Books, Reviews, Short Stories, Authors, Publicity, a little poetry, music to complement...and other stuff including politics, about life... "Books, Cats: Life is Sweet..."
J. Michael Luttig served on the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Fourth Circuit from 1991 to 2006. Prior to his time on the bench, Luttig was assistant counsel to the president under Ronald Reagan and clerked for then-judge Antonin Scalia and Supreme Court Justice Warren Burger. He also served as assistant attorney general at the Department of Justice and as counselor to the attorney general under President George H. W. Bush. The following interview was conducted by Mike Wiser for FRONTLINE on March 31, 2025. It has been annotated and edited for accuracy and clarity as part of an editorial and legal review. See a more complete description of our process here: https://to.pbs.org/4lVZKzA This interview is being published as part of FRONTLINE’s Transparency Project, an effort to open up the source material behind our documentaries. Explore the annotated transcript of this interview, and others, on the FRONTLINE website: https://to.pbs.org/44V0ZrL To access the annotated transcript here on YouTube, scroll below and click “Show Transcript.” Explore a collection of more interviews from “Trump’s Power & The Rule of Law” here on YouTube via this playlist: https://bit.ly/40ih9tV
Amendment I Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.
Author's Note: I am biased. I’ve been a journalist my entire adult life. I believe in my profession’s fundamental mission: to inform the public and hold the powerful to account. And based on my experience, I believe that most journalists—though we are by no means immune from mistakes—try to live up to that mission. Yet I recognize that not everyone agrees with me, and I have done my best in this book to understand and fairly portray these opposing perspectives. This book is based on a variety of sources. I interviewed more than two hundred people, including lawyers, judges, journalists, lawmakers, activists, and those whose reputations were harmed by what they perceived as false or unfair articles, books, and other published statements. I reviewed thousands of pages of court documents and obtained hundreds of pages of other materials through public records requests. And I relied on the previous work of countless journalists, academics, and others in newspapers, magazines, websites, books, podcasts, and elsewhere. Except in cases of people who spoke to me on a not-for-attribution basis, I have detailed my sources at the end of the book. I tried to talk to everyone who is featured in these pages. A few, told that I was working on a book about legal threats and intimidation, threatened to sue me, as I describe in more detail in the Epilogue. But most agreed to speak openly about their views and experiences. I am grateful for their help.
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I'm of an age that I remember news, books, and other media programs featuring "The Investigative Journalist" who breaks big stories of corruptions... I am thankful that there are many, like David Enrich, who have become "bias" in their work to ensure the creation of books that have been thoroughly researched, discussed and documented are still made available, even though banning of books has increased under this administration. I highly recommend this very readable book on, what I consider to be, the one most significant change that has evolved under the republican party and DJT--the loss of Truth in normal, as well as major political issues facing our world...
I hope you realize that for the last week or so, there has been little on the news except the release of the case against Epstein, a known child trafficker and rapist. It is NOT the issue per se, that has made this so significant. Rather it reveals the lies that Trump and republicans used to gain voters, but then are now changing their commitment because it has been found that DJT, Epstein's personal friend for at least 10 years, is included in that the case files multiple times... More is coming out daily!
Significance is that on every single subject, it has been Trump's process to lie during political campaigns, and then do nothing related to what he promised. So why is this any different. I would like to think that there are some of the Christian faith who were concerned about the rape of innocent children... But, it also could be that after what we saw Musk and Trump do to steal from the average citizens to gain money they would then be able to control, it has been revealed just how much corruption of the entire group that are republican and now in Congress or the administration, and that millions are becoming "woke" and protesting all over what they see is the unprecedented amount of corruption of our democracy...
It is also significant that a bad budget bill has been passed which, for just one major loss, will stop medicaid coverage for millions of Americans... Where are those who are not just as upset about this issue--or really should be even more concerned--that this bill passed so quickly was because of the total control over government due to how this was all arranged and publicly stated via Project 2025, and nobody took the time...to...care? I may not have read the entire book, but I do have a copy and I am fully aware that the actual individuals forcing all of this are those who have the financial power to ensure what they want is key to all goverrnmental actions at this time. Even the Supreme Court has been corrupted! And we who pay attention know this and ask... How is this happening that America has reached a point where corrupt politicians and their rich backers cannot be stopped?!
I may not be able to remember specific names, but I do have a great memory when I see how corruption has been brought forth and used against America. Consider, for instance, that the new president gave pardons to all those who had been convicted of crimes on January 6th when our Capitol was attacked. We all saw it! We've heard testimonies from those within the Capitol that day... We saw the rope hanging for Mike Pence because he finally chose to go against Trump... And, now, it is my opinion, that the ICE officers who wear masks are those who have been pardoned from January 6th--now are being paid with our tax dollars, and still beating up on people, hiding their actions, but following their cult leaders instructions. If I'm wrong, then give me a better reason to explain that, while in the heat of summer, men would willingly wear extreme face coverage while they arrest people who, have been proven, to have NO criminal records!
