J. H. Mann Presents The Echoing Shore - Wild Cornwall - Visiting St Branoff - Historical Mystery

 

But he had something: a presence, an easy authority. Saviour or waste of time and space? More likely the latter, but I would give him a try. Anything was worth trying. I had little to lose.

What happened to the Talan Bray was tragic and terrible, but it shouldn’t stop the work of the lifeboat being recognised.’

He ruled this place. His name was everywhere. The Mr Big of St Branok. His rise had been rapid and astonishing. He had to be hiding something. Had to be. 

As I pulled up the hood of my ski jacket, I wondered about the wisdom of my flash decision to bring Danny into the fold while knowing almost nothing about him. A charmer, certainly. And experience warned me that that kind of personality often came with deceit. I should have insisted on seeing a CV. But perhaps I was being too hard on him. Perhaps he would bring a new drive and, God only knew, the Gazette needed something new if it was going to survive. I glanced over at his flaccid features. His collar-length hair, tinged with grey, was plastered flat on his head and rainwater dripped from his fleshy nose. But he had something: a presence, an easy authority. Saviour or waste of time and space? More likely the latter, but I would give him a try. Anything was worth trying. I had little to lose. We turned a corner to see welcoming lights streaming from mullioned windows. Above them, swinging in the gale, was the jaunty sign of a smiling mermaid sitting on a rock. Shelter and alcohol beckoned.

