO (the federal Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, which now extends far beyond its apparent context).

Here's the first:

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A. Intro: "Abandon All Hope "

Lawsuits are hell. Or would be, if Hell were expensive.

Like Hell, they last forever.

Like Hell, they often end up making you regret whatever you did to get there.

I’ve sometimes thought that every courthouse door should bear the same inscription that greeted those entering Hell in Dante’s Inferno: “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

That’s obviously an unfair and jaundiced view. As I said earlier, the judicial system, with all its faults, is a better way to resolve disputes than, say, mortal combat. Sometimes, justice is done, and done without overwhelming unintended consequences for the parties.

But if an author is going to write about litigation, they should keep in mind the enormous financial, logistical, and emotional burdens involved. And anyone with a choice about whether or not to embark on litigation should think very carefully about that choice.

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And the second:

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C. You Too May be Treated Like a Gangster: RICO

It all started with some very frustrated law enforcement folks. They were having a devil of a time getting juries to convict gangsters. Oh, they finally got Al Capone on taxes, but wasn’t there some easier way?

Enter the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act (RICO), in 1970. RICO was designed to make it easier to convict participants in organized crime by focusing on how organized crime actually functioned, and to nail the kingpins rather than just the small fry actually doing the murder, shakedowns, pimping, drug dealing, etc. It did this by:

>> Focusing on “patterns of racketeering.” This was supposed to mean multiple violations of the sort of laws organized crime might violate in the regular course of business.

>> Including those who initiated the criminal activity, even if they weren’t out on the streets committing violent acts and so forth.

>> Providing for pretrial restraining orders seizing the assets that would otherwise pay for the finest criminal defense teams.

 At some point after RICO was passed, and certainly by the 1980s, the feds figured out that RICO could be a handy tool well outside its original context.

Various portions of RICO deal with investing proceeds from a pattern of racketeering in an “enterprise,” or using such proceeds to maintain an interest in the “enterprise,” or conducting the affairs of an “enterprise” through a pattern of racketeering. Most courts require the defendant to be someone or something other than the “enterprise,” though the minority view has been gaining adherents. Where there’s a requirement of two separate participants, that requirement may be satisfied even if there’s only a sole proprietorship involved, if there’s some formal separation between the individual and the business or if the business has employees. Where a corporation is the target, sometimes the corporation is the “enterprise” and its officers or employees are the participants. Where a civil suit is contemplated, this may raise the tactical problem of whether the lawsuit is financially worthwhile, since many courts won’t allow the use of a “respondeat superior” approach (see 14.Q.) to let the plaintiff sue the corporation for its agents’ misdeeds.

So what makes up a “pattern of racketeering activity”? A business (again, potentially including an individual in business as a sole proprietorship) may be accused of violating RICO if it uses the U.S. mail or telephone twice in 10 years for a “predicate act.” A “predicate act” is any of a list of underlying crimes that might not be so serious, if RICO wasn’t available to ratchet them up. Use the mail or the phone at least twice in 10 years for one of these acts, and that’s deemed a pattern of racketeering activity.

What are these predicate acts? There are many, and some are awfully easy to commit. Here are a few examples of some “predicate acts” that may not immediately make you think of gangsters and the like:

>> Selling (or maybe just distributing) a video of a live musical performance without permission.

>> Using income that came from collection of a gambling debt, if the gambling involved violated any federal, state, or local law, in interstate commerce (which includes a whole lot of types of economic activity).

>> Using income from “usury,” charging more interest than some law allows, to acquire any interest (such as corporate shares) in any entity involved in interstate or foreign commerce.

>> Selling goods or services with counterfeit trademarks.

>> Obstruction of justice, of an investigation, or of state or local law enforcement.

>> Making a false statement in a passport application.

>> Interstate transportation of a stolen car or other stolen property.

>> Criminal infringement of a copyright.

>> Violating restrictions on payments to a labor organization.

>> Harboring an illegal immigrant.

>> Conspiracy to participate in any of these (or the many other listed) acts.

Some of these federal crimes may, for a criminal conviction, require proof of some sort of intent — but under RICO, the only elements the prosecution must prove beyond a reasonable doubt, the usual standard for criminal prosecutions, are the “pattern” elements. The underlying crime, the predicate act, need only be proved by only a preponderance of the evidence! (Yes, I find this shocking.) 

Also, as already mentioned, under RICO the feds can seize or freeze all the assets of the business involved at the time of indictment, before any proof that the predicate act has been committed. Those assets may be the defendant’s only chance of hiring a sufficiently able and experienced attorney. The pressure to accept a plea bargain can thus be overwhelming.

The penalties for violating RICO include very long prison terms and forfeiture of assets unrelated to the criminal activity.

As mentioned above, RICO also has a civil side, allowing suits in both state and federal court. A successful plaintiff can collect treble (triple) damages (see 30.B.3.). One new twist recently in the news: some spouses of the wealthy, claiming that their spouses have hidden assets, are trying to pull their divorce actions into federal court and use civil RICO. This hasn’t succeeded so far, as far as I know, but stay tuned.

RICO has been used against many organizations unrelated to organized crime, including Catholic dioceses, Major League baseball, companies that hired illegal aliens, and anti-abortion activists who blocked entrances to abortion clinics.

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One more day of excerpts, and then the book! -- which, by the way, one can preorder on Amazon and on Barnes & Noble.

Second excerpt from upcoming nonfiction book -- about representing yourself in court

 Here's the next excerpt from my next (and last) July release, Closest to the Fire: A Guide to American Law and Lawyers. It concerns something that people sometimes have to do, but shouldn't usually do unless they have to.

(The pairs of double asterisks mark situations that could make good story material for authors of fiction.)

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K. Pro Se, or Courting Disaster

Representing oneself, rather than having a lawyer represent one, is called appearing or acting pro se. 

It’s a perfectly good idea for a lay person to represent themselves in court — if they should have gone to law school in the first place, have a great deal of time to prepare, and are inhumanly objective about the matter at hand. Otherwise, it’s probably a terrible mistake.

Representing yourself in court without adequate legal training is like waltzing through a minefield without a map. In the dark. The odds are enormous that you’ll go up in smoke. More prosaically: a non-lawyer acting pro se is likely to miss the chance to introduce crucial arguments and evidence, because they won’t know how and when to fulfill procedural requirements. (Note: federal courts cut pro se litigants a little more slack.)