I am very aware that 3 women on the Supreme Court, has consistently voted against actions that are being guided by political power! I am also aware that Judge Thomas had been discovered to have NOT reported on the fact that he has accepted millions of dollars from rich men... This is and has been confirmed to be illegal by Senate members, but nothing has been done... All of the rest are "designated" as Conservative, or Right members and vote accordingly. When did Lady Justice remove her mask used to show blindness to political designation as key to studying the law and acting on best legal actions???
I think it is also important to point out that there is only one other woman on the bench now, who was appointed by Trump... She voted against Trump one time and, suddenly, she was ignored by Trump at public meetings... and we all saw her expression of... fear? disgust? or a realization to tow the republican line...?
Folks, the reason I use multiple videos is to ensure that I provide documentation about the issues/books that are being discussed (not reviewed). The last video, for instance, was not very informative, except for the cover! How did Donald Trump suddenly get in the middle of just about everthing that is happening in the world...while including a bright light encircles him... Does that mean, like in my opinion, that he has been pinpointed as the criminal he actually is?
There is so much regurgitation of the same issues, in my opinion on too many stations... While at the same time, are you aware that Trump's case regarding the New York Times of Wall Street Journal Epstein articles, also involved Murdock who also runs Channel 53, which was once a fully Trump supporter? Has something changed, or is this just another false conspiracy dual to take up time so that what Project 2025 is actually doing in the United States, such as the worst budget bill in history, except for the rich, is practically ignored?
The Truth is Indeed Being Murdered! I hope you will feel free enough to pinpoint some specifics in comments here or requests to cover a specific issue of concern to you, so that we can cover the really important issues that affect the average American! ... Because, by the way, for those who were raped by Epstein and his partners in crime, it is the victims who are now being forced to remember what happened to them each time they see Epstein's face or news about there being NO news as announced by the president...
Epigraph: A freshening stream of libel actions, which often seem as much designed to punish writers and publications as to recover damages for real injuries, may threaten the public and constitutional interest in free, and frequently rough, discussion. —Judge Robert Bork, concurring opinion in Ollman v. Evans, 1984
Judgment for plaintiff, Circuit Court, Montgomery County, Alabama; motion for new trial denied, Circuit Court, Montgomery County; affirmed, 144 So. 2d 25 (Ala. 1962); cert. granted, 371U.S. 946 (1963).
Holding
A newspaper cannot be held liable for making false defamatory statements about the official conduct of a public official unless the statements were made with actual malice.
New York Times Co. v. Sullivan, 376 U.S. 254 (1964), was a landmarkU.S. Supreme Court decision that ruled the freedom of speech protections in the First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution limit the ability of a public official to sue for defamation.[1][2] The decision held that if a plaintiff in a defamation lawsuit is a public official or candidate for public office, then not only must they prove the normal elements of defamation—publication of a false defamatory statement to a third party—they must also prove that the statement was made with "actual malice", meaning the defendant either knew the statement was false or recklessly disregarded whether it might be false.[2]New York Times Co. v. Sullivan is frequently ranked as one of the greatest Supreme Court decisions of the modern era.[3]
The case began in 1960, when The New York Times published a full-page advertisement by supporters of Martin Luther King Jr. that criticized the police in Montgomery, Alabama, for their treatment of civil rights movement protesters.[2] The ad had several factual errors regarding the number of times King had been arrested during the protests, what song the protesters had sung, and whether students had been expelled for participating.[2] Based on the inaccuracies, Montgomery police commissioner L. B. Sullivan sued the Times for defamation in the local Alabama county court.[2] After the judge ruled that the advertisement's inaccuracies were defamatory per se, the jury returned a verdict in favor of Sullivan and awarded him $500,000 in damages.[2] The Times appealed first to the Supreme Court of Alabama, which affirmed the verdict, and then to the U.S. Supreme Court.
In March 1964, the Supreme Court unanimously held that the Alabama court's verdict violated the First Amendment.[1] The Court reasoned that defending the principle of wide-open debate will inevitably include "vehement, caustic, and... unpleasantly sharp attacks on government and public officials." The Supreme Court's decision, and its adoption of the actual malice standard for defamation cases by public officials, reduced the financial exposure from potential defamation claims and frustrated efforts by public officials to use these claims to suppress political criticism.[4][5] The Supreme Court has since extended Sullivan's higher legal standard for defamation to all "public figures". This has made it extremely difficult for a public figure to win a defamation lawsuit in the United States. Read on for continued coverage of this important Ruling!
“Damn him. Damn him! Can’t he stay out of anything?” The fat cat, Galahad, padded in, plopped down in the doorway of the kitchen as if prepared to enjoy the show. “Do you see this?” she demanded of the cat, and slapped a hand on her sidearm. “You know why they gave me this? Because I can handle myself. I don’t need some—some man charging in to tidy up my mess.” The cat angled his head, blinked his dual-colored eyes, then shot a leg in the air to wash it. “Yeah, you’re probably on his side.”
