When Justice Isn't Served

By Jaden Terrell

By now, unless you've been living on a deserted island with only a soccer ball for companionship, you probably know that Casey Anthony was found "not guilty" of killing her two-year-old daughter, Caylee. There was no forensic evidence on the body because there was no "body." By the time she was found, the little girl had been reduced to nothing but bones.

Casey says the little girl accidentally drowned. Then why the chloroform in the trunk? (Casey's mom says the stain was there when they bought the car, but the rate at which chloroform dissipates makes that impossible.) And what mother, after finding her toddler drowned not only fails to report the child's death, but covers her mouth and nose with duct tape, hides her body in the trunk, dumps it in the woods, and spends the next month partying with her friends and lying about the whereabouts of her child? If Casey Anthony is not a murderer (and I believe she is), I submit that she is without a doubt a poor excuse for a mother--and for a human being.

On my way to work this morning, two radio hosts were discussing the case when a woman named Nicole called in. The conversation, in part, went something like this:

Nicole: I know she wasn't guilty because she didn't look guilty.

Host: What does that mean, she didn't look guilty?

Nicole: I mean, she didn't look sad or anything. If she'd really killed her child, she would have looked sad. She would have to live with that. I mean, she would feel terrible, and she would have looked really sad.

Seriously? Doesn't the lack of affect makes it more likely that Ms. Anthony is guilty? Any normal person whose child had been killed would be--and look--sad. And if you were an innocent person on trial for that child's murder, how much more sad and frightened would you be? But Casey shed no tears for her daughter. The only tears she shed were for herself.

Here's a further sampling of the conversation:

Host: I still believe she's guilty.

Nicole: You can't say that.

Host: I can't say that?

Nicole: No, a jury of her peers proved her innocent. The law proved she's not guilty, so no, you can't say that.

Host: I can't say that, in my opinion, she did it?

Nicole: No, you can't. The law said she's innocent.

Host: But this is still a free country. I can say I have an opinion, and my opinion is, she's guilty.

Nicole: But that's not really an opinion, is it?

Host: Well, yes. That's exactly what it is.

Nicole: I disagree.

Host: You disagree that it's an opinion? And I can't say it?

Nicole: The law said she didn't do it, so no you can't.

Setting aside Nicole's ignorance of freedom of speech and what an opinion is, she missed something every good mystery reader or writer knows: the court does not determine innocence. The court determines that there is "reasonable" doubt of guilt. Shortly after the verdict, one juror revealed that she and her fellow jurors were "sick to our stomachs" about the verdict. "I did not say she was innocent. I just said there was not enough evidence."

A number of factors contributed to the verdict, including the lack of forensic evidence, the skeletonization of the body and the testimony of Casey's mother (during which she contradicted her previous testimony and almost certainly perjured herself by claiming to have been the one to Google "chloroform," even though she was at work at the time and could not have done so). The defense diverted attention from the child's death by focusing on Casey's claim that, as a child, she had been sexually abused by her father and brother. Why that should be a mitigating factor in the murder of one's child is a mystery to me, but there you go. Casey left the courtroom with a slap on the wrist for lying to police and will doubtless soon be weighing book and movie options worth millions. I wouldn't be surprised if we didn't see her on the talk show circuit or maybe on her own reality TV show.

Marcia Clark, the prosecutor in the O.J. Simpson case, offered a plausible reason for the jury's verdict. She says many juries confuse a reasonable doubt with a reason to doubt; every defense attorney will try to give the jury a reason to doubt, but that doesn't mean the level of doubt is reasonable. The point is, while a legal decision was reached, most people would agree that, in this case, little Caylee did not receive justice.

We can all think of cases in which we believe justice was not served. Among mine are 1) Mary Winkler, who shot her sleeping husband with a shotgun, took her daughters to the beach rather than reporting his death, and then got off the hook by claiming to be a battered wife, 2) O.J. Simpson, who was acquitted of murdering his wife Nicole and her friend Ron Goldman and whose jurors all said they thought he did it but didn't think there was enough evidence, and 3) (even though he hasn't, at least as far as we know, killed an actual human being) Michael Vick.