Given these difficulties, and the possibility of tricking a non-lawyer into making some damaging argument or admission, you might think an attorney would rub their hands in glee when faced with a pro se litigant; but the numerous delays while the judge tries to cope with the pro se party’s ignorance can be so maddening that most lawyers dread such cases.

For judges, there’s no “up” side. The trial or other hearing is likely to drag on much longer, with a just result much harder to achieve. If the pro se party failed to provide motions or other required documents to the opposing attorney beforehand, it may be necessary to schedule an additional hearing, adding to the court’s already overburdened calendar. Moreover, the judge has a very tricky line to walk: how much assistance may they provide before becoming, essentially, an advocate for the unrepresented party? Examples of help that might or might not be excessive (because different jurisdictions and different appellate courts may disagree) include:

>> Relaxing rules of evidence, such as the necessity to lay a proper foundation before admitting documents.

>> Overlooking missed filing deadlines.

>> Excluding objectionable evidence even though the pro se party doesn’t know enough to object.

>> Summarizing some key aspect of the applicable law at the start of the hearing, and/or prompting the pro se party as to what is or isn’t relevant.

If the judge does decline to enforce some procedural requirement, they had better be even-handed about it, allowing the same latitude to the attorney on the other side.

[. . .]

In criminal cases, because going pro se is such a bad idea, and because defendants have a constitutional right to legal representation (see 2.M.), the judge is supposed to make sure that any defendants stating the intention to represent themselves know how badly it may backfire before allowing the fiasco to unfold. In the civil context, however, urging a pro se party to get a lawyer has occasionally been held improper.

Even lawyers, when they find themselves in the position of litigants, are well advised to hire another lawyer. It’s almost impossible to keep your emotions and partisan viewpoint from clouding your legal judgment in this situation. There’s an old, wise saying among lawyers: “He who represents himself has a fool for a client.” (The pronouns are obviously outdated.)

On the other hand, it’s rarely much fun for a lawyer to represent another lawyer. They won’t sit back and let their lawyer run things. They’re full of tactical suggestions and demands. **One could have some fun with how an experienced, older, crusty attorney deals with being in the position of client for a change, and how their lawyer tries to maintain control of the case.**

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Tomorrow, a pair of excerpts (the first very short): lawsuits as Hell, and a look at the wide net cast by RICO.

More excerpts! -- this time from my upcoming nonfiction release about American law and legal practice

 My Month of Many (well, three) Releases is nearing its end: my updated and slightly retitled nonfiction book, Closest to the Fire: A Guide to American Law and Lawyers, comes out on July 30, 2021. (What's retitled is the subtitle, which originally read A Writer's Guide to Law and Lawyers. The 2015 edition grew out of a series of blog posts about how to write about the law and get it right. It took me quite a while before I not only realized that the book could be of interest to a larger audience, but accepted that the subtitle was failing to alert that audience.)

This is a big brick of a book, in its paperback incarnation, and a long one as an ebook. A few excerpts amount to rather less than a drop in the bucket. But I'll try to pick a few that give some idea of the book's content and approach. Starting with . . .

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D. Defending the Guilty

As mentioned already, there’s one key fact you must understand about criminal defense work: most of a defense lawyer’s clients are guilty. If a law student somehow doesn’t learn as much before undertaking to represent criminal defendants, they will end up disillusioned in a hurry. And stories where an experienced defense attorney crumples in anguish and doubt because the defendant may be guilty are, in a word, ridiculous.

That isn’t to say that innocent people never get charged with crimes – unfortunately, they do. But that happens a good deal less often than the cops catching someone who’s guilty of at least some of the charges that end up being brought. As explained in 9.A., the plea bargaining dance frequently includes prosecutors tacking on a few dubious charges to intimidate the defendant and create some bargaining room. Why would anyone knowingly make a habit, and a business, of defending the guilty? There are several reasons, any of which could matter more or less to a particular lawyer: >> Even with all the plea bargaining, criminal defense work is likely to involve a fair number of trials. If trials are what get a lawyer’s blood pumping, they may choose criminal defense. >> There’s an unending supply of clients. Most of them don’t have “deep pockets,” but a sizable percentage will have some resources they can tap if the lawyer doesn’t charge too much. And in a county with overburdened public defenders (see 2.F. and 2.M.), the courts may regularly appoint private attorneys to represent criminal defendants, for a modest fee that’s still considerably better than nothing. >> There is, in fact, a place for idealism in criminal defense, but it’s about defending basic principles rather than defending lots of innocent individuals. If we value the idea that the government must prove a person guilty beyond a reasonable doubt (see 20.C.) before depriving that person of life, liberty, or property, someone needs to hold the state to that high standard in every single case. The accused must receive a zealous defense, not because they necessarily deserve it, but because we as a society — as well as the occasional completely innocent person charged with a crime — do deserve it. Such legal idealism can be severely tested when a defendant is generally believed guilty of a particularly horrific crime. Robert Redford's movie The Conspirator chronicles one such situation, although I can't attest to its historical accuracy. After President Lincoln's assassination, Mary Surratt, who owned the boardinghouse where the conspirators often met, was one of those arrested, in what may have been an attempt to lure her son John out of hiding. A young Northern Civil War veteran, Frederick Aiken, was appointed to defend Mary, and (according to the film) was much vilified for performing that duty, eventually losing his girlfriend as a result. (The movie, which I haven't seen, may also use the "lawyer appalled that client may be guilty" trope I criticized above, but at least it doesn't attribute such sentiments to an experienced criminal defense attorney.) A similar and more recent occurrence involved alleged terrorists detained at Guantanamo Bay in the years following the 9-11 attacks. Many attorneys from well-known law firms volunteered to represent the detainees pro bono (without charge). A senior Pentagon official publicly expressed his dismay and suggested that the law firms' corporate clients should boycott these firms. His comments generated an immediate and powerful backlash from prominent lawyers and legal professional associations, as well as some politicians — but whether any corporate CEOs followed this advice is unclear.

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That's a pretty serious topic, and the excerpt reflects the fact. So here's one very short piece that's lighter in tone.

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E. Pit Bulls and Puppies: Variations in Style

Many clients want an aggressive, take-no-prisoners attorney, particularly in litigation. There are some of those out there, but for quite a while, law school trial practice courses have discouraged that style as counterproductive. The client is usually better off with one of the many lawyers who speak softly and carry a sense of proportion and good people skills.

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More tomorrow!

My first picture book is out!