Men were such pains in the ass, she wondered why she bothered to keep one. She’d been doing okay solo. It wasn’t as if she’d gone out looking for somebody like Ian McNab. Who would?
SHE TOOK HER HOUR AND WENT BACK TO THE beginning. She walked back through it, step by step, using the crime scene record, her own notes, the reports from the sweepers, the ME, the lab. She listened to statements, judging inflection, expression, as much as the words themselves. She stood in front of her board and studied each photograph, every angle. When Roarke came in from his office, she turned to him. He acknowledged the light in her eyes with a grin and cocked brow. “Lieutenant.” “Goddamn right. I was acting like a cop, doing the cop walk, but I wasn’t feeling like a cop. I’m back now.” “Welcome.” “Let’s eat. What do you want?” “Since you’re feeling like a cop, I suppose it best be pizza.” “Hot damn. If I hadn’t already rolled you, I’d probably jump you just for that.” “Put it on my account.” They sat at her desk, one on either side, with pizza and wine between them. He’d even put a tree in here, she thought. A small one, by his standards, but, by God, she liked looking at it over by the window, sprinkling light out into the dark.
“See, here’s the thing,” she began, “it doesn’t make any sense.” “Ah.” He gestured with his glass, sipped. “Glad that’s cleared up.” “Seriously. Here’s what you’ve got on the surface, when you walk cold into the scene: Dead woman, killed by multiple blows of a blunt instrument, head shots from behind. Previous bodily injuries indicating she’d been attacked and/or beaten the day before. Door locked from the inside, window not.” With a slice of pizza in one hand, she waved toward her board with the other. “Appearance, basic evidence points to intruder entering through the window, bashing her, exiting the same way. As there are no defensive wounds whatsoever, investigator would assume she probably knew her killer, or didn’t believe she was in jeopardy. Now, somebody pounds on you one day, you’re going to be a little concerned next time he pops around.” “Yeah, but you don’t know that—why would you think that—when you find the body? The killer had to be aware of at least the facial injury. It’s right there. And the same weapon was used. So we go back over it, with that data, and we have the murder being set to look like she was killed by whoever tuned her up.” She took a huge bite of pizza, savored the spice. “We got the killer using the previous injuries as smoke. That’s not bad. Not bad at all. It’s good thinking, just like taking her ’link was good thinking.” “Exploiting the victim’s greed and violent impulses.” “Yeah. But there’s little things that blow that. Again, no defensive wounds. No indication she was bound when she was beaten, and no sign that she attempted, in any way, to fight back or shield herself. Doesn’t wash. Then you add the angles of the bruising. “Which moves you to a different arena.” “Exactly. Then there’s the crime scene itself, the position of the body, and TOD.” “Time of death.” “Yeah, somebody strange comes in the window middle of the night and you can get out of bed, you run and you scream. She didn’t do either. So the killer came through the door. She let the killer in.” “The window’s still viable. If indeed she and her partner were having differences, he may have chosen to come in that way rather than risk her not letting him in.” “The window was locked. That’s the thing about memory. It’s tricky.” She took another bite of pizza, washed it down. “It’s the thing about having a cop on an investigation who knew the victim—who, once that memory gets poked, clearly recalls how the victim always locked every door, every window. The world was full of thieves and rapists and bad business, according to the Bible of Trudy. Even during the day, when we were in the house, it was locked like a vault. I’d forgotten that. She’s not going to leave a window unlocked in big, bad New York. It’s out of character.” “She lets the killer in,” he prompted. “Late-night visit.” “Yeah. Late. And she doesn’t bother to put on a robe. She had one in the closet, but she doesn’t bother with it and entertains her killer while wearing her nightgown.” “Indicating a certain level of intimacy. A lover?” “Maybe. Can’t dismiss it. She kept herself in tune. Face and body work. I can’t remember any guys,” Eve murmured, trying to look back into the past again. “It was only about six months I was there, but I don’t remember any guys coming around, or her going out with any.” “From then to now would indicate a very long dry spell.” “Can’t rule out a booty call,” Eve continued, “but I went over the list of her possessions, everything she had in that room: no sex toys, no sexy underwear, no condoms or any shields against STDs. Still, could be a long-term relationship—I’m not finding indications, but could be. Not a partner, though. Not on equal terms.” “No?” “She had to be in charge. She had to give the orders. She liked telling people what to do and liked watching them do it. Look at her pathology—take her employment record. Scores of jobs over the years, none lasting long. She didn’t take orders, she gave them.” “So, in her mind, fostering was perfect.” Roarke nodded. “She’s the boss, she’s in charge. Total authority.” “She’d think,” Eve agreed. “She was cruising toward sixty, and no marriages on record. Only one official cohab. No, she wasn’t a team player. Partnership wouldn’t work for her. So maybe she tagged this individual