Think trendy. Think gastropub. And then think the complete opposite. It was a traditional locals’ pub – for drink and banter, playing skittles or darts and, on Saturday nights, listening to one of the thrashing local bands. We trooped in, brushing the rain off our coats, to find the lounge bar empty apart from a few fishermen who had given up hope of venturing out even in coastal waters in this weather. It was a day of lost income for them, and they huddled gloomily together in a corner near one of the flashing one-armed bandits. ‘I’ve caught sweet bugger all this week,’ a barrel-chested fisherman was saying. ‘If the luck doesn’t change, I’ll be down the food bank. That’s no way for my family to live.’ A warm, homely light suffused the bar, concealing its tacky interior. The golden glow contrasted sharply with the drab daylight of a grey afternoon in a grimy fishing town. The comforting tang of beer inhabited every corner – apart from the ladies’ toilet, where it was eclipsed by the kick of a powerful disinfectant. Angie, a slip of a girl who worked in the pub when she wasn’t partying at music festivals or visiting her boyfriend in Plymouth, was behind the bar, cleaning glasses. Danny rubbed his hands together. ‘This one’s on me. What can I get you fine people?’ Roy and I opted for pints of Doom Bar and we made small talk about the weather while waiting for our drinks. Danny fixed Angie with the Flanagan smile. ‘What’s the local gargle around here?’ Angie beamed right back while pulling Roy’s pint. ‘If you mean beer, we have our own microbrewery. Try a pint of Wreckers Rebellion. You won’t get anything more local.’ ‘Sounds good. You’re a girl after my own heart,’ he said, before turning to give Roy and myself a wink. I edged closer to the bar to get my drink. ‘Angie, is Joe around? We were hoping to have a quick chat with him.’ ‘He’s out back. I’ll give him a call.’ ‘We’ll be in the snug.’ I led Roy and Danny to a cosy, out of the way spot with soft seating and cushions. We settled at a seat by the window with a view of gritty St Branok Harbour, full of idle fishing boats. A symbol shaped like a three-cornered knot, pinned to a nearby wall, caught Danny’s eye. He pointed to it. ‘I’ve seen similar shapes in Ireland. Didn’t think I’d come across them down here.’ ‘It’s a sign used by Pagans and Celtic Christians known as a Triquetra or Trinity Knot,’ said Roy, who had an encyclopaedic knowledge of most things. ‘The interwoven knot with no beginning and no end stands for a protection that cannot be broken. Cornwall still has strong Pagan and Celtic connections.’ I gazed at it, noticing it for the first time, despite having lingered many an hour in this comfy corner of The Mermaid. Joe Keast appeared a few minutes later with an oily rag in hand, his forehead smeared with sweat and grime. ‘Kate, Roy – you’re drinking early these days. Not that I’m complaining. I could do with the business on a day like this.’ He plonked himself down wearily on a stool. ‘Problems?’ I said. ‘The usual. Pump playing up again. Wreckers Rebellion will be in short supply unless I can get it up and running tonight. We’re down to our last few barrels of the good stuff.’ He rubbed his hands with the oily cloth, which did little to make them cleaner. ‘We wanted to introduce you to Danny Flanagan,’ I said. ‘He’s down here from the London press and will be helping at the Gazette for a while.’ ‘I hear you’re the man in the know in these parts,’ said Danny. The ready grin was back, as was the handshake. Joe took Danny’s proffered hand with a smile of the more cautious, reserved type. The Flanagan smile didn’t work half so well with men. ‘Any friend of Kate’s is a friend of mine. We go back a long way,’ he said, nodding affably at me before squinting at Danny. ‘What brings a city slicker down to our quiet part of the world?’ My thoughts exactly. Danny took a long pull from his pint, which drained half the glass and confirmed my early guess that he liked a pint or three. ‘Oh, writing a few features about the Cornish way of life, land of mystery and magic on the edge of the great ocean and all that. I’ll be looking for somewhere to stay for a few weeks. Any recommendations?’ Joe swept his damp forehead with the sleeve of his grubby sweatshirt. ‘We have a spare room above the pub here, which you’re welcome to stay in for a while. It doesn’t get much use at this time of year, but don’t go expecting en-suite bathrooms and all that. It’s got a good, comfortable bed and a wardrobe. And if you stand on a chair, you can see Tregloss Point in the distance.’ ‘I’ll take it. When can I move in?’ Danny slapped his thighs, which looked thick and muscular. ‘Anytime. Tonight, if you like.’

~~~~~~

One of the wonders of reading is the ability to travel across and around the world! We learn of many peoples and their lives... But, one thing I can tell you is that, for the most part, all people are alike... There are good people trying to bring about change and advancement... While, at the same time, there are always a few who choose the easy way--the criminal way to ensure they both get what they need, but more importantly, what they most desire...  Of course, that is the lifeblood of most fictional stories, isn't it? There are so many different variations of this world-wide theme of good versus evil. In many ways, some of us like myself, seek out this type of story, perhaps, to ensure that, mostly, good always ultimately overcomes...

Yet, on a daily basis, the struggle continues in every land where people live... Wild Cornwall is the location of J. H. Mann's story... A mystery built within the livelihoods of a small community where what can be found in the waters surrounding the land. Where lives are sometimes lost in facing the waters as nature takes control... But, also, can be lost. On Purpose. This is such a story...

And it takes place within a business--a small newspaper that is struggling to remain alive to provide needed news and other info to the surrounding area. We find there just a few people. One is a retired newsman, Roy, who found he so enjoyed his work, that he continued into retirement as a jack-of-all-things for the paper where he'd worked for so many years... Then we find our main character, Kate, who was somewhat of a hotshot reporter for a much larger area, but had chosen to look at her own needs and, when the small newspaper became available, she took the plunge and bought it...Now she's constantly fighting to stay financially sound, while one of the villans in the story is a hard-nose banker, of course, who cares nothing about the town citizens and the value of a newspaper to those people... There are two others who work off and on as needed, one a young, hopeful reporter.

For some reason, another newsman comes to town and seeks out the local agency to see if he could find some space there as a home base, and, when needed, could make a little money with articles that might prove of interest to the town....

Image if you would, that this small group of journalists have something very much in common and that will be revealed along the way, as mutual interests pulled the group together. Kate, of course, has just met with the evil banker who threatens her constantly with what he believes the Board will do if she doesn't increase payments...  And, it happened to be at a time where the community was about to have a joint recognition of a lifeboat that had resulted in deaths in the community years ago.

Could the newspaper work to build up this recognition and memorial of those who gave their lives trying to save others? Kate started considering what exactly could be done... Gathering background info, research, and talking to those in town who were personally involved...

And that's when the trouble started.  

The first to begin was the mother who had lost two sons. During the investigation, their names had been spotlighted and she spoke out in their defense, blaming Kate who was now digging up old news to make new news...

And of course the older ongoing events were to be spotlighted. Like the Shout @ the Devil Festival...

 St Branok’s annual Shout at the Devil Festival was looming. It was a colourful, though somewhat macabre, event, in which several hundred locals noisily processed through the streets in gaudy costume, following the time-honoured tradition of chasing away the devil while actually being intent on having a booze up. The festival had pagan origins, its long history dating back many hundreds of years. Heavy drinking in the local pubs invariably culminated in minor late-night disturbances, often resolved without the involvement of the local police. ‘We should make the most of it this year, get some great pictures and use them for a centre-page splash,’ said Danny. His boyish enthusiasm was infectious and made sense. Locals were more likely to buy the Gazette if their friends and relatives appeared in the coverage. The whole editorial team, even young Emily, agreed to give up their Saturday night to report on the event and get pictures. The night of the festival was cold and clear with a glistening three-quarter moon. We gathered early evening at The Mermaid for a warming brandy, provided free by Joe, prior to heading out into the night-time chill. The pub was packed with noisy, animated revellers, but we found a space in a corner. Outside, expectant people lined the streets three or four deep, chewing candy floss or hot dogs. Excited toddlers were perched on the shoulders of mums and dads. With a toss of his head, Danny knocked back the remains of his brandy and then ordered a second for ‘medicinal purposes’. This time, Joe insisted on payment. Duly refreshed, we quit the pub’s warm conviviality. ‘Perfect night for pictures,’ Danny said. He rubbed his hands together as if relishing the prospect of a freezing night under the stars in his thick jumper, corduroy trousers and shabby chic Burberry coat. The buzz and banter of the crowd was quietened by the sound of drums, guitars and pipes. The nipping air shivered from the rhythmic reverberation, amplified by the narrow streets. I slipped through a gap between the onlookers to catch my first glimpse of the St Branok raven leading a long line of swaggering, gyrating figures, their masks, horns, wigs and vivid flowing robes enhanced by the flickering light of burning torches. In contrast to its cavorting followers, the raven progressed steadily and regally, its great beak moving from side to side as it regarded the crowd. There was something menacing and ungodly about the display. It was a window on a world long gone when superstition and fear had ruled people’s lives. Danny was suddenly beside me, shouting into my ear above the noise. His hot breath, infused with the sweet and nutty scent of brandy, warmed the side of my face. ‘This is fantastic. Who’s the raven?’ Our mouths became close as I turned towards him. ‘It’s a secret. A different person is chosen each year, but their identity is never revealed...