 Ta-da! You Can't Kiss A Bubble, with illustrations by Siski Kalla and text by your humble (occasional) blogger, is out today in Kindle, paperback, and hardcover editions. Here, one more time, is the cover. (As I may have mentioned, this is the Kindle and paperback cover. The author and illustrator info is in the big bubble on the hardcover, to avoid printing problems, but the interiors are identical.)

And here's where you can get it from Amazon or from Barnes & Noble.

And here are the links to follow me on Facebook or Twitter, or to sign up for my monthly author newsletter. The latter includes not only news about upcoming releases and forays into new genres, but occasional "extras" like character art, excerpts, and cover reveals.

Happy reading!

last peek inside You Can't Kiss A Bubble -- coming out tomorrow!

 The wait is almost over -- You Can't Kiss A Bubble comes out tomorrow! 

Here's one more of my favorite artistic moments, by Siski Kalla.

What are the girl and the bubbles doing? . . .

If you expect to be absent-minded tomorrow, you can preorder the book today on Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

Another look inside my and Siski Kalla's upcoming picture book

 Here's another favorite moment of mine from You Can't Kiss A Bubble.

Can you guess the text that goes with it?

If you click "Want to Read" on Goodreads, you'll get an alert (besides my blog post :-) ) when the book comes out this Friday. 

Third glimpse of You Can't Kiss A Bubble

 Here's a reminder that Siski Kalla did the delightful illustrations.

And here's part of one of them.

No, I don't promise readers that they could actually do what the girl is doing.

More tomorrow!

Second peek inside my upcoming picture book

 Today, I'll answer the question I posed last time. When you try to kiss a bubble . . .

Of course, the book itself shows how the girl reacts.

Next, I'll post just a few favorite moments from the book (partial illustrations, with or without text).

The book comes out this week, on July 23rd! (Yesterday's blog post has preorder links.)

glimpses of my upcoming picture book, You Can't Kiss A Bubble -- starting now

After posting excerpts prior to the release of my latest novel, it occurred to me to do something leading up to the release of my very first picture book -- though not exactly the same thing.

For starters, here's the cover again (because I couldn't, or didn't, resist).

(BTW, the hardcover will have the author and title info in the big bubble, under the title, for reasons having to do with the mechanics of hardcover production.)

I'm not going to post full two-page illustration spreads -- but how about some tantalizing glimpses? Here's the first, from the first illustration page.

This little girl wants to kiss a bubble. How do you think that works out?

* * *

You can now preorder the paperback and hardcover editions from Amazon or Barnes & Noble. 😊

Release Day! for What Shows the Heart (Cowbird Creek 3)

 I've got good news and bad news, both highly predictable. The bad news: I'm done posting excerpts from What Shows the Heart (though my website now has links to all of them). The good news: if so inclined, you can go get the book!

Here's the Amazon link. It goes directly to the Kindle edition, but is linked to the paperback as well. If you subscribe to Kindle Unlimited, the book should be there, ready and waiting.

If you prefer shopping for paperbacks at Barnes & Noble, here you go.

For those who haven't been reading the excerpts and want to know what this journey to 1870s Nebraska entails, here's the teaser.

------

Will he reveal his secret? Will she expose her heart?

After Jake, son and grandson of preachers, tried and failed to protect Mamie from small town cruelty, Mamie left their small town to fend for herself. Neither expected to see each other again. Now, many years later, Jake is a bitter man with little beside regrets, and Mamie, after much struggle and hazard, runs the thriving parlor house in Cowbird Creek. Can they make a future together, or will the shadow of Jake's past overtake them both?

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Happy reading!

Final pre-release excerpt from What Shows the Heart, coming out tomorrow

 Only one more day until the release of What Shows the Heart! And to reward myself for waiting almost a week before posting the cover again . . . .

Now on to the excerpt. This one, a nice long excerpt (though I've omitted a bit in the middle) from Chapter 11, concerns what most of us view as either a childhood disease or a disease eliminated by modern vaccination practice. But it was a considerably bigger deal in the 1870s, as there was no vaccine available and more people caught it in adulthood.

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“We come from the same home town. Back then, he wasn’t the kind to live on the road — but back then, he wouldn’t have been able to handle that cowboy. Not even close.”

Clara took that in and then asked, “And you? What kind were you, back then? How did you come to know each other?”

Mamie let out something between a snort and a laugh. It hurt her throat. “Not through my present trade, nor that of my girls. In fact, little as anyone in town would have credited it, I was a virgin. But my mother had a reputation, and I had a body ahead of my years, and plenty of people in town put the two together and decided I must be cut of my mother’s cloth. That gave some of the boys the idea of bragging that they’d been with me, when their pizzles’d probably have shrunk down to straws if they’d got close to a girl’s pussy.”

“And Jake believed you?”

Mamie sighed. “Better than that — he guessed the truth somehow, though I’d given up denying the lies. Once he told me that — and he had a hard time putting tongue to it — I owed it to him to tell him he was right. We’d already ended up friends, somehow, and better friends after that. He was pretty much the only friend I had. He had a brother and they were pretty close, I think, but Ethan and I never really took to each other.”

Clara picked up a river birch leaf, yellow and fallen ahead of schedule, and twiddled it. “And Jake was the settled sort then? And less physically capable?”

Mamie’s arms ached enough that she lay back on the tarp, careless of her bonnet touching the ground. “His pa and grandpa were both ministers. His grandpa’d been to a college for it, away in Bloomington — we lived in Indiana, but a ways further south. They wanted Jake to become a preacher, and he seemed inclined to go along. He sure read the Bible enough — and believed it, for all I could tell, no matter how I teased him about it. Which seemed fitting for a skinny twig of a fellow, who might as well hope for help from Jesus when he couldn’t help himself in case of trouble.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. That hurt too. “But he tried, one time. That is, he didn’t try to help himself. He tried to help me. A few of the boys had caught up with me and surrounded me, calling me — well, you can guess the sort of names they called me — and kind of shoving me from one to the other like it was a fine new game. He came up and hollered at them to quit it, and when they ignored him, he grabbed one of the boys — and not even the smallest one, the damn fool — and tried to tug him away from me.”

Clara was sitting up straighter now. “I assume that didn’t end well.”

“It ended with Jake sprawled on the ground with a split lip, a bloody nose, and a broken wrist. I didn’t know then about the wrist, though. I left town that day.”