on her ’link. Get over here, we need to talk. She’s had some wine, some meds. Probably just enough to be floaty and full of herself.” “Another reason she might not have taken as much care as she might have otherwise.” Eve nodded. “She’s relaxed, medicated. And she’s figuring on squeezing you for the two million. She’s cracked her own face for it. Yeah, she’s full of herself. But how’s she going to squeeze you when she’s holed up in a hotel room?” “I’ve considered that already. You were off your rhythm,” he reminded her when she frowned at him. “Documented the injuries, I imagine, with a shaky, perhaps teary, account of the attack. An attack which would implicate either or both of us as the assailant, or—if she were more clever—which had the unknown assailant warn her that either or both of us would see she got worse unless she did what she was told.” He topped off the wine in Eve’s glass. “There would be a statement that this record was made to protect herself, in the event of her untimely death. Or further injury. In which case the record would be sent to the media, and the authorities. This documentation would be sent to me, as she’d trust me to decipher the subtext: Pay, or this goes public.” “Yeah, well.” She took another slice of pizza. “Did all this considering tell you where that record might be?” “With her killer, no doubt.” “Yeah, no doubt. So why wasn’t it brought up along with the numbered account during Zana’s abduction? Why haven’t you received a copy of the documentation?” “The killer may have assumed the record would do the talking. And may have been foolish enough to trust it to regular mail.” “See.” She shook the slice at him, then bit in. “Smart, sloppy, smart, sloppy. And that doesn’t work for me. There’s no sloppy here. It’s all smart—smart enough to try to look sloppy. Crime of passion, covering it up, little mistakes. Bigger ones. But I think . . . I’m starting to wonder if some of those mistakes are purposeful.” She looked back at the board. “Maybe I’m just circling.” “No, keep going. I like it.” “She was a difficult woman. Even her son said so. And yeah,” she added, reading Roarke’s expression, “I haven’t eliminated him as a suspect. I’ll come back to why he’s not higher on my list. So you’re doing grunt work for a difficult woman. You’re going to get a cut, but no way you’re getting half. Maybe she tells you she’s going for a million, and you can have ten percent for your trouble. That’s not bad for grunt work. Maybe that’s the play, and she gives you the record to deliver or send.” “Sure of herself to do that,” he commented. “Yeah, and sure of her grunt. But it also takes her a step back if anything goes wrong. It all fits her profile.” “But her grunt isn’t as obedient as she assumed,” Roarke continued. “Instead of being a good doggy and delivering, you take a look at it first. And start thinking this is worth more.” Here was her rhythm, Eve realized. Batting it back and forth with him, seeing the steps, the pieces, the possibilities. “Yeah. Maybe you come back, tell her you want a bigger cut. Maybe you point out they could squeeze for more than a measly million.” “That would piss her off.” “Wouldn’t it.” Eve smiled at him. “And she’s loose. Been drinking, taking meds. Could be her tongue got away from her and it comes out she was going for two. Oops.” “Or she just flat out refuses to widen the slice of the pie.” “That’s a pisser either way. And any way it plays, you’re back in that room with her late Saturday night, early Sunday morning. She turns her back on you. You’ve got the record, you’ve got the weapon. You’ve got motive, you’ve got opportunity. You take her out. You bag up her ’link, her copy of the documentation, her disc files, anything else that might implicate you or help you out. You unlock the window, and you’re gone.” “Now you’ll get the whole pie.” Roarke glanced down at the pizza between them. They’d fairly well demolished it, he noted. Hungry work. “Then it angles back.” Eve licked a little sauce from her thumb. “Bright and early Monday morning, you’re right there, right on the spot to snatch Zana when she comes out. Happy coincidence for you that she’s out hunting bagels on her own.” “Maybe Trudy wasn’t the one with the lover.” “That’s a thought, isn’t it?” She inclined her head, and shoved the pizza away before she made herself sick. “Going to take a closer look at Bobby’s pretty little wife.” “Not Bobby?” “I’ll go down a few layers. But the thing with matricide is it’s usually uglier. More rage.” As was patricide, she thought. She’d all but swam in the blood when she’d killed her father. As that was one memory she didn’t need or want, she focused on the now. “Then the motive’s murky there. If it’s the money, why not wait until she scooped it up? Then you arrange for an accident back home, and you inherit. Could’ve been impulse, just of the moment, but . . .” “You’ve got a spot for him,” Roarke said. “A soft one.” “It’s not that.” Or maybe part of that, she admitted. “If he was putting on a show outside that hotel room, he’s wasting his talents with real estate. And I was with him when Zana had her adventure, so that means he’d have to have a partner. Or he and Zana are in this together. None of that’s impossible, so we’ll go down those layers. But it’s not what rings for me.” He studied her face. “And something does. I can see it.” “Back to the vic. She likes to be in charge, keep people under her thumb. Like you pointed out, she didn’t just take kids in for the