Danny, the traveling journalist, is really the bright spot of the book. He's an outgoing fellow who enjoys visiting the pub often and talking with anybody who will share a pint or two... But he brings with him a secret that only he is aware of and he becomes pushy, trying to control the local paper to cover topics that may not be appropriate for the community... Kate begins to monitor his proposals more closely, but at the same time is drawn to this larger-than-life individual who brings a different mood of liveliness wherever he goes... This, then, is the heart of the plot as more and more information comes to them in relation to the lifeboat accident where loved ones were lost to the surrounding waters...

I had a queasy feeling that my decision might come back to haunt us all, that we were being led down a tunnel with the promise of light at the end by a person we hardly knew. Danny remained an enigma.

‘What are you trying to say?’ ‘I’m saying that  he knew the Talan Bray was doomed that night and he was determined not to be aboard.’

He’d settled in the snug with his pipe stuck between his lips, puffing gently, the vision of a modern-day Sherlock Holmes. The smoke was warming and comforting. Pipe smoke always reminded me of solid, knowledgeable Roy. He looked at me over the rim of his upraised beer glass. ‘Any sign of Danny?’ ‘No, he’s been out and about a lot. How did you know I was asking about him?’ ‘I guessed you might be.’ He sipped his beer. ‘That tastes good. I’ve been dying for a pint all afternoon.’ He put down his glass neatly on the beer mat. ‘Is Danny planning to come back, do you know?’ I swirled my gin and tonic, the liquid dipping in the centre. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him since the…’ I searched for the word to diplomatically describe the difficult scene in the office and settled on ‘argument’. There was no point in describing it as anything else. Not to Roy. Twinges of angst and regret shivered through the pit of my stomach every time I thought about it. ‘He hasn’t said he’s not coming back,’ I added, lamely. ‘We could do with the extra pair of hands,’ said Roy. ‘Danny’s made a real difference over the past few weeks. At first, I was sceptical. But you were right to bring him on board, Kate. He’s picked up some very nice stories.’ I nodded. Forced a smile. I didn’t need reminding. The conversation lapsed into silence. Somebody played Scott McKenzie’s ‘San Francisco’ on the jukebox, a record Danny had sometimes chosen. But it was a thin man standing there – certainly not Danny. My morale slipped back to zero. Roy and I usually had no difficulty chatting, and when there was silence between us it was easy and relaxed. But the abrupt departure of Danny – and Roy’s obvious understanding that Danny and I had become more than colleagues – added an edge to any discussion about him. We filled the void by sipping our drinks. Eventually, the conversation started flowing again about something innocuous like the weather. Anything but Danny. The tall, commanding figure of Mike Pedrick strode into the bar with a couple of his trawler skippers – stocky young men in their early thirties, wearing the thick woollen sweaters, yellow oilskins and boots typical of trawlermen fresh from the boats. They were guffawing at a wisecrack Pedrick had muttered out of the side of his mouth. Even in The Mermaid, he acted as if he owned the place. Everybody always laughed at his jokes. Everybody except Joe. The crowd parted like the Red Sea and Pedrick was soon leaning against the bar, attracting Angie’s attention with an upheld, authoritative hand. She hastened over – Pedrick had that effect on people – and, as she was pulling the pints, he treated me to the royal wave. I smiled back faintly, wondering why I’d been honoured by the Pedrick spotlight. Roy and I talked for a little longer and then he said, ‘Marjorie’s expecting me home for dinner. I really must be off. Can I walk you to your car?’ Wonderful, thoughtful Roy, doubly caring and gallant after the alleyway attack. ‘Yes, please. Thanks.’ I swigged the remains of my drink. Before we could stand, Pedrick strolled over and sat on a stool across the table from us, confident he was welcome everywhere. ‘Kate. As it was Thursday, I was hoping I might find you here for a chat.’ He glanced at Roy. ‘Alone.’ My cheeks warmed. Was he really sufficiently interested in my whereabouts to know that I had a celebratory early evening drink at The Mermaid when the latest edition of the Gazette had been sorted? Then again, Pedrick kept tabs on everything in St Branok. And everybody. Roy hesitated meaningfully. ‘I can wait at the bar if you like.’ I beamed an assured expression. I was more than capable of handling the mighty Mike Pedrick by myself. ‘No need to wait, Roy. I’ll be fine. It’s only a short walk to the Landy.’ Roy rose to go. ‘Well, I’ll be off. Night then, Kate. See you in the morning. Night, Mike.’ He disappeared into the crowd, a small, slightly bowed figure. I focused on Pedrick. ‘How can I help, Mike?’ ‘Your advertising girlie has been pushing my businesses to take extra advertising. She’s been saying that the Gazette needs the extra revenue. Is everything okay?’ So, this was more fallout from Brenda shooting her mouth off. I could tell him to mind his own business, but that wouldn’t help me get more advertising. I was careful to exude a positive air. ‘It’s tough but we get by. In fact, things are looking up. More people are reading the Gazette and we’re getting more advertising. I’ve been thinking of increasing to thirty-six pages.’ There was a flash of scepticism in Pedrick’s eyes. ‘Look, Kate, I know how tough running a small local business can be. I’ve been through challenging times myself. Thank God, that was a long time ago. The Gazette is part of the local community. It’d be a disaster if it had to close down.’ Clearly, the rumour mill in St Branok was running at breakneck speed. I sucked the dregs of my gin and tonic, now little more than melted ice with a tang of lemon. Still, it gave me something to do. And time to think. ‘Who’s saying the Gazette is closing down?’ I’d talked to Brenda about times being hard, not possible closure. Perhaps it was merely a case of an astute individual like Pedrick putting two and two together. The miserable state of local newspapers everywhere was hardly a secret. He leaned forward. ‘All I’m saying is, if things are getting desperate, I can help.’ ‘Help? How?’ He locked gazes with me, suddenly intense. ‘Have you ever thought of a partnership? I’d consider making a sizeable investment in return for a majority share. It would wipe out any debts you might have in a stroke. And you’d still be the editor and run the business day to day.’ His dark eyes and the tempting offer on the table gripped me. The constant worry of mounting debt would be gone, leaving the bank to devote its time to torturing other cash-strapped customers. And Gwel Teg – my remote, ramshackle, beautiful cottage – would be safe. I would be able to enjoy my Cornish life, swim happily in the surf, take Rufus for long walks and do some serious veg-growing in my kitchen garden without the nagging fear that the bank was about to pull the rug out from under my feet. But – and this was a massive but – it wouldn’t be my newspaper anymore. I’d become little more than an employee with a minority stake in the business I’d given up London for. ‘Thanks, Mike,’ I said. ‘I appreciate the offer, really I do, but we’re fine. As I say, things are looking up for us right now.’ Pedrick leaned back, still scrutinising me. ‘If you ever need any help, you know where to come.’ ‘Sure, and thanks.’ One of the trawler skippers still hanging around the bar, now on his third pint judging by the empty glasses, called over, ‘Mike, we’ve got something for you to see.’ Pedrick held up a silencing hand. ‘I’m busy.’ He turned back to me. ‘How’s that new star reporter of yours, what’s his name, Lonnie Donegan, getting on? Everybody’s talking about him. He’s asking a lot of questions.’ ‘Yes, that’s what good reporters do,’ I said. ‘Actually, it’s Danny Flanagan. And he’s fine, as far as I know.’ I was tired of Pedrick’s forced bon homie and overbearing presence and it was beginning to show. I wanted him to clear off and get back to his laughing, raucous trawler mates and whatever else he did in his spare time. Pedrick might own most of St Branok, but he didn’t own the Gazette. Yet. He persisted, oblivious, used to deference not resistance. ‘When I say questions, I mean deep, prying questions which are hurting local people and making them angry. He should be careful.’ I bristled. ‘Prying questions about what exactly?’ ‘About the Talan Bray, of course. The press coverage of ten years ago caused a lot of pain. All that speculation about what happened was irresponsible. Now your Danny is wanting to open it all up again.’ ‘He’s not my Danny. He’s his own boss. He’s a freelancer who is helping us out. Nothing more. I can’t tell him what to do...
~~~~~~