She shut her eyes. Clara didn’t say anything for maybe a minute, which left Mamie wondering what Clara was thinking about the way Mamie’d cut and run, without even seeing how heavy a price Jake had paid, let alone thanking him. But what Clara said had nothing to do with Jake or the past. “You don’t look well. How are you feeling?”

Mamie opened her eyes. The sun was on her face, and it hurt her head to look anywhere near it. She rolled her head to one side and said, “Not so good. My head aches, and my throat’s sore, and I have other aches here and there. And chills. I must’ve got some kind of fever, though I don’t know how.”

Silence again, and then, “You lie still. I’m going to touch the sides of your neck. I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

Her touch was gentle enough. It felt more strange than painful, as if Clara’s fingers sank in farther than she’d have expected. She heard a click that might have been Clara’s teeth coming together as her jaw set. Then Clara’s hand made its way under Mamie’s head. “I’m going to help you get up, and we’re heading back to town, slowly. We’ll go by my house, but neither of us will go in. I’ll call to Joshua and tell him what I’m seeing, and find out if his thoughts run the way mine do. But first — do you know if you ever had mumps?”

Once Clara got her sitting up, she started to shake her head and stopped when that hurt too. “Not as I remember. No one around me took much notice when I got sick, and I took as little notice as I could.”

Clara hoisted her to her feet. “Did you have siblings? Did you spend much time around other children?”

She’d spent more time dwelling on the past today than she had in years. Maybe that’s why her head hurt this much. “I had one sister, a lot older. She was married and living away from us by the time I was maybe six years old.” And that one visit to her, two towns away, had been Mamie’s first hint that life could be different. “Shiftless as my folks were, there weren’t many children allowed to get near us. I went to school for a year or so, but I got lice and they stopped me coming after that.”

They were walking now, Clara’s arm supporting her. “You must have done a great deal of study on your own, to speak and write as well as you do now.”

It was swallow another lump or start crying. She swallowed. “Jake taught me some. Enough that I got the taste for it, and kept up on my own when I had the chance. Especially once I decided I was going to make something of myself, not just stay a whore in one dirty hookshop or another.”

Clara replied quietly, “I don’t know how much time you and Jake spent together when he came through town, but it seems highly likely that he was proud, as well as pleased, with what his old friend has accomplished.”

That did it. She couldn’t not cry. At least she had a handkerchief in her pocket. She held it to her face, covering up as much as she could, as they made their way into town. 

[. . .]

Mamie slumped down and let the sun warm her, which felt good only as long as the chills lasted and then had her sweating. She waited, not even trying to identify the bird calls, only letting them hold her attention until she heard footsteps leaving the house and then stopping. She opened her eyes to see Joshua just outside the back door. He called out, “Can you hear me clearly from here?”

She smiled weakly. “So far.”

He had no smile for her in return. “I’m afraid I agree with Clara that you most likely have mumps. It’s quite contagious to those who’ve never had it. Are any of your ladies unwell?”

Mamie tried to think. “Not that I know of. But most of them would tend to keep it to themselves, rather than miss working and the pay that comes of it. There’s only two or three who’d play it up as a chance to be lazy.”

Joshua stroked his chin before going on. “It’s largely a childhood illness, but you’d be surprised how many adults have never had it — including me, worse luck. It posed quite a problem during the war, almost as much as influenza. And while most cases come and go without any permanent effects, there can be complications. One common symptom, whose emotional impact on men I’m sure you can imagine, is swelling of the testicles.”

Mamie stared and then laughed, steadying herself with both hands when laughing made her wobble. “I certainly can. I’m to keep my distance from my customers, then.”

Joshua lowered his eyebrows. “I’m afraid it means more than that. Mamie, you have to close down for a while. Until we know that any of the ladies who are going to get it have done so, and gotten past the infectious stage.”

Mamie’s jaw dropped. “And how long is that?”

“From the time the first symptoms start — which can be fever, headache, muscle pain, or loss of appetite — until about five days after the swelling beneath the ears starts. If we assume, for the sake of caution, that you’re the first to fall ill, it could take two weeks or more for the other ladies to show the first signs. We’ll see what develops, but you may have to close for close to a month.”

Mamie jumped to her feet, almost falling over sideways, barely catching herself on the wall in time. “I can’t do that! Do you know how much money I’ll lose, and all the while having the usual expenses?”

Joshua took one small step closer. She’d never before seen him look stern, and could hardly have imagined it. If she’d known, would she have been so quick to assume he could never be the kind of man to attract her? He didn’t raise his voice, but spoke slowly and clearly. “Mamie, if you don’t shut down, I’ll fetch the sheriff from the county seat and have him ensure that you do. I don’t like to think of how that might affect your future relationship with him. Or with me. But I cannot have you spreading mumps among men who may be vulnerable to it. One of the complications can be impaired fertility or even sterility.”

Mamie dropped back down onto the wall and covered her face with her hands. Clara came back over and sat down beside her. “Most men would find the swollen glands unattractive. You wouldn’t want word to get around that your ladies were odd-looking.”

“No, it’s better they should spread the word that my girls are diseased. I’ll be ruined.”

She let her hands fall away as Clara patted her shoulder. “We’ll just have to come up with a less discouraging cover story.”

-------

Who needs more excerpts when tomorrow, you can get the book? Happy reading!

Sixth pre-release excerpt from What Shows the Heart -- crooked gamblers

 We've almost made it to July 15th, the release date for What Shows the Heart! This excerpt is from Chapter 10.

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He’d sunk low before, though never as low as right before he left home. This might be the lowest since then.

Not tending bar — he could call that downright humanitarian, helping his fellow man ease life’s pains and sorrows with what the supposedly good Lord provided for the purpose. And tending bar in a casino was all right. No chance he’d be tempted to play any game he didn’t know inside and out — he’d right enough taken the lifetime cure for that.

When he was told to run the faro and Mexican monte tables, he’d even thought — more fool he — that he could keep things honest, make sure none of the miners who wandered in with their pay or a sack of gold dust in their pockets would be cheated blind. That was before the owner, devils gnaw his soul, drew him aside and said with a wink that whenever a short fat man with a limp and a red waistcoat came to play, or a tall handsome one with a bright red beard and broken-down boots, Jake was to keep his observations to himself and “let the cards fall as they may.”

He’d already paid half the coin he rode in with for a bed and a stall at the livery stable. He wouldn’t get more until the week was out. And when he asked around, folks said it’d be three days’ ride to the next town where he might find paying work. If that wasn’t stuck, it was damned close. It didn’t help that the look of the place made him more restless — fancy velvet wallpaper faded and scuffed, it made him think of Mamie’s parlor, if the parlor’d been darker and more crowded and no one had bothered to take care of it for years.