fees. She took them in so she had sway over them, so they’d do her bidding, fear her. According to her, she kept files on them. So why would I be the first she’s hit on?” “Not a partner then. A minion.” “That’s a good word, isn’t it?” Eve sat back in her chair, swiveled back and forth. “Minion. Right up her alley. From the look back I already took, she always fostered females. Which plays into her being in her nightgown. Why bother with a robe when it’s another woman? No need to be concerned or afraid when it’s someone you bossed around when she was a kid and who, for whatever reason, is still under your control.” “Zana was abducted by a man, if we take her at her word.” “And if we do, going by this theory, there are two. Or Trudy had herself a man. I’m going to take a closer look at who she fostered.” “And I’ll play with my numbers.” “Getting anywhere?” “It’s a matter of time. Feeney got a start and a warrant. Which makes it possible for me to use my office equipment without dodging around CompuGuard.” “Only half the fun for you.” “Sometimes you settle.” He got to his feet. “I’ll get back to it.” “Roarke. Before, what I said about bringing work home, and cops into the house. I should’ve added pulling you into this mix.” “I put myself into the mix quite a few times, going around you to do so.” His lips curved, just a bit. “I’ve tried to learn to wait to be asked first.” “I ask a lot. And I haven’t forgotten you were hurt, took a couple of pretty serious hits on my last two major cases because I asked you first.” “As did you,” he reminded her. “I signed up for it.” He smiled fully now—it was enough to make a woman’s heart do a header—and walked around the desk to lift her hand, rub his finger over her wedding ring. “As did I. Go to work, Lieutenant.” “Okay. Okay,” she repeated quietly as he walked to his own office. She turned to her computer. “Let’s start earning our pay.” She brought up the list of the children Trudy had fostered, then began to pick at their lives. One was doing her third stretch for aggravated assault. Good candidate, Eve thought, if she wasn’t currently in a cage in Mobile, Alabama. She put a call through to the warden, just in case, and confirmed. One down. Another had been blown to bits while dancing at an underground club in Miami when a couple of lunatics stormed it. Suicide bombers, Eve recalled, protesting—with their lives, and more than a hundred others—what they considered the exploitation of women. The next had a residence listed as Des Moines, Iowa, one current marriage on record, with employment as an elementary educator. One offspring, male. The spouse was a data cruncher. Still, they pulled in a decent living between them, Eve mused. Trudy might have dipped into the well. Eve contacted Iowa. The woman who came on-screen looked exhausted. Banging and crashing sounded in the background. “Happy holidays. God help me. Wayne, please, will you keep it down for five minutes? Sorry.” “No problem. Carly Tween?” “That’s right.” “I’m Lieutenant Dallas, with New York City Police and Security.” “New York. I’ve got to sit down.” There was a huge sigh, and the screen tipped just enough for Eve to get a glimpse of an enormously pregnant belly. Another down, she decided, but followed through. “What’s this about?” “Trudy Lombard. Ring a bell?” Her face changed, tightened. “Yes. She was my foster mother for several months when I was a child.” “Could you tell me the last time you had contact with her?” “Why? Wayne. I mean it. Why?” she repeated. “Ms. Lombard was murdered. I’m investigating.” “Murdered? Wait, just wait, I have to move to somewhere else. I can’t hear with all this noise.” There was a lot of huffing before the woman gained her feet, and the screen swayed as she waddled across what Eve saw was a family living area into a small office space. She shut the door. “She was murdered? How?” “Mrs. Tween, I’d like to know the last time you spoke with or had contact with Ms. Lombard.” “Am I a suspect?” “The fact that you’re not answering a routine question makes me wonder.” “I was twelve,” Carly snapped. “I was under her care for eight months. My aunt was able to get custody and I went to live with her. Matter closed.” “Then why are you angry?” “Because a New York cop is calling my home and asking me questions about a murder. I have a family. I’m eight months pregnant, for God’s sake. I’m a teacher.” “And you still haven’t answered my question.” “I have nothing to say about this or her. Nothing. Not without a lawyer, so leave me alone.” The screen went black. “That went well,” Eve commented. While she didn’t see Carly Tween waddling her way to New York to bash Trudy’s brains in, she kept her on the list...
~~~
Prior to becoming an ongoing book reviewer, I was routinely following this fantastic series. Then I happened to find this book on BookBub and took the chance to see how the series is going. I was pleasantly surprised when this book happened to contain several flashback scenes which will give "new" readers an understanding of the early lives of the married duo who rank first as major characters...
The first thing you should know is that both of these individuals were, first, street kids and lived a rough life. Both continue to reveal those pasts with their rough language and the ability to think like criminals might think, since they were often forced to steal, for instance, food, or respond to people in an aggressive manner that often matches that of the criminals now being hunted and charged...