This is an intriguing historical mystery based upon the unfortunate sinking of a lifeboat as they were trying to help others. It is indeed a sad memory of, an accident? Or one of deception and murder? Those who search for truth, such as journalists, are prone to dig into the past, and, many times, discover hidden criminal acts have proven to be the cause for many deaths... I find it a curious comparison of today's world, but with a solid time of seeking truth... Not so, when these days we look to the past to pinpoint times when some people enjoyed more power and prestige that seems to have been lost. Now lies, combined with violence, are used to betray Truth for return of what was supposedly lost... Is there ever to be a period when these divergent actions are eliminated? In the meantime, may we continue to work to ensure that indeed good will always overcome evil... This is an excellent merge of history and mystery in a setting where the past is held to for many reasons. Yet it merges with the present when those who suffered loss in the past, are now fighting to seek out what really happened to find not only Truth, but hopefully justice... Do check this one out!

GABixlerReviews

Presenting: Erle Stanley Gardner's The Case of the Terrified Typist - Mysteries Book 5

 “But his company gives him an excellent reputation. His company feels the utmost confidence in his honor and his integrity.” “I have told you, Monsieur Mason, that companies cannot feel; only the people in the companies. And later on, when the case comes to trial, Monsieur Mason, I shall read the papers with much interest. But you watch closely this (man). Perhaps he will tell you a story that is very fine as stories go when you do not question, but when he gets on the witness stand and finds that he cannot use the cold English manner to hide behind, then perhaps he gets mad, and when he gets mad, poof! Look out!” “He has a temper?” Mason asked. “That, Monsieur Mason, I do not know, but I have heard what others say. He is bad when he gets mad. His manner is a mask.” “I thank you,” Mason said. She hesitated a moment, then archly blew him a kiss with the tips of her fingers. The door closed gently but firmly.

It was the title that caught my eye... I remembered that I had watched the case... So I decided to read the book. I'm glad I did... The book was much more involved than the television version... Indeed, as I got past meeting the actual typist as the story began, I realized that I was soon engrossed in a book that had so much more, I realized that it was an entirely new and complex mystery to be enjoyed. That didn't surprise me since I normally choose reading as opposed to television.

She was everything a man could want in a confidential secretary--
and then some...

In any event, I first had my eye on Della Street, Mason's secretary, since that was the job for which I was first employed... Street was so great as a role model and I'd watch her every move and action. Especially that she was normally involved in many of the meetings related to cases... Guess that's where I later got my interest in Law and Order--all of them! And how I have ongoing anger these days as law and order has disappeared!

The typist also caught my attention. I'm a pretty good typist myself, but this individual was to be able to type continuously at high speeds with no errors--I laughed when I admitted to myself that I wasn't that good! LOL  But, then, I was not hired as a typist and had a broader scope of duties and responsibilities than being able to type fast and accurately... Or so I told myself... But that personal musing lasted just about the time when the terrified typist had left Perry Mason's office, with the job not finished! And Paul Drake was called in!

Perry Mason eyed the brief which Jackson, his law clerk, had submitted for his approval. Della Street, sitting across the desk from the lawyer, correctly interpreted the expression on Mason’s face. “What was wrong with it?” she asked. “Quite a few things,” Mason said. “In the first place, I’ve had to shorten it from ninety-six pages to thirty-two.” “Good heavens,” Della said. “Jackson told me he had already shortened it twice and he couldn’t take out another word.” Mason grinned. 

“How are we fixed for typists, Della?” “Stella is down with the flu and Annie is simply snowed under an avalanche of work.” “Then we’ll have to get an outside typist,” Mason told her. “This brief has to be ready for the printer tomorrow.” “All right. I’ll call the agency and have a typist sent up right away,” Della Street promised. “In the meantime,” Mason told her, “I’m going over this thing once again and see if I can’t take out another four or five pages. Briefs shouldn’t be written to impress the client. They should be concise, and above all, the writer should see that the Court has a clear grasp of the facts in the case before there is any argument about the law. The judges know the law. If they don’t, they have clerks who can look it up.” Mason picked up a thick blue pencil, held it poised in his hand, and once more started reading through the sheaf of pages, which already showed signs of heavy editing. 

Della Street went to the outer office to telephone for a typist. When she returned Mason looked up. “Get one?” “The agency doesn’t have one at the moment. That is, those they have are rather mediocre. I told them you wanted one who is fast, accurate and willing; that you didn’t want to have to read this thing through again and find a lot of typographical errors.” Mason nodded, went on with his editing. “When can we expect one, Della?” “They promised to have someone who would finish it by two-thirty tomorrow afternoon. But they said it might be a while before they could locate just the girl they wanted. I told them there were thirty-two pages.” “Twenty-nine and a half,” Mason corrected, smilingly. “I’ve just cut out another two and a half pages.” 