He’d made it most of the way to payday without either of the men coming in. And he’d shortened his suspenders so his trousers wouldn’t sag, eating light to hoard what coin he had left. He was setting up a faro table and daydreaming about a nice thick steak when he sensed someone looming over him. He straightened up to see a red beard, glanced down to check the man’s boots, and clenched his teeth so tight his jaw hurt.

By the time the table was full up, it had mostly grizzled old miners, maybe knowing enough not to be taken in. But then in came a bright-eyed young fellow, barely old enough to go down a mine and find his way up again, with a bounce in his step and jingling pockets. All he lacked was someone writing “fleece me!” on his forehead.

The swindler would probably let his target win once or twice. Jake would wait for his moment and try to give the kid a warning.

Sure enough, the first hand went the kid’s way. And the second. Which meant that by the time Jake brought the kid a drink “on the house” and whispered in his ear while setting it down, he was in no mood to listen. And when Jake straightened up, the red-bearded man gave him a narrow look, surely meant to menace him.

Too bad Jake didn’t menace easy.

He grabbed the kid’s arm, yanked him out of his chair, and shoved him toward the door. In a burst of inspiration, he hollered, “I saw what you tried to pull! Out you get before someone puts a hole in you!”

That confused the real cheat for maybe a second and gave Jake time to redirect his attention. When the red-beard came up out of his chair, Jake knocked him backward, the chair clattering down behind him and the man sprawling over it. That gave Jake enough of a head start that the first bullet whined its way past him. He didn’t linger to see where the second one went.

He ducked this way and that through the streets, hiding in shadows and behind outhouses, until things got quiet and he could creep up to his room, pack what little he’d unpacked, grab Wrangler, and ride out of town. He’d ride through the night. Good thing he hadn’t had a drink — he might stay on Wrangler’s back until dawn. Then he’d look for a handy haystack or shade tree to shelter him for a nap.

Time to head for the river. Maybe it’d take him somewhere he’d never been, somewhere he actually wanted to be. Not that he could picture what a place like that would be offering.

And if he took a riverboat job, he’d have to sell Wrangler. He’d make damned sure he found a buyer who’d treat him right. Jake was too old to betray any living creature — any more living creatures — and hope to live with it. Hadn’t Milton said something about the mind making a heaven of hell or a hell of heaven? No point looking for a better place to end up if his mind would just turn it into another earthly version of fire and brimstone.

How his grandpa and pa would laugh if they knew.

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Only one more pre-release excerpt to go! 

Fifth pre-release excerpt from What Shows the Heart -- Mamie says thank you

 Hello again, and welcome back to my week of pre-release excerpts from What Shows the Heart (Cowbird Creek 3)! Today's excerpt is from Chapter 7.

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Jake started out by strolling around the town square, seeing places people were working hard and half envying them, half glad he didn’t have to do any heavy work just that minute. He cast an eye at Madam Mamie’s as he approached, glad to see that no one was causing any obvious ruckus. Mamie was out on the small front porch, seemingly at ease in a well-made rocking chair, fanning herself with something black and lacy and foreign-looking. She used it to beckon him closer. “Good afternoon! Are you enjoying your walk in our balmy summer weather?”

He laughed. “It’s this or sit somewhere letting my dinner weigh me down like a prize pig.”

Mamie stood up. “Would you like company, or would you rather not remind the local citizens that your visit to town started with your setting foot in a parlor house?”

“Ma’am, the day I let people’s opinions worry me, I hope someone kicks me in the rear hard enough to straighten my head out. If you don’t mind leaving that shade behind, I’d be happy for you and your fan to come along.”

She stepped down, light on her feet for a woman carrying those generous curves, and handed him the fan, saying, “You’re taller, so you can do a better job. Where are we headed?”

“Hmm. I’ve already been down by the creek. What’s the opposite direction?”

Mamie gave him a wry smile. “Not a whole lot. But it’s pretty enough. And ‘not a lot’ suits me, as it happens.”

Which sounded worrisome, but he could hardly say so. “I’m with you. Lead on.”

That had come out a little more serious-sounding than he’d intended. He didn’t look at her for a minute or two, in case she was staring at him. Finally he glanced over, to see her evidently lost in thought. He said nothing, waiting for her to get through whatever was on her mind, as they reached the edge of town and the street became a footpath running across prairie grass.

Bird calls and their own footfalls kept it from being altogether quiet. When Mamie spoke, her voice was quiet too. “I’ve been wanting to say something. Something I never said before I ran away.”

He stopped and pivoted to look straight at her. “Ran away? I didn’t see it like that, not really. You had a right to go when you wanted to. And not a whole lot to stick around for.”

She looked down at her feet and then back at him. “I don’t suppose you know whether my family saw it that way.”

He chewed his lip a moment before saying slowly, “I can’t say as I ever noticed your family paying much attention to what all happened to you. And once you were gone, I had less reason to care.”

The sound she made was too bitter to call a laugh. “Can’t say as I disagree with that observation. . . . Anyway, thank you. For standing up for me when no one else did. For trying to help me.”

He turned away and started walking again. “Me trying didn’t do you much good, did it. Just gave people more to snicker at.”

She caught up and put her hand on his arm to slow him down. “It did me good that someone thought enough of me to take a chance, defending my reputation. You knew well enough you might suffer for it. You didn’t have to do that, and as bad as I felt at you getting punched and knocked down, I was still grateful. I didn’t even stay and make sure you were all right. Were you?”

He shrugged. “They broke my wrist.” She winced, and he added quickly, “The doc set it, and it healed up fine. It was all better by the time I left town myself.”

They walked a few more steps, breeze sighing in the tall grass, before she said softly, “I’ve wondered about that. About when you left, and about why. Did you just get tired of being pushed around?”

If only. “No, I knew it wouldn’t make much difference where I was until I got strong enough to defend myself, and learned how.”

She didn’t ask, but he could hear the question as clear as if she’d hollered it. He’d better say something, if as little as he could manage. “It was a family thing. With my brother and my father. One of those fights there’s no way back from.”

Mamie made a little noise as if she’d started to say something and thought better of it. He almost asked what, but the odds were he wouldn’t want to know. 

------

The sixth of seven excerpts posts tomorrow. Here's a teaser: someone's playing a crooked game . . . .