You see, Dallas had become a cop, striving to prevent what she had gone through. Now she holds the rank of Lieutenant Eve Dallas of the Homicide unit.
Roarke, on the other hand, was not only streetsmart, but had used criminal activities to gain sufficient funds to turn legit and become one of, if not, the richest man on and off Planet Earth... Yes, the series is set in the future and readers will enjoy reading about the advancements made, while recognizing that people were just the same--choosing to live a regular life or to become someone who seeks both money as well as power as their main goal... I often wonder whether Roarke would have continued with his early activities, if he had not seen Eve "across a crowded room" and fallen deeply in love, so much so that he nows carries a button from her coat in his pocket wherever he goes...
Maybe he fell so hard because he quickly learnd that Dallas cared nothing about how much money he had, and rarely dressed to illustrate her husband's vast wealth... In fact, readers will find that the primary part of her life, after she had become secure in knowing her husband's love, is catching bad guys! And she has a fantastic, ongoing support team that has been with her for many years. This makes it easier for fans to come back to the series and feel like they are right at home in this future world where bad guys still roam freely...
And, in this book, we see a part of the past life of Eve, while at the same time, learn of how cruel people can actually be... But, nothing had prepared Eve when one of her Foster Mothers boldly walked into the police station, claimed she was Eve's mother and expected to be escorted right into her office...
It had been so bad a memory that Eve almost vomited her last meal. She went into PTSD remembering the nightly cold showers she was forced to take, remembering that she was hungry all of the time, but most of all, remembering what this woman said to her in private moments when nobody else could hear her cruel words and threats...
To have her waltz into Eve's office, acting as if nothing had happened in the past other than "Trudy's" care and support as if she was a real mother, turned Eve's stomach. Trudy was asking her to meet for dinner with her, her son and his new wife... Dallas the cop took over and spoke to her, then pushed her out of her office, after which she fell apart, found Peabody, her partner, and left the office, to go home and hide in bed...
Where Roarke found her...
Of course, readers hear exactly how Eve was treated by the foster mother. So much so that, when, the next day, Trudy barged into Roarke's office, he was ready for her... Let's just say that his street talk quickly came out where Roarke made it quite clear that if she continued to contact his wife, he would "take action..."
But, you know, I couldn't help but think that Trudy was very much like the president at this time... And after getting back to her hotel, she immediately began just how she would have her vengeance. And she started by buying a new pair of socks, and stopping at a bank for heavy coins, which she filled once back in her room... and started to use that, now weapon, to beat across her body... while she began to rehearse just how she would tell her story to the police...
Meanwhile Dallas and Roarke were hosting their annual Christmas party, so were busy in preparation and party events, during the time that...Trudy... was murdered... Wow, this twist was totally unexpected and turned the story into a murder mystery that Dallas would handle, after talking with her boss and verifying there was no way that either Eve or Roarke could have done it, especially since her boss was at the party!
During the investigation, Dallas learned that there were other girls who had left Trudy's home and were later blackmailed in some way... Eve's anger kept buildig, but somehow having seen her body had worked to ensure that Dallas, the cop, as now back and on the job. And, perhaps, it was finding out about the blackmail of a number of women who had made something of their lives, was the drive Eve used to ultimately put things together...
For me, having this book as a reminder of the early lives of both Dallas and Roarke brought back into their lives, made this, in my opinion, one of her finest books in the series...Remembering how Eve was found in her early life, was a wakeup check to consider, just how all of these problems in America are occurring--and why don't we have police, or at least a Roarke, to ensure the rich do not get away with continued cruelty, especially for no reason other than they can do it!
J.D. Robb, in case you don't already know, is the name under which Nora Roberts writes the InDeath Series... A Major Writer in America...
Manouchka ignored him. She leaned on my arm. Somehow, it felt Biblical, like she was weary and in need of shelter. Which she wasn’t going to get anytime soon.
I screamed. It happened so fast. I’d never seen anyone use a gun, except my dad fooling around with a BB gun in our back yard, and now Stan dropped to his knees before he caught himself on his hands, gurgling. Behind him, the blonde woman and her husband ducked into triage and slammed the door behind them. Suddenly, only me, Stan and the gunwoman stood in the hallway. “Call 911!” I yelled in the general direction of the nursing station, ignoring the gunwoman. The triage nurse had probably seen or heard enough to call for help, but it never hurt to sound the alarm. Meanwhile, I’d focus on the A, B, C’s of resuscitation. Especially the airway and breathing. My eyes fixed on the bloody hole in Stan’s back, below the point of his left scapula. Probably too far from the midline to cut his spinal cord, but right in “the box” where shrapnel could pierce a heart or lung or both, depending on the trajectory. Stan dropped on to his stomach, still breathing, so his heart probably hadn’t been hit. I have zero experience with gunshot wounds, but they say that after a heart attack, if you have myocardial rupture, and the heart bursts open, the person dies in a few beats. He’d already made it past that. I fell on my knees beside Stan, who was barely sucking air into his lungs. Did he have a pneumothorax? The hole in his chest could still kill him within minutes. My first instinct was to turn him on his back, because that’s how patients always roll into the emerg on a stretcher, face up. Also, the exit wound in front of his chest would gape more than the relatively neat hole in back. I stopped and grabbed the stethoscope hung around the back of my neck. Even with Stan face-down, I could listen to his breath sounds. “Don’t touch him,” said the burqa woman. I looked up. She trained her gun on my face. My hands stilled, slowly relinquishing the navy rubber tube of my stethoscope. It wasn’t that I’d forgotten her, but I had a higher calling here. I lifted both palms in the air. “Look. I’m a doctor. He’s a doctor.”