Mason was just finishing his final editing half an hour later when Gertie, the office receptionist, opened the door and said, “The typist is here, Mr. Mason.” Mason nodded and stretched back in his chair. Della started to pick up the brief, but hesitated as Gertie came in and carefully closed the door behind her. “What’s the trouble, Gertie?” “What did you say to frighten her, Mr. Mason?” Mason glanced at Della Street. “Heavens,” Della said, “I didn’t talk with her at all. We just rang up Miss Mosher at the agency.” “Well,” Gertie said, lowering her voice, “this girl’s scared to death.” Mason flashed a quick smile at Della Street. Gertie’s tendency to romanticize and dramatize every situation was so well known that it was something of an office joke. “What did you do to frighten her, Gertie?” “Me! What did I do? Nothing! I was answering a call at the switchboard. When I turned around, this girl was standing there by the reception desk. I hadn’t heard her come in. She tried to say something, but she could hardly talk. She just stood there. I didn’t think so much of it at the time, but afterward, when I got to thinking it over, I realized that she was sort of holding on the desk. I’ll bet her knees were weak and she—” “Never mind what you thought,” Mason interrupted, puzzled. “Let’s find out what happened, Gertie. What did you tell her?” “I just said, ‘I guess you’re the new typist,’ and she nodded. I said, ‘Well, you sit over at that desk and I’ll get the work for you.’” “And what did she do?” “She went over to the chair and sat down at the desk.” Mason said, “All right, Gertie. Thanks for telling us.” “She’s absolutely terrified,” Gertie insisted. “Well, that’s fine,” Mason said. “Some girls are that way when they’re starting on a new job. As I remember, Gertie, you had your troubles when you first came here, didn’t you?” “Troubles!” Gertie exclaimed. “Mr. Mason, after I got in the office and realized I’d forgotten to take the gum out of my mouth, I was just absolutely gone. I turned to jelly. I didn’t know what to do. I—” “Well, get back to the board,” Mason told her. “I think I can hear it buzzing from here.” “Oh Lord, yes,” Gertie said. “I can hear it now myself.” She jerked open the door and made a dash for the switchboard in the outer office. 

Mason handed Della Street the brief and said, “Go out and get her started, Della.” When Della Street came back at the end of ten minutes Mason asked, “How’s our terrified typist, Della?” Della Street said, “If that’s a terrified typist, let’s call Miss Mosher and tell her to frighten all of them before sending them out.” “Good?” Mason asked. “Listen,” Della Street said. She eased open the door to the outer office. The sound of clattering typewriter keys came through in a steady staccato. “Sounds like hail on a tin roof,” Mason said. Della Street closed the door. “I’ve never seen anything like it. That girl pulled the typewriter over to her, ratcheted in the paper, looked at the copy, put her hands over the keyboard and that typewriter literally exploded into action. And yet, somehow, Chief, I think Gertie was right. I think she became frightened at the idea of coming up here. It may be that she knows something about you, or your fame has caused her to become self-conscious. After all,” Della Street added dryly, “you’re not entirely unknown, you know.” “Well,” Mason said, “let’s get at that pile of mail and skim off a few of the important letters. At that rate the brief will be done in plenty of time.” Della Street nodded. “You have her at the desk by the door to the law library?” “That seemed to be the only place to put her, Chief. I fixed up the desk there when I knew we were going to need an extra typist. You know how Stella is about anyone using her typewriter. She thinks a strange typist throws it all out of kilter.” Mason nodded, said, “If this girl is good, Della, you might arrange to keep her on for a week or two. We can keep her busy, can’t we?” “I’ll say.” “Better ring up Miss Mosher and tell her.” Della Street hesitated. “Would it be all right if we waited until we’ve had a chance to study her work? She’s fast, all right, but we’d better be sure she’s accurate.” Mason nodded, said, “Good idea, Della. Let’s wait and see.”

~~~~~~

Ah, the life of a law office. Nothing is more important than working on legal cases that can mean life or death for individuals who may or may not have broken the law.  In this case, a bit of serentipidity occurred which allowed a woman to enter into that law office, be asked to sit down and, to begin typing a brief that needed to be published by the next day... 

Actually, she was hiding and had entered the first door that was unlocked and it happened to be the offices of Perry Mason, a lawyer with such a prestigious reputation, that she at least felt safe in staying. We later learn that she does indeed work in a law office, but she was near Mason's office because she had broken into a nearby office and had almost been caught! It was for a very personal reason--she'd been looking for personal letters that she very much wanted to have safely back in her hands... Unfortunately, the office belonged to an international diamond group and when she had left that office, she also had a couple of diamonds with her...

What a cool setup right? She panicked, but because of her typng skills, she was able to quickly recognize that she could assume a role she had the skills for, and quietly spend time typing out exactly what Perry Mason needed her to do... 

But it didn't take long for the police to become involved. Two of the individuals who worked in the diamond exchange had returned and found that their office had been broken into. Soon, police officers were coming around, including to Mason's office, asking about what they knew... At some point, however, the terrified typist escaped to the rest room and decided not to return... Did she purposely leave the diamonds that she had used gum to attach underneath her typing stand? Or did she realized that she had to get out quickly, no matter what had happened?

Not surprisingly, the brief which was under deadline was somewhat forgotten. Mason wanted to know where the typist had gone, was she involved with the theft, or was she caught in a horrible situation in which she didn't know how to escape? Given that his staff did wonder about her apparent fear, Perry quickly called Paul Drake to track the typist down...

That was not an easy task, even for Drake's staff...

And, before long, one of the men from the diamond exchange, having been in touch with their home office, had come to see Mason and ask that he represent one of their firm's employees... The complexity begins immediately and those involved could not be trusted as being truthful...

Especially when Mason realized that his nemesis, the District Attorney seemed very happy, so much so that he planned to handle the court case himself! Of course Perry would be ready to handle anything that came up in court, but he and Paul were doubling down on interviews with anybody who could possibly have been involved... And then they learned that The Terrified Typist was being held by the police...

And, folks, the ending was completely a surprise for me... So, it was that the book I thought I would remember actually ended very differently. So much so, that I wondered whether I should include the following video which claims to give away the whodunit...

And another old classic came to mind which is a hint about what happened in court on the last day...

Of course, the Prosecuting Attorney didn't want to play Who's the Defendant?...

But, hey, these stories are from the 1950s--they are classics of one of the first significant legal thriller/mysteries and, I promise, you will continue to find additional and new parts to be discovered, no matter how often you read them... I'm a fan of course, so I admit it... I want to listen to the video of the individual who is doing a series on the cases...

GABixlerReviews

David Barbur Presents Taking Refuge: A Tye Caine Wilderness Mystery - Book 5 - A Personal Favorite for 2026...

 “Things like that can make us lose little parts of our soul,” Agnes said. “A person can only stand so much of that. Let me know if you ever want help finding those parts again.”

“It’s been so much lately,” Tye said. “So much death. So much violence. So many bad people.”

We’ve run into some genuinely evil people lately—killers.”

He got the blank look that often came over his face when facts interfered with whatever desire had just popped into his head.

You seem angry sometimes.” “That’s because I am. I’m angry that these people exist in the world, and there’s very little I can do about it.

“Why are you angry?” Agnes’s voice was soft. The sun had moved far enough to the west that she now sat half in shadow. “Because I’m frightened,” Tye said. “It’s like I flipped over a rock and found all sorts of ugly, evil things crawling around underneath. If it were just me, that would be one thing, but I’m worried something will happen to my girlfriend Kaity or one of my other friends.” In the back of his mind, he realized he’d come here to get information from her, but he was the one sharing. But it felt like the right thing to do to him. Tye had trusted his gut when it came to other people all his life, and he’d rarely been wrong. “I think I scare Kaity sometimes.” That was out of his mouth before he realized it was coming. “In another time, another place, another culture, you’d have elders to guide you through this,” Agnes said. “Nowadays, we expect soldiers, police officers, firefighters, people like that, to deal with this all alone.” “I’m not any of those things,” Tye said. “But you are a protector, a guardian. You just don’t have the official blessing of a government.” “What do I do?” That question hung there between them for a few long moments. From outside, Tye heard the crunch of tires on gravel as the people from the meditation retreat left. “I can help you,” Agnes said. “But this presents me with a conundrum. I have some prior obligations to think about.” “Do you mean Brianna and Pauline?” She took a deep breath and settled in her chair. “I think all I can say is that if I had information that either of them was in danger, I’d certainly share it.” “That’s all I’m getting?” “For right now. Yes.” He looked at his watch and realized much more time had passed than he realized. He stood. “Guess I’ll be going then. If you change your mind, let me know.” “I still have your business card.” She stood and offered a hand. “Come see me when this is all over. We have much to talk about.” He shook her small hand, with its palm calloused from years of garden work. “I’ll do that.” As he returned to his truck, Tye tried to figure out what had just happened. Agnes knew more than she was telling. When he got to his truck, all the other cars had pulled out of the lot, and he stood there for a while. The only sound was the prayer flags flapping in the wind. A faint scent of incense wafted on the breeze. Tye felt a tremendous sense of peace here, like the retreat center was a little oasis of sanity in a world he was increasingly viewing as dark and malevolent. Over the years, he’d watched as Gary delved deeply into Buddhism and Taoism, but he’d never felt the need to be anything more than a half-interested observer. Lately, during the dark stretches of the night when he struggled to sleep, his head full of images of the death and violence he’d seen, he’d often wondered if there was a way to find a place of peace to counterbalance the evil and darkness he’d uncovered. He wondered if this was one of those places.

Truthfully, I didn't have a clue what I might encounter in this book. I was hoping for a series similar to that of Nevada Barr, who roams through the country as a ranger... But I never would have thought that it would include, partly, a reality crew who was shooting two women who were to be survivalists--in the nude! Yeah, they made a point that on the film, there would be appropriate coverage in the right place, but, really?

And Tye Caine was wondering why he kept getting pulled into this type of job by a questionable producer of such films... Interestingly there were only two women. It was hoped that they would get snarky, you know, like those stupid--my opinion--Housewives have been known to do, although that's only what I've heard. I'm not really a reality fan... Nevertheless, the hopeful plan did not happen since the two women soon began to work together to build shelter, find food...

Until one of them disappeared from the site location...

Ok, the plot was fairly open in my opinion, but that did not affect the basic mystery storyline--which proved to be quite creative and tense... There were many subplots that gave readers a chance to start playing around with what and how the story would flow... And, for your info, Tye Caine is a fantastic wilderness guide in all ways that are important.

Even to the point of having a female business partner who begins to be revealed in this book that intimates that her background is far more comprehensive in security methodology than he could have imagined! Should prove to increase the suspense in following books...

Of course, since one woman disappeared soon after the book starts, there is immediately a dual responsibility for Caine--keeping the second woman handling the activities she was dealing with as a survivalist. But, now, there was a search through the mountains trying to find what happened to the other one. They had found her backpack, but after intensive surroundings were searched, it was concluded that there had to be somebody who had been involved in her disappearance!

As with many books being published in the mystery, suspense, thriller genres these days, there are clear lines of the emotions of those involved. Some act criminally to gain riches... Some are pure evil and yet hide it from many through lies... Even from family members... But, sooner or later, even those who find it difficult to work to respond to the needs of others, must take a stand. And fight...

And the first concern was that night lights began to fly across the area, finally revealed to be the use of Morris Code between two areas. But who and why was this type of communication being used? Well, for one reason was, of course, that cell service was minimal. But readers learn that there are other types of technical methods used in tracking that could be both helpful as well as detrimental, especially when there was no known awareness that other types of surveillance had even been going on...

One of the unique aspects of the character creation is that Barbur brings in individuals as part of the story; however, does not mention who or why. A young delightful boy was the perfect character to call attention to the humanity of the "good guys" versus those who are not... And in this book, there is the extreme in one way and the other... The boy so delightfully alive while at the same time, soon, they found the location, where the slightly sunken ground proved to be...graves of young girls who also disappeared...

Tye had found his behavior odd the whole time but hadn’t been able to articulate quite why. Now, it finally came to him: Kenneth Howley was acting less like someone with a missing daughter and more like someone missing a valuable piece of property. Maybe the two weren’t that different to him.

“I think one of the things that’s bothering me the most is that the people who are supposed to help just seem inconvenienced by all this. First, it started with Brianna and Pauline, and everybody at the sheriff’s department seemed to care more about how they had better things to do than look for them. Now there’s a bunch of dead women in the forest, and the biggest priority is getting the paperwork right.” “Almost makes you lose faith in the institutions here to protect us,” Tye said. “The other thing that bothers me is I could be one of those women,” Kaity said. “It’s like they got picked off by some kind of predator.” “Except the other elk in a herd will at least try to protect one of their members if they can,” Tye said. “I’m not sure how I feel about being compared to an elk, but yeah.” They stood there for a while under the hot water. Tye had still felt a chill settle over him despite the heat of the day, and right now, standing there with Kaity seemed to be one of the only things that could drive it off.

Finally, it didn't surprise me to learn of supernatural additions to the story... Great! Right? In the mountains there was historical  awareness of having the "sight" or dreams that are used to help find the way forward. Caine is one of those who "sees," but still has internal doubts and fears as he strives to understand, "Why him?" I'll be checking out more of this series as possible... I hope what you've learned here will help you realize that in this time of turmoil, lies, and conmen, that we must be working to help those who are captured in the sights of those who've chosen evil as a pathway for their lives... And rid the world of those who violently turn toward others for strange and weird types of satisfaction... Do check out this writer and this series in particular!

GABixlerReviews

Remembering All Who Have Died To Support and Fight for the Peace We All Pray For... Spotlighting the Poetic Words of Guy Graybill from Rhymes from the Hinterland...

 

THE WALL OF NAMES 

Most walls are built to separate; 

But, this wall’s made to bind.

 It brings together fallen souls

 With loved ones left behind.

 This wall will span the ocean’s waves, 

This wall will span the years;

 And, though it sheds the pounding rains,

 It will absorb the tears.

 I watch, as others place bouquets.

 I hear them softly cry

 While making tracings of the names.

 They hope, the same as I.

 We pray . . . and hope to capture here, 

By tracing out the name,

 The spirit of a loved one lost,

 That we can hold and frame.

 Our son, they said, stepped on a mine

 That lay beneath the ground;

 But, no remains were gathered then,

 And none were ever found. 

They never sent a body bag.

 No “welcome” could occur.

 We held a dismal service; but,

 With nothing to inter.

 So I, too, trace my hero’s name.

 Upon the sheet it’s pressed.

 And, if I’ve caught his troubled soul,

 I’ll take it home to rest.

 And when, someday,

 we put aside

 All campaigns, great and small,

 We’ll know the world has finally learned

 The message of our wall.