Fourth pre-release excerpt from What Shows the Heart (Cowbird Creek 3)

 Hello again! as we count down to the July 15th release of What Shows the Heart. Today's short pre-release excerpt comes from Chapter 6.

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Mamie’s breakfast next morning came accompanied by the weekly newspaper. She could hardly help but notice the headline, “Bold Newcomer Prevents Invasion of Departing Marshal’s Farewell Festivities.” A reporter had come by the next day and pestered her into giving a short interview with few specifics. The reporter, or perhaps the editor, had filled in the gaps with colorful fiction. The drunken cowboy had transformed into three fearsome ruffians, over whom Jake prevailed due to his unusual strength and admirable courage. Mamie swallowed her mouthful of coffee before she could snort it out her nose. Would people actually believe such stuff, when there were plenty of eyewitnesses to gainsay it? Though they might not want to remind the townspeople that they had been part of a gathering at her scandalous establishment.

She was somewhat surprised to see Rena come into the kitchen with the Omaha Daily Bee. Mamie kept it in the parlor for the occasional customer to look at while waiting. What was Rena doing with it?

Rena had folded the paper to show the personals ads, and she was too excited to apologize for disturbing Mamie’s breakfast. “Look, ma’am! There’s a rich gentleman looking for ladies with what he calls worldly experience, because he wants a wife as knows what’s what, and —”

Mamie snatched the paper out of her hand. “Oh, of all the nonsense! Girl, if you want to work at another house, probably a place with a row of huts and a line of unwashed men waiting their ten-minute turn before the next man shoves in, and get charged so much for your cot and the slop they feed you that you just get deeper into debt and can’t run off without some corrupt local lawman dragging you back, then by all means write to the gentleman and see how you like it. You think it over and let me know — after I’ve had breakfast. Scoot!”

Rena stood there with her lip quivering, then turned on her heel and ran out sniffling. Mamie blew out an exasperated breath and took another sip of her coffee — lukewarm. She started to thrust it toward Cook, then got ahold of herself and stood up to bring it to her. “Could you throw this away, please, and bring me hotter?”

Waiting for her coffee and scooping up some eggs, which had also got less than agreeably hot, she read the offending ad and put the paper down. She was about to look for any news of interest when another ad caught her eye.

E. in Deliverance seeks news of his brother J., not seen in many years. Please send word to . . . .

Mamie dropped the paper on the table just as Cook brought her fresh coffee. She forced a smile and thanked her, hoping she’d managed to act normal. She sipped the coffee, too hot this time, and gulped it down even though it burned her mouth.

Of course it could be anyone from Deliverance, maybe someone who’d arrived there in recent years, whose name started with E and had a brother — anywhere — whose name started with J. Why would Ethan be spending the money to put ads in who knows how many papers? How could he even afford it? It probably had nothing to do with Jake.

But . . . why had Jake left home?

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Tomorrow: Mamie thanks Jake for his courage on a fateful day in their adolescence.

P.S. I just found out yesterday that Barnes & Noble has the paperback available for preorder!

Third pre-release excerpt from What Shows the Heart -- a picnic

 Welcome back to pre-release week for the third Cowbird Creek historical romance, What Shows the Heart! I'll be posting the seventh excerpt the day before the book comes out on July 15th. Here's the third.

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Chapter 4

Mamie had been wondering when she’d be seeing Jake again. If she’d placed a bet, she’d have lost — it was only one day after the marshal left town that Trudi knocked on the office door. “That good-looking stranger who threw the cowboy out, he’s back and asking if you have time to see him.”

Jake had got good-looking, she had to admit. He’d shown signs of it even as a shy, weedy youngster, under his pa’s and grandpa’s thumb, tagging along after his big brother when his brother would let him. She’d given the brother, Ethan, a nickname too — Esau, because the Biblical Jacob had a brother by that name, and because he was supposed to be awfully hairy, and Ethan was a little on the hairy side. But he probably never knew about it, unless Jake had mentioned it.

Anyway, if Jake wasn’t a stranger to her, there was no need to mention it to Trudi or anyone else.

“Send him up, and I’ll find out how much time he wants. How would you feel about taking care of things around here for an hour or two, if it comes to that? It’d be instead of seeing customers.”

It could be that Trudi might have the makings of a second in command. She’d thought Amanda Jane would — if she’d lived, if she’d been as strong as Mamie had always thought her. Trudi might be tougher.

Trudi hustled down the stairs and came back leading Jake by the hand. Of course she would. Jake was looking at their hands and away again as if he wasn’t sure what to do about it. Mamie met them at the office door. “Thank you, Trudi. I’ll let you know whether I need you to help out as we discussed. Why don’t you go and see if there’s a customer for you in the meantime.”

Trudi let go of Jake and flounced away. Mamie sat back down at her desk. “Still here, I see?”

Jake didn’t quite snort. “Still here. For now. That’s part of what I was hoping to talk to you about. How busy are you? I could come back.”

It was morning yet, but getting on for midday. She had dinner at her desk most days — too damn often, actually — but she could allow herself a treat for once. “Tell you what — we could talk over some dinner.” In fact . . . . She laughed outright. “When was the last time you went on a picnic?”

Half an hour later, she’d passed the word around to tell Trudi — who she’d put in the small parlor, not her office — if anything needed handling, or to send someone to look for her down by the creek, near the big trees, if bad trouble blew up or blew in. She gathered the basket Cook had put together and then gathered up Jake, waiting in the kitchen and licking his lips at all of what Cook was packing. “Follow me.”

Jake bowed and whisked the basket out of her hand. “Yes, m’lady. Lead the way, m’lady.” She was mightily tempted to swat him, the way she once would have. But she’d need to get to know this older and different Jake before taking such liberties.

They walked down to a spot by the creek where the grass was thick and the rocks sparse. It was another scorcher, but a buckeye tree spread out its leaves to give them some shade. She waved toward a spot, and Jake obligingly set the basket down and opened it. Mamie pulled out the blanket at the top, unfolded it partway, and tossed one end to Jake. “Help me put this down.” After about a second, she added, “Please.”

Jake looked surprised when she pulled out plates. She stopped in the act of handing him one. “Of course, if you’ve got used to the crunch and flavor of ants in your dinner, I wouldn’t want to deprive you.”

He chuckled and reached for the plate. “I may as well try this fancified lifestyle you’ve got used to. And maybe a few ants will manage to join us after all.”