“How may I help you?” I said, trying to sound civil, like this was normal. Like I wasn’t about to get whumped. I thought of my main man, Ryan. My first runner-up, Tucker, who made my toes curl. My little brother, Kevin. My parents. My grandmothers. I love you. I’m sorry I never told you enough. The burqa woman detoured to grab me from behind, her body a solid presence behind mine while she drilled the muzzle of the gun against my right temple. The muzzle was still cool after shooting Stan. She’s right-handed, I noticed with the back part of my brain. Maybe it would make a difference, maybe it wouldn’t. But my shocked brain insisted on memorizing facts like this and noticing that she smelled like beer, tangy sweat, and something unpleasantly familiar. “Get me Casey Assim,” she said. “Now.”
“I can get you Casey Assim,” I said, since at this point, I would have promised both my grandmothers. Not that I’d actually deliver them to this madwoman. But I’d lie up and down Main Street if it would buy me a few seconds. All was fair in love and at gunpoint. “They brought her in,” said the killer. “She’s in labour. It’s her due date. I know it’s her.” Faulty logic, but my shoulders jerked as my hindbrain calculated, That’s a man’s voice. This is a man, not a woman. A man dressed in a burqa. He was crazier than I thought. I was deader than I thought. “Okay,” I said. “Get me to her room, or I’ll kill you, too.” He wasn’t that much taller than me. Maybe five foot eight, but stocky, like a wrestler, with wide shoulders and firmly planted feet. And did I mention that gun? “No problem,” I said, an expression my dad hates. He says, There’s always a problem. Why would you say there’s no problem? He had a point, especially when I was nose to nose (okay, back of head to nose) with Mr. Death. Dad. I’m sorry. I love you. I felt Mr. Death jerk his head toward the doorway. He knew that was the main entrance to the case room. He knew how to get there, but he wanted me to lead him, like a little Dr. Gandhi, while he kept the gun trained on my temple, the thinnest area of my skull. He wanted me to play hostage. Part of me thought, No. Run. If only I’d run in the first place, when my subconscious brain must have recognized that the way he moved and the breadth of his shoulders didn’t jibe with a pregnant woman. Now it was too late to run. The emergency department and hospital front desk had security guards. Obstetrics had nothing. I must have glanced or somehow turned left, toward the elevator, because the bastard cocked his gun, and I felt as well as heard the hammer shift. I don’t know guns, but I’ve seen enough TV shows to figure out what’s fatal. I froze in place like an Arctic hare dropped in downtown Tokyo. I’ve actually listened to a podcast about what to do when an active shooter enters a hospital. Running is your best option. But running with a bullet in your brain? Not possible. Without taking my eyes off the gun, I took a step toward the doorway. Toward triage. “That’s it, bitch,” Bastard whispered. I gestured at Stan’s unmoving body, which lay five feet away from us, blocking the doorway. I could smell Stan’s blood. I have a strong stomach, but I had to hold my breath and not-think, not-think, not-think if I was going to survive even the next few minutes. Bastard didn’t answer, except to keep his gun pressed against my cranium. I walked. I walked with Bastard’s body cemented against my back. Have you ever had an unwanted guy grind behind you on the dance floor? Like that, times a billion. I had to glance down as I/we stepped over Stan’s body, carefully picking my way to avoid his sprawled arms and the ever-widening pool of blood. Stan’s yarmulke clung to his curly hair a centimetre above the bullet hole. I scanned the green felt for dots of blood and possibly brains. Then my eyes slid south. Was it possible that I glimpsed the pale, folded surface of cerebral cortex under the film of blood dripping from the entry site? No. Probably my imagination. I clung to the fact that his religious symbol remained intact. Maybe he and I would, too. I sent a brief prayer toward Stan and any available deity: Please. People have survived gunshot wounds to the head. I’ve never seen it, but I remembered a neurosurgery resident explaining to me, in detail, how a high-velocity bullet could hit a non-critical area of the brain and come out the other side, necessitating surgery, ICU, and a lot of rehab, but not a one-way ticket upstairs/downstairs. The bullet had hit Stan in the occiput, so bye-bye occipital lobe. But I thought it was higher up than brainstem, which would have spelled instant death. So it was possible, if not probable, that he might pull through. But the longer he lay on the ground, the lower his chances of any meaningful recovery. At least by drawing the gunman away from Stan, I was allowing the emergency crew to make its way toward him. On the other hand, it meant I was drawing the gunman toward a bunch of defenseless pregnant women. I might have yelled for them to run, but the fire alarm was doing all the screaming for me. The sound invaded my head, made it hard to think anything except Shut up. My body walked anyway, with the diaphragm of my stethoscope banging a drum beat against my chest. I held my hands up in the air, both to calm down the gunman and so that anyone