~~~~

THE ROMANCE OF WAR

 Our young should know of war:

 That pre-historic way

 Men found to wound . . . to slay . . .

 To smear the land with gore!

 Our young should early learn

 That slaughter can be done

 To groups, as well as one; 

No mercy to discern. 

It might be well to teach

 That twisted minds delight

 In barbarism’s sight;

 ‘Though claims to ‘order’ preach.

 To help our young ignore

 The horror and the hell, 

We’ve made a myth, and well:

 The fine romance of war! 

This knowledge to bestow,

 We should with passion yearn.

 War’s TRUTH our young should learn;

 But war they should not KNOW!

!!!!!!

BATTLEFIELD REUNION

 Here we meet, don’t you know?

 Comrades now without foe.

 Here we camp and recall battle scenes.

 Now we sit by our tents,

 to compare past events,

 As we feast on a soup made with beans.

 Here we laugh and we sing

 while we have us a fling,

 For tonight we will not have a care.

 Yes, the kettles will steam

 and old comrades will beam,

 While the mem’ries of combat we share.

 So, we mingle with pride

 and take aging in stride.

 Soon our spirits are fully restored.

 Of our nation we brag

 and salute us a flag; 

Then we pause to give thanks to the Lord.

 But, I voice my dismay at the closing of day,

 As we rest under moon’s gentle light:

 Should we not shed a tear

 for dead comrades so dear,

 Who still haunt our old campground tonight?

~~~~~

THE GREAT WALL

 Across ten thousand hills it snaked its way

 And, as the largest structure ever made,

 Yet stands, a muted monument, today,

 To organizing genius there displayed.

 T’was built, we’re told, to benefit all those

 Who’d live in later centuries . . . safe . . . secure.

 “A life was spent for ev’ry stone that rose.”

 A price quite small to keep a culture pure.

 But, when the Khan desired his Hordes sent forth,

 Sung land was as a pantry filled with ants.

 The thousands ran, with ease, out of the North,

 To clamber o’er the Wall in their advance.

 One must conclude: It simply wasn’t built

 To help protect the peasant or his land;

 But, to maintain a dynasty in gilt,

 Against a fearsome Mongol warrior band.

 We’d hope a lesson might from this be learned:

 ‘Tis wrong to sacrifice someone today,

 For benefits presumed, once night has turned;

 ‘Cause Fate may change all factors on the way!

 Too many structures have been dearly built,

On footings made of human flesh and frame;

 Some structures are of architectural tilt.

 Far worse are those political in name.

 In recent years, in that brave land so old—

 That land where Wisdom’s said to have been born—

 More innocents have died, a million-fold;

 While loved ones, by the hundred millions, mourn.

 Digest, then, one small truth, Friend, if you can:

 Do not abuse frail life for any plan!

~~~~~~

From the historical Great Wall of China to the Wall of Names for the United States, all peoples cry out when a loved one dies. Especially in war... How do people accommodate to the loss, while at the same time knowing that their child might have died in vain... For this great war or that one, never to know when one or two power-hungry leaders will decide to take your son or daughter to "defend" our lives for this or that reason... 

Can we feel pride in that child who made the decision to act on behalf of our countries? Of course we can. Yet, at the same time, we can feel the loss, the pain, wondering how and when the pain will finally go away, now that their child will never come back...

Yet we must ponder... What is the difference of losing our children to never-ending war, while we also know we lose our most precious school children because of the instruments of war that proliferate the lives of those who live in homes where guns are readily available and even taught to our children, so that, when it becomes some magical appropriate age, they can be taught to learn how to kill with those guns... Some will be for food that they carry a gun; the majority carry a gun because they can, for no other reason than to show that they possess a power to "kill" whenever they want...

Guy Graybill, in my opinion, has presented us with four short stories about the act--the romance--of war... Yet, he provides a concurrent look at those who give up a child when they do not return home to their family... Yes, we commemorate those deaths--it seems we all feel that we must "do something" in recognition to lives lost... Many picnics and family gatherings are held on Memorial Day. But perhaps after a quick prayer, what is actually done to recognized the life of lost children?

I was impressed that so many new writers have written some wonderful songs for 2026. I have chosen from that group instead of those that have become "traditional" songs for the day, simply from year after years of the same type of celebration...

Today, however, after reading Guy's words more carefully, I find, once again, that I turn away from "tradition..." This is not a traditional time of war, is it? You can feel it across the nation--across the world... Now that we are able to communicate with those in different lands, and see the sight of children and others lying dead, civilians who are caught in wars created by those men who decide they want to play war and gain some type of recognition for doing so--or worse, have people across the world see the messes that have been caused, as people's homes are bombed, to see them walking to another land, sometimes walking back until the next battle begins...or becoming homeless, left to those who are able to bring them to another land where they have no home or shelter, no means of gaining a life that may become better, if allowed before another autocrat decided they don't deserve to be where they are and ship them off to some other place where they may or may not be welcomed...

Tell me, you who are committed to any religion... Why have you turned away from a loving eternal being who you claim to be your god? For me, I had chosen to follow Jesus when God gave us His Son...

Yet, even at that time, many turned away from that Gift... They chose Barabbas... Or they chose to continue to follow a religion that was based upon thousands of years of previously written words and rituals, believing that only in absolute following of rules and regulations that they would come to know God... Believing that they must give sacrificies in order to be seen and known by the Great I Am... How little did we listen to the words of the ancients...

Even in Biblical times, there was war, war and more wars... Yet, when Jesus was born, all of that was to be put aside...

Yet, right now, yes, right now, we are in the midst of a cold war within the United States...where murders occur on the streets, children are sexually abused and more by those who choose to act only because they see it as something or somebody who deserves to have the best--the young, the unblemished...How dare they! Right now, as one of the songs says, there is a division between the red and the blue... But there is also a war going on just for the pleasure of one man...He's destroying our national monuments, proclaiming his name as the owner... And there seems to be a minority, with money, who enjoy the misery that is being caused... He claims he has won 8 wars, which were never declared officially... And certainly had not compared in scope to the ugly hatret we discovered against Germany's Hitler, when millions were destroyed because of religion! In fact, many now think that Christian Nationalists are the group who should be running the United States... You know who they are...They invated the Capitol on Januaary 6th, threatened to hang Mike Pense and other leaders of Congress, and, now, with glee are thinking that the president is going to pay them for the damage, the deaths caused at the Capitol, because they did it as requested by the president at that time, based upon false claims that he had actually won the election...

As we look to the next national holiday, July 4th, and recognize the significance of the years, we MUST watch as priority is being used to create monuments to this president at the same time, as many people are now unable to meet basic needs while the republican party has stolen funds for private airplanes, military weapons that are being made by companies in which the president's family have interest and riches are pouring in... In fact, while The United States was given the Statue of Liberty to symolically recognize how America had opened our arms to millions across the world... we now see, for instance, the president stealing the look of a monument from France, I believe, while destroying the concept of lighting that made the nearby water display so spectacular...while claiming that we the people want a ballroom for the white house to be built by our money--money that many could use to feed their children, or buy clothes for school for them...

Folks, I never could have imagined that I, along with all people across the world, would have seen the day when large corporations and those rich men who do not pay comparable tax rates as we do, would be the ruling class of destruction to our Democracy... I still fail to comprehend how this could have happened--meaning, that I had been too naive to comprehend that many people care little about anything but themselves! May God forgive our Blindness...

Gabby 

A Whistleblower's Account -- Into the Wood Chipper - USAID Shredded - Nicholas Enrich AND MORE from Timothy Snyder - News on Ebola Latest Breakout...

 

To the public servants, 

whose compassion, optimism, and devotion lift all of humanity

****

Do not obey in advance. Most of the power of authoritarianism is freely given. In times like these, individuals think ahead about what a more repressive government will want, and then offer themselves without being asked. A citizen who adapts in this way is teaching power what it can do. — TIMOTHY SNYDER, On Tyranny

https://timothysnyder.org/resources/ 

 We are no wiser than the Europeans who saw democracy yield to fascism, Nazism, or communism. Our one advantage is that we might learn from their experience--On Tyranny