She emptied the basket, to give them the widest choice, and helped herself to a big wedge of cheese, a corn muffin, and a bottle of beer. She left the roast chicken to Jake, who seemed ready to appreciate it. She also left it to him to start on whatever he needed to talk about, though she could guess at the gist of it.

He was in no hurry to come to the point, for all that. He made it through two drumsticks and three corn muffins, washed down with water from his canteen, before he said through a mouthful of muffin, “I went to the station to see the marshal leave town. Quite a crowd there. Was he that popular, or are people here that bored?”

“Oh, folks liked him well enough. He did his job, and he never pushed people around for the fun of it.”

Jake rubbed his chin, the beard stiff enough that it barely budged. “I was wondering about that. About his job. What did he do all day? Sit on his behind with his feet on his desk? Walk around town looking up and down for anyone acting shifty? Nap?”

Mamie dabbed her lips with her napkin and lay back on the blanket, watching a breeze shove the leaves around and change the patterns of the shade. “I never troubled much about how he spent his time, so long as he wasn’t giving me and my girls any trouble. Some lawmen do, you know — treat whores as if they’re all thieves, out to cheat customers or pick their pockets, or to lure husbands away from wives. The marshal wasn’t bad, that way. He expected free service now and then, and I’m not fool enough to have said no.”

Jake frowned and muttered something under his breath, then looked her in the eye. “I wouldn’t. If they offered me the job and I took it. I’ve no interest in cheating a businesswoman. And whatever they’d plan on paying me, my needs are few enough, so I wouldn’t be needing any favors.”

Mamie sat back up and rolled her eyes. “Favors, is it? That’s a highfalutin’ name for it.”

He broke off a piece of muffin and tossed it at her. “You know that’s not what I was meaning.”

She caught the tidbit and popped it in her mouth, chewed it, gulped it down, and patted her stomach. “Thank you, sir. That was just what I needed to finish up.”

Jake stood up with a little groan and stretched. “And after that meal, I need something else. To get moving, I’m thinking.” He turned slowly around in a circle, as if looking for something to race or wrestle with, and stopped, looking at the tree.

 “That’ll do just fine!” He grabbed a big branch and swung himself up into the tree, climbing up hand over hand like some sort of monkey until he was halfway up. Then he leaned out and grinned at her.

She chose to take it as a dare. Grinning back as if the pair of them were nine years old again, she grabbed her skirts and and tied them in a knot. Then she walked quickly around the tree to the lowest sturdy limb, grabbed it, hoisted herself up enough to lay across it, and clasped it with her legs like a lover. That let her haul herself up to a sitting position, scoot to where the branches forked, lean back, and finally look up to see what he made of it. He was bent over laughing ‘til she thought he’d fall out of the tree. She could have joined in, but instead she settled herself as sedately as if she were sipping tea, and asked, “Now what were you saying about the marshal job?”

[. . .]

“What sort of other work might you want, if you agreed to be marshal but it wasn’t enough for you?”

He whacked the trunk with the branch he’d been holding and threw it to the ground. “That’s the trouble. I don’t see any coal or copper mines hereabouts, even if I wanted to go back to that work, and you’ve already got a blacksmith.” A crooked smile, more bitter than any smile should be, came and went on his face. “And I assume you’ve got a town preacher.”

When she’d mentioned what she would’ve guessed he’d become, she hadn’t had that notion in mind. He read her expression and gave a snort of laughter no more cheerful than the smile had been. “Of course, I’ve got no religion, and haven’t for some years. But I don’t reckon a preacher really needs it. Might be better if they knew they didn’t, instead of telling themselves they believed all that guff and not living up to it when it counts.”

The picture of young Jake, skinny and earnest and believing everything his daddy did, floated up like she was seeing double. “So you’ve left it all behind? Jesus, and heaven waiting, and the flames of hell licking at us, and Bible stories?” His name, and how serious he used to take it?

He actually spat, away from her and into the tree. “All the pretty stories. And the ugly ones. Plenty of those, there were. No, I decided long since that life isn’t about trying to make God love you more than your daddy could. Or reward you for letting people knock you down and trample you for the fun of it.”

There’d been a time when part of her wished he could make her believe life was something better than a cheap swindle. “So now you know that life is . . . .”

He shut his eyes like something was paining him. He wasn’t so far from his old self that he didn’t care. “Now I know life is getting through. Not letting people hurt you when they’ve no right to. Not letting bullies have their own way without paying for it. Leaving a mark, even if it fades as quick as a bruise on the bully’s face. And finding pleasure if you can’t find joy.”

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What Shows the Heart can be read perfectly well on its own, but if you'd like to get to know Mamie and the other returning characters first, and you have some time to read over the next few days, you can find the first two books -- What Heals the Heart and What Frees the Heart -- at this series link.

Tomorrow's excerpt: Mamie sees a (significant) personals ad. Until then!

Pre-release Excerpt 2 from What Shows the Heart

 I'm back, as promised, with the second pre-release excerpt from the third Cowbird Creek book, What Shows the Heart, coming out on July 15th. This one immediately follows the excerpt I posted yesterday.

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Jake reached the outskirts of the town — Cowbird Creek, that farmer had told him, not that it mattered much — and wiped the sweat off his forehead. It’d been a hot one, and not cooling down fast enough to suit him. He would cut the trail dust at the saloon with the tallest beer they had. And find Wrangler a whole trough-full of water.

Maybe the town would have a bed-house. He hadn’t had a woman in a month or more. Maybe that’s why he was so quick to fly off the handle these days, spoiling for a fight. A good brawl had its own satisfaction. And just like a willing woman, it reminded him how far he’d come from his younger days. Not so easy to push around now, and women not so hard to come by — when there were some around, and no husbands or fathers to get in the way.

Hmmm. The town wasn’t big, but it was bigger than he’d guessed. It might have two saloons or more.

But while he was looking and listening for signs of one, he caught a glimpse of red. A red lamp? He rode toward it. And once he could see the building plain, he kicked Wrangler into a trot. That was no ordinary hookshop. That, unless he’d fallen asleep on horseback and dreamed it, was a parlor house! It was almost a shame to walk into a place like that covered in caked-on dirt and baked-on sweat. He probably smelled worse than Wrangler.

A place that fancy would have its own bar, like as not, and maybe even a piano player.

But as he got close, what he heard was a far cry from piano music. Someone was cussing a blue streak, and another fellow was shouting back. By the time Jake jumped off Wrangler’s back and threw the reins around a post, he could see which was what. A cowboy almost as grimy as Jake was trying to push his way in, and for some reason a fellow in a fancy jacket was trying to stop him. And not doing too great a job of it.