looking at me would immediately compute that something was wrong. Flee. Now. The case room hallway looked deserted. It didn’t feel empty, though. First door on the right. Triage. I imagined all those exhausted pregnant women and men, plus the triage nurse, holding their breath and barring the door. I walked a little faster, hoping that Bastard wouldn’t pause and knock on that door. He didn’t. Now we’d reached the nursing station on our left. The long, white counter hung with tinsel, which the elderly ward clerk usually sat behind, answering the phone with her crystal-studded acrylic nails, and which I stood in front of to write my charts or answer my pages: empty. Behind the counter, the communal wooden table and small alcove, where the nurses sat to chart and to watch the fetal monitors mounted to the wall, under Christmas balls dangling from the ceiling: empty. Everyone had taken off. Or was at least out of sight, for the moment. Bastard exhaled. I tensed. He could easily yell,
I was now facing the first case room door. Obviously, all he heard was Casey’s name and nothing else. He was like a missile locked on detonate. “Get her out of there. Or get me in. I don’t care. She’s gonna have my baby.” He placed the gun at the back of my head now, which made me think of Stan. Stan. Dead Stan. Don’t think that way. He might still make it. Come on. At close range, I finally recognized that insistent stink emanating from Bastard’s pores as marijuana. Lovely. I forced myself to speak in a low, well-enunciated voice. “She’s not there. Let me call the operator. I’ll find you Casey.” He pushed the gun a little harder against my occiput. “Open. That. Door.” I stared at the edging etched into the white wood of the first case room door. If he shot me, could the bullet drive right through the wood and hit Manouchka or June too? My hand dipped toward the metal door handle, but a sound caught my ear. Not just any sound. A whistle. On our right, echoing off the empty hospital corridor walls. Someone whistling in the midst of blood and terror. It was as startling as if a bluebird had launched itself above our heads in this hospital hall of horror, singing a tale of joyful spring in mid-November. I knew that whistle. My nails cut into my palms to stop myself from yelling. My breath rasped in my throat, and I know this sounds strange, but my nipples hardened. I even recognized the song, “What a Day for a Daydream.” It was the stupidest, most inappropriate song for this scenario, and that would have told me the whistler’s identity even if I’d been blindfolded and gagged. It was one man I didn’t want trapped with me. I wanted to scream, Run, Tucker...
~~~
I normally enjoy medical novels, and this was no different in my response to the story. However, it is certainly not an easy book to read! Who can imagine what it would be like to have a man dressed in a burqa, easily look like a pregnant woman, and walk into the maternity ward, only to have it be the beginning of a very long nightmare. One where a medical resident had already been shot and when he began to crawl, was shot again in the head... Not something you ever want to encounter...
This book immediately made me think about another book by Dr. Charles C. Anderson, The First to Say No, which is about women in emergency rooms... Dr. Anderson took on a mission to make changes which would allow women to file legal action against those who attacked them while they were working... He took his cause all the way to Washington. Do a search on his name for more information covered here at BRH.
The book is written in first person with Hope Sze a doctor who is thinking about which woman will be her next patient, on routine shift, when an individual walks in and starts demanding attention. The salvation of reading the book is that Dr. Sze shares all of her thoughts and words as she faces what happened that long day... The author uses her thoughts in such a way that readers are sometimes laughing, sometimes frightened, and sometimes angry--the reality of each scene cannot help but be read as a "What if" type of unbelievable scenario which each rader will automatic consider from the reader's point of view.
After trying to find the man's girlfriend, he becomes so enraged that, when one woman, who is pregnant, is discovered in her room--and not his girlfriend, he starts acting purely from his rage, including considering taking out his "needs" on Hope Sze, the doctor... That is mainly brought about by her attempts to keep the woman in labour safe and away from abuse, or worse, by the gunman...
Compelling, a page-turner that you can't stop reading, while also wondering, along with the hostages, why nobody is there helping to solve the problem, other than the Two doctors, One killer, and One Woman in labour... Makes you wonder why a doctor would choose a maternity ward for a a book... But I have to recognize the brilliance of these three people as they deal with a madman with a gun! If you like medical thrillers, you might want to start with the first book in this series to gain more background on how Hope has two men in love with her...and her thinking she should be able to keep both of them... Yes, there's always a little romance in the mix when the writer is a female, right?! LOL
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