Note: I have not yet read this book; however, because of the declared announcement of a major breakout of Ebola, I wanted to spotlight some part of this important book NOW. We have seen just how our medical issues have been totally disregarded by this administration. For instance, the fact that a measles outbreak has been allowed to go untreated is UNBELIEVABLE... We cannot afford to risk our lives since the USAID is no longer working to ensure major medical events are known immediately, broadcasted, and acted upon!

~~~~

Foreword By Atul Gawande (Atul Atmaram Gawande is an American surgeon, writer, and public health researcher. He practices general and endocrine surgery at Brigham and Women's Hospital in Boston, Massachusetts.)

As I write this, it is a year after President Donald Trump ordered a ninety-day pause on the United States’ foreign assistance for a reassessment of priorities as one of his first acts in office for his second term. At the time, those words came across to the American public as so bland as to seem almost meaningless. How harmful can a “pause” in anything really be? Reassessment seems like an appropriate thing for a new president to do. And what is meant by foreign assistance, anyway? Within days, however, it became apparent that the order meant the immediate stoppage of the country’s non-military aid abroad of every kind—in particular, the entire work of the United States Agency for International Development (USAID) from ending diseases like polio, tuberculosis, and HIV, to assisting with disaster relief in places such as Ukraine and Gaza, to protecting orphans, refugees, and religious minorities in some of the most hellish places on earth. Established in 1961, and championed by President John F. Kennedy, USAID had been created by Congress to provide sustained, expert support for the advancement of human survival, economies, and democracy in order to foster peace and stability and to counter the adversaries of freedom.

It is clear that the United States is now an adversary of freedom...

There is no such thing as a temporary pause in such work. It soon became clear that hundreds of thousands would die. But the new administration only doubled down, turning the pause into a wholesale dismantling of USAID. The toll since has been staggering. Boston University researchers have conservatively estimated that, one year later, the shutdown has already killed at least three-quarters of a million people, most of them children. The Institute for Health Metrics and Evaluation has projected the first increase in child deaths since the 1960s. Furthermore, with the entire infrastructure of the agency destroyed—more than ten thousand staff around the world were fired, programs touching hundreds of millions of lives were terminated, and networks and expertise built over six decades were lost—the bleeding is guaranteed to extend far into the future, even if funding and commitment to development assistance are restored. We are now witnessing what the historian Richard Rhodes termed “public man-made death,” which, he asserted, has been perhaps the most overlooked cause of mortality in the last century. Into the Wood Chipper is a remarkable, devastating insider account of exactly how this was able to occur. The agency was brought to its knees in a matter of a few weeks, despite being established in law. Nick Enrich was a civil servant at USAID during four administrations, two Democratic and two Republican, and as USAID’s last acting head of global health, he was a witness to the pivotal events. He makes painfully clear that, in order to destroy the agency, people at the highest levels made choices to ignore the law, the procedures, and the harm to people’s lives. Others—in Congress, the courts, and in the agency itself, including Nick—were then confronted with what they would do in the face of those choices. And what you encounter in his account of this tragedy is a Shakespearean range of human behavior and emotion: deceit, indifference to harm, bloodlust, thirst for power, incompetence, fear, accommodation, self-delusion, and, at all too few moments, courage. 

From January 2022 to January 2025, I was USAID’s assistant administrator for global health, a politically appointed and Senate-confirmed role. When I arrived, one of my primary concerns was how to manage bureaucrats. I’d absorbed all the stereotypes: they’d lack work ethic and talent and be impossible to hold accountable. I came to see that none of it was true. Just weeks into my role, Russia launched missile attacks on Kyiv and a full-scale invasion of Ukraine, and I got a fast lesson in what USAID personnel were capable of. Among its many catastrophic effects, the war immediately cut off the country’s medical supplies, shuttering pharmacies across Ukraine, and Russian cyberattacks disabled hospitals’ digital systems. Inability to access medications and hospital care endangered vastly more lives than the bombs. For instance, a quarter million Ukrainians with HIV, and even more with diabetes and heart disease, depended on medicines for their lives. While the Bureau for Humanitarian Assistance was responsible for supporting the Ukrainian government’s response for the millions of people suddenly displaced from their homes, my Bureau for Global Health was responsible for supporting the health system to remain functioning. First, the foreign service staff in Kyiv focused on getting to safety. But within days of doing that, the health team had reconstituted in new locations, identified the supply chain and cybersecurity expertise they needed, and helped the government develop its strategy for keeping the health system going. Then, over the next several weeks, they helped the country execute, shifting hospital management systems to a new cloud-based system that was better protected against cyberattacks, working with the World Health Organization and numerous others to establish a new supply chain for medical supplies integrating more than five thousand humanitarian relief organizations, as well as getting six months of HIV medications mobilized for delivery. Within weeks, half the pharmacies in the country were supplied and open. Within three months, more than 80 percent were. The personnel in D.C. and Eastern Europe had worked around the clock. They solved problems of every dimension. They followed the law. And they delivered at a scale and with an impact like I’d never experienced. During my time in office, that would prove to be my experience again and again. Nick Enrich was a prime example of USAID’s personnel. I’d recruited him from another bureau to serve, essentially, as the chief financial officer for our bureau, overseeing our processes for budgeting, planning, and program execution. This was a hot seat role. We ran a major international operation involving thousands of partner organizations and government entities in more than sixty-five countries. We dealt with problems that sometimes required planning in hours and delivering in days, but other times—when, say, working to strengthen outbreak surveillance systems around the world or to reduce global child deaths—required planning in months and delivering in years. We were constantly being called to account for our spending and outcomes by our congressional oversight committees. On the one hand, USAID delivered arguably the highest impact per dollar of any agency in the U.S. government, saving lives by the millions with a global health budget in 2024 of just twenty-four dollars per American (out of fifteen thousand dollars per person paid in taxes). On the other hand, there were legitimate criticisms. The agency could be inefficient. It could foster dependency. Too much of its funding went to international institutions, rather than to local ones. I set improvement targets for each of these issues that I promised Congress we’d hit, and Nick was responsible for big parts of delivering on them. And deliver he did. The Nick Enrich you encounter in these pages is the same Nick Enrich I knew from working together: a perceptive observer, a man with capacity to keep cool and perform under enormous pressure, and a patriot of the old-fashioned kind, motivated simply by the opportunity to serve and save lives. In his book, he writes the way he speaks and thinks—clearly, honestly, without euphemism or bureaucratese. He does not omit the details, including about his own regrets. This requires fearlessness. When Trump’s appointees arrived at USAID shortly after the inauguration—swinging their chainsaws, clueless about the agency’s lifesaving work, and not actually interested in it—Nick was only at the midpoint of his career. He has still-young children at home and a mortgage to pay. He has no clear job ahead for his future. I have spoken to many former USAID staff who, to this day, will not speak publicly about what they saw and experienced, out of understandable fear of retaliation or being blacklisted from the few remaining jobs in their decimated field. But not Nick. He blew the whistle as USAID was being dismantled and officially documented the inhumanity and illegality of the administration’s actions. He filed an affidavit that was cited by the Supreme Court. And now his book exposes the people responsible and precisely how they precipitated public man-made death. He deserves our country’s gratitude.

!!!!!!!!

Author’s Note Conversations recounted in this book are drawn from contemporaneous notes and my best recollection of events. I have reproduced them as accurately as memory and verification allow. Quoted emails, directives, and other written communications come directly from original documents I retained. A collection of key documents is available at www.intothewoodchipper.com. I have not changed names or concealed identities, with the sole exception of a personal friend whose identity has no bearing on these events. I have excluded anything for which I lacked records or reliable notes. There was far more I witnessed and could have documented. However, my access to USAID email and file systems was abruptly cut off in March 2025, limiting what I could corroborate. What follows is based exclusively on the evidence I was able to preserve. The rest will have to be told by others who had more time or foresight to retain records, or otherwise will wait until the government releases a full set. The more than ten thousand people working at USAID on January 20, 2025 were employed through a wide array of hiring mechanisms: civil service, foreign service, foreign service nationals, institutional support contractors, personal service contractors, fellows, detailees, and others. I often refer to these groups collectively—career officials, civil servants, staff members—to distinguish them from political appointees and DOGE. Although we served side by side in pursuit of USAID’s mission, these employment categories carried real and sometimes painful differences. For example, when institutional support contractors were terminated in January, their pay and benefits ended immediately. Many exhausted unemployment benefits within weeks. By contrast, civil service officers like myself remained on paid administrative leave and later collected severance for months. These disparities shaped our individual experiences, though they represent just one dimension of the human consequences of the events described in this book.

*