Did this parlor house make its customers clean up first? That could annoy a man — it’d annoy Jake, with how he was feeling at present — but he didn’t much care for how the cowboy was handling it. And while the doorman, or whatever he was, might not appreciate a stranger horning in, it looked like he could use the help.

In the meantime, just the other side of the doorman, a crowd of gents had turned up inside, all dressed to the nines, and none of them offering to get their hands dirty. And they sounded like they’d been drinking pretty deep. Was every son of a bitch in this goddamn town drunk except for him? And him riding with a throat as dry as desert for the last five miles?

Jake grabbed the cowboy by the shoulder, yanked him out of the door, mostly ducked the man’s wild punch, and threw him halfway across the street. The cowboy landed hard, the wind knocked out of him, but after half a minute or so he managed to get up and limp back toward the door. Jake waited for him to get close and gave him one good shove.

The cowboy collapsed in a heap, and seemed inclined to stay there. Jake turned around to see the doorman slinking away. A crowd of ladies had appeared behind and around the gentlemen, and one of them squirmed on through, grabbed Jake’s hand, and pulled him inside. There he stood, surrounded by the smells of beer and whiskey from the men and perfume and face powder from the women, and it looked like he was minutes from being the middle of a tug of war between the men wanting to congratulate him and the women wanting him for other things.

And then a voice cut through the noise, feminine and commanding. “Girls, get back! And gentlemen, if you would, give the poor man room to breathe.”

Had the cowboy got in a punch Jake hadn’t noticed? Why was he feeling like Wrangler had thrown him, disoriented and confused? How could that voice sound so familiar?

The crowd had backed away, just like the woman had told them to. He could see her now, standing on a big polished staircase, a few steps up so she could see better. She had a grand shape to her, and blonde hair up in some sort of do, and a handsome face that had him as mazed as her voice. He stared, and then he gasped.

Jesus God, it was Mamie. Mamie from home.

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Tomorrow's excerpt comes a little further into the story. I hope to see you then!

It's time for pre-release excerpts from What Shows the Heart

 Hello, all, and happy July!

As has become my custom, I'm heralding the July 15th release of the latest Cowbird Creek historical romance, What Shows the Heart, with a week of pre-release excerpts. (Here's the cover again, which I promise not to include every time . . . .)

And here's the first excerpt, from the beginning of Chapter 1.

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Mamie inspected the bottle of blonde hair dye, almost empty, and set it on her overcrowded dressing table, where it barely fit between the silver-backed brush and the flask of perfume. There should be time for the next bottle to arrive before she needed to touch up her hair again. She’d just managed to stay on schedule and get the job done before the party guests had started showing up. Most of them, anyhow — just one more, and she could lock the front door. Ten men altogether, enough to fill the special dining room, and one of them the marshal — for three more days.

Here Cowbird Creek had finally got big enough to have their own marshal, and he’d gone and got himself engaged to a woman too fainthearted for the West, and smart enough to do something about it. Men always underestimated the power of a timid and clever woman. First she started on about how the only decent dressmaker had run off with a medicine show, and she just had to get her wedding clothes back East. And then, how important it was to have everything fitted in person, but she couldn’t possibly make the trip without her strong brave protector by her side, and it was all right because they were engaged already. And then, oh, she’d gotten the most wonderful letter from her daddy, who knew about a grand opportunity for a man like her husband-to-be, an office job where he wouldn’t be risking his life and leaving her lying awake at night, and he wouldn’t want her to risk her health with all that worrying, especially once she was in a delicate condition . . . . And now it would be a wedding in New York, and the city council would have to find another marshal or do without, and hardly enough time for them to give him a good sendoff.

Good thing for all those men that she knew how to throw a party, and had better booze than most any of the saloons. And good for her that they were willing to pay her prices for the booze and the space, so long as she let them make all the noise and mess they wanted — up to a point — until morning if they didn’t drink themselves unconscious first. (One of the younger council members had told her they’d talked about having the party at the church. She’d laughed out loud at the thought of it, and the council member, after a moment’s self-consciousness, had laughed along.) She’d made them pay enough that she could close down for the night, and not have to keep the usual customers from busting in on the mayor and council members and banker in their fancy suits.

Right on time, there went the first broken bottle, the crash and the laughter loud enough for her to hear it up in her office. 

She’d need to make an appearance soon, just to remind them not to start breaking the furniture. She checked her hair in the gilt frame mirror, making sure she’d covered the red roots (darker than they used to be) and put the color on even. No gray hairs yet, at least. No telling how much longer she had before they turned up, what with her less than a year from turning forty. Her mother had died with no gray showing, and Mamie hadn’t seen her sister — gone now too — since she was newly grown and Mamie far from it. They’d had an aunt who went silver quite young, before she got to Mamie’s age, and it had looked fine enough, but Mamie couldn’t let her own hair go that direction. Can’t have customers look at her and start thinking about their mamas.

The sound of shouting, now — but not the sort of shouting she should be hearing. Mamie hustled out of her room to the stairs and leaned from the top of the banister to see what sort of trouble she’d have to deal with next. Girls were spilling out of the small parlor — they must have been having their own little party to celebrate the night off — and out of bedrooms. She started down the stairs as fast as she could without running. “All of you go back to your rooms! I’ll handle this.”

This being a cowboy, dirty and scruffy and belligerent, and big and drunk enough to be giving her latest bouncer some trouble. The cowboy was slurring his words, naturally, but she could more or less make out what he was hollering as the two men shoved and wrestled just inside the doorway. “I been on a drive, and I’ve got my pay, and what do you mean you’re closed, you’ve got all these women and I hear men inside, and I’m comin’ in, and you’d better get out of my way before I lay you out and walk over you!”

Well, whatever happened, and however she got rid of this fellow, she’d be hauling her bouncer over the coals. What was she paying him for, if some cowboy could push him around?

And just what was she going to do now? Pry the marshal away from his party, she supposed, and wouldn’t that just make the guests happy. They’d be demanding their money back next. Mamie gritted her teeth and headed for the party room. The fellow was still marshal, though he might be too drunk by now to walk straight, let alone do his job.

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The book isn't available for preorder, but you can mark your calendars for July 15th and then check the Cowbird Creek series page, or just search for the book by title and my last name.

Until tomorrow!