Prologue - It was a cold Thursday evening in February 2025, exactly one month into the Trump administration. It already felt like it had been years. I was sitting in the loud, dingy basement of Astro Beer Hall in downtown Washington with three of my colleagues from the U.S. Agency for International Development. We had claimed a small table in the corner of the bar, squeezed between a birthday party and a corporate happy hour. It had been another wretched day, and I didn’t know how much longer we could keep this up. Our agency was facing an extinction event. The meteor had already hit, and USAID, which for more than sixty years had saved millions of lives around the world from disease and poverty, had been left smoldering in ruins. It had started on Inauguration Day, when President Donald Trump signed an executive order pausing all foreign assistance. Things had unraveled from there. Elon Musk, the tech billionaire and social media tycoon, had set out to destroy the agency, having seized on USAID as a test case to demonstrate the power of the Department of Government Efficiency, or DOGE, his new quasi-governmental creation. He didn’t know what USAID did, or why it existed in the first place, and he didn’t seem to care. All he knew was that he intended to feed USAID, in his words, “into the wood chipper.” Musk’s operatives had put the agency’s leadership on administrative leave and had summarily fired thousands of international development experts in Washington and across the globe. In a half-hearted effort to stave off a humanitarian catastrophe, the new U.S. secretary of state, Marco Rubio, issued a waiver that supposedly allowed USAID to resume its lifesaving work. But Trump’s appointees and Musk’s DOGE team ignored the waiver. 

Even as the administration publicly claimed that lifesaving programs were continuing, behind closed doors they forged ahead on their single-minded mission to destroy USAID. Funding was frozen. The workforce was slashed. Systems crumbled. Contracts were terminated. They even removed USAID’s name from the entrance to its headquarters in the Ronald Reagan federal office building on Pennsylvania Avenue. The results were rapid, predictable, and catastrophic. In Zambia, pregnant women with HIV could no longer find medicine to prevent their babies from being infected. In Sierra Leone, crates of donated drugs sat expiring on warehouse shelves instead of saving children’s lives. In war-torn Sudan, malnourished families walked all day to communal kitchens, only to find them closed. During this whirlwind of destruction, I had been promoted, without warning, to the top position in USAID’s Bureau for Global Health, where I was ordered to endorse the termination of these programs and the firing of hundreds of my colleagues. This was not what I had signed up for. 

My distress had intensified as I watched Musk flagrantly lie. Standing next to Trump in the Oval Office, he assured the gathered journalists and their live TV audiences that USAID’s programs to prevent the spread of deadly diseases like Ebola and HIV were still operating. They weren’t. DOGE was dismantling them piece by piece. At the same time, Secretary Rubio and his team were blaming me and my colleagues for the undeniable and deadly mess, accusing us of intentionally creating bureaucratic hurdles to block delivery of food and medicine. Rubio called USAID’s career staff “completely uncooperative” and “insubordinate,” even as his own political team stonewalled our desperate efforts to restart lifesaving aid. Trump then piled on, claiming that USAID was run by “radical lunatics” and pushing absurd lies about our work. By late February, all hope of preserving even a fraction of USAID’s work seemed lost. 

The Bureau for Global Health, originally nearly eight hundred people strong, was on the verge of being reduced to a staff measured in two digits, and none of our programs were operative. And so on this Thursday evening I found myself at Astro Beer Hall with Ramona Godbole, Nida Parks, and Natalia Machuca, three of my senior colleagues, who had been on the front lines with me for the past weeks, as we tried—over and over—to blunt the effects of the staff cuts, funding freezes, and contract terminations. I was exhausted, running on fumes. I had slept no more than an hour the previous night. My team and I had been up late working yet another unsolvable problem the agency’s political leaders had manufactured for us. It was just the latest in a month of self-inflicted chaos that comes along with political appointees who have no understanding of or interest in learning the rules or laws of government. We were trying to respond to a deadly Ebola outbreak in Uganda, had been trying for weeks. But we had been stymied at every turn. The night before, USAID’s leaders finally agreed to our plan to send twenty-seven thousand sets of personal protective equipment into the outbreak zone—except there was a catch. They wouldn’t authorize payment to release the PPE from the Kenyan warehouse where it was being stored. Instead, they had ordered me to go get the supplies myself. I had tried to explain that was not how we operate. Even if I could get there, and had a license to drive a truck, I was not authorized to transport the PPE across the Ugandan border. Besides, sending me to do all this would cost more than the nominal transfer fee (we had already paid for the PPE, we just needed to move it). This was why USAID contracts for this type of service, I explained. But my new bosses were not convinced. They insisted that I go pick it up and make the delivery. Oh, and one more thing: They gave me twelve hours to get it done. That order had come just before 8 p.m., and my team and I had been flailing to find some way to move the supplies ever since. The twelve-hour deadline had come and gone, and I hadn’t been fired yet, at least as far as I knew. More important, we were no closer to providing the needed PPE to respond to the Ebola outbreak. I can’t take much more of this, I thought. Ramona must have been able to read it on my face, and she was at least as fed up as I was. “We have to get the fuck out!” she blurted, taking a swig from her wineglass. Normally soft-spoken and careful with her words, Ramona had reached her breaking point. I knew she was right, but it was hard to hear. Resigning from our jobs would mean giving up on everything: our careers, our mission, the lives that depended on our work. 

This was not the first time Ramona had argued that this was our only option; she had drafted a resignation letter two weeks earlier, and I had nearly signed on to it several times. Each time, I had wavered, thinking that we could do more good if we stayed in our jobs and fought the administration’s onslaught from the inside. Nida had always argued against Ramona’s drastic remedy. Once again she made her case. “We cannot quit yet,” she said. “Not while there’s still a sliver of hope we can restart something. I know we’re driving ourselves insane and making zero progress, but as long as there is anything left we can do, we have to keep trying.” “But what are we actually doing?” asked Natalia. “Can you name one thing we’ve done since this administration came in that you’re proud of? Because I can’t.” I tried to think of an answer, but nothing came. That was a bad sign. I had worked at USAID for more than twelve years, and it was rare to go even a day without feeling proud of what I was doing. I was now the agency’s top global health official, but my dream job had turned into a nightmare. Day by day, at the direction of our reckless and vindictive political leadership, we were abandoning our lifesaving programs and the people who relied on them, disbanding our staff, shredding our agency from within. We were digging graves—our own, and those for millions of others. 

I drained my beer and headed to the bar for another round. Three more pilsners and another glass of the happy hour red. Threading my way back through the crowd with the four precariously balanced drinks, I took stock of our situation. I was coming around to Ramona’s point of view. Back at the table, I slid the drinks to my colleagues, wondering how we—just four civil servants—could find a way to get the truth out, in the face of lies from the world’s richest man and from the highest-ranking officials in the Trump administration. Ramona, Nida, and Natalia had been huddled together conspiratorially while I competed for the bartender’s attention. Now they went silent as I returned. All eyes were on me. Even in the bar’s dim light, I noticed Ramona’s sly smile. “We don’t have to go down quietly,” she said. “We could blaze out.” Natalia nodded in agreement. Ramona went on: “Nick, you’re the highest-ranking global health official at USAID. If you tell the world what they’ve done—how many lives it’ll cost, how it’ll make the U.S. more vulnerable to the next pandemic—people will listen. Maybe Congress would even act.” The idea was intoxicating. I didn’t want the political appointees at USAID to get away with the cruelty they’d shown as they tore down decades of progress in global health. I wanted to expose their indifference and ignorance, which was already costing lives, and it was going to get so much worse. “Would anyone even believe me?” I asked. “If we do it right, they’d have to,” Natalia jumped in. “We’ve got the records. Every email, every document, all the notes. What if we wrote it up? Every illegal order, every time they stopped us from saving lives, every time we warned them and they shrugged us off. I’d love to write one last great memo.” Left unsaid was the obvious next step: That memo and evidence would have to be leaked far and wide. My colleagues were serious, and now I was intrigued. At what point was it time to take a stand? When would it be too late to speak up? “What do you think, Nida?” I asked. She was the least ready to give up the fight, and she had talked me off the ledge a few times already when I had been prepared to quit. But Ramona and Natalia were not proposing surrender. Far from it. “Do you think we should blaze out, too?” She hesitated. “We’re definitely running out of other options,” she said finally. 

“At least it would be a warning for other agencies, the ones they’ll come for next.”

Nida was right. This wasn’t just about USAID. We were the first victim of DOGE’s chainsaw, but we certainly would not be the last. The staff at whichever agency was fed through the wood chipper next—the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau, or the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, or the Department of Education—could learn from what had happened to us at USAID and avoid some of our mistakes. The alternative looked untenable. If we kept our heads down, quietly carrying out the administration’s dangerous and unethical orders, weren’t we just helping them expand their assault to other federal programs? If we didn’t speak up, who would? I looked around the table: Together the four of us had spent fifty-five years at USAID. What would it mean to walk away from that? Where would we go from here? In the dark corner of the bar, I tried to grasp how much ground had been lost. In a single month, I had gone from being a stalwart civil servant, dutifully carrying out the president’s foreign assistance agenda, to a potential whistleblower, ready to expose the administration’s lies, its cruelty, and the danger its actions posed to U.S. national security. I thought of all my colleagues at USAID. As the walls closed in, they, too, faced terrible choices. Now the choice was mine.

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Note: Italics show my points of anger!

Plan to Vote No Matter How, No Matter when, No Matter who Tries to 

Stop US

Gabby