I put him in this group because, by his own admission, he tortured and killed dogs for pleasure (no, not "just" fighting them, torturing them). He got off with less than two years in prison, not for torturing animals but for inter-state gambling. Vick gives speeches for the Humane Association, not because he's contrite--he isn't--but because it was a court-imposed condition for early release. When asked what he would like to change about his life, he said he would have spent less time in prison.

Really? I would have said, "I wouldn't have tortured those dogs."

I know what he did wasn't as bad as killing a child (though a friend from the TBI once told me, "A man who will do that to a dog would do it to a child"), but seriously? Sportsman of the Year? In all the NFL, we couldn't find anyone who better represents the quality of sportsmanship?

These are far from the only cases where, even though legal justice was served, moral justice was not. I'm sure you can name a few yourself. I still believe that, despite its flaws, our system of justice is the best in the world, but even the best system fails sometimes. Maybe that's one reason why I read and write mysteries. The victim always receives justice, and the hero, though it may be at great cost, always prevails.

botanical mysteries

by Carola Dunn

There are a couple of botanical mystery series I have enjoyed: John Sherwood's Celia Grant books in particular; also Anthony Eglin's series; and Mary Freeman's, set in the Columbia Gorge. There are others I'm less familiar with. In fact, when I searched Amazon for Gardening Mysteries, my own Winter Garden Mystery popped up!

But recently, I've been getting some real plant mysteries solved, taking pictures and posting them on FB with a request for identification. This modest flower, for instance, grows down by the Willamette, where I walk every day:

This one grows nearby:


This one is a volunteer in my garden:


But this monstrosity is in the San Diego Botanic Garden. When I first saw it, I thought someone had dressed it up with Christmas ornaments, but it's all natural. It had a label, of course, which I didn't take note of (of course).


And this is a zoological mystery:

How many goslings--and how does she cope?

Why Do I Write?

By Chester Campbell

First, I'll disabuse myself of the notion that anybody else really cares why I write. The fact that I write is what's important to the casual reader. Fortunately, most people who plunk down a buck or so to read what I've written appear to enjoy it. They write to me or tell me at signings that they're looking forward to my next book. That's heartening to hear, and helps keep me focused, but it doesn't answer the basic question.

Writer's blogs, email listserves, conference panels, and other such outlets frequently deal with the subject of why writers write. One of the most frequent answers is "I can't not write." Meaning, I suppose, it's in my blood or my genes or whatever else it is that makes up our being.

While that may be an underlying facet of the situation I find myself in, it isn't the real story. After much cogitation, head-banging against the wall, wailing and gnashing of teeth, or at least their mental equivalents, I have concluded that my continued existence depends upon two things:

Walking and writing.

Yep, life is as simple as that. Walking keeps me physically active; writing keeps me mentally active.

Without these cornerstones, I would rapidly degenerate into a couch potato or, in my case, a recliner potato. Though I haven't been a TV watcher for years, I'd probably take up with the boob tube and become addicted to stuff I currently abhor. There's the possibility I would start reading all those books I've always wanted to read but couldn't find the time. That would be nice at first, then I'd start nit-picking typos and lousy metaphors and sentence construction that made my stomach growl.

The failure to walk regularly would soon take its toll, leaving me heir to all the heart problems and muscle failure and such stuff I've been dodging for nearly eighty-six years. I'm afraid I would soon be ready for the waiting ash box at Spring Hill Cemetery.

Which is a way of saying I'd better get my butt out of this chair and head to the mall for my daily (almost) two miles. Then get back to work on revising two manuscripts from my early fiction efforts that I plan to put up for the Kindle and other e-book outlets. After that it's on to Greg McKenzie mystery number six.

So why do I write?

It's the thing to do.

Driving Turkey and Greece: Lessons Learned

by Ben Small

My wife and I have just completed a month-long trip driving through Turkey and Greece, a fun and educational trip not without its lessons, a few of which I'll share.

Turkey

Driving is a breeze in Turkey once one learns the rules of the road. And there's only one: Flash your lights before you steal the right of way. Anything else goes. Ignore traffic signals, pass on mountain curves and drive as fast as you want wherever you want. You don't even need lights at night.

Don't ask for bacon and eggs for breakfast in Turkey. While egg may be good for your hair and complexion, it won't improve your immediate facial appearance and your hair gets sticky.

Avoid Konya, Turkey. There are no bars.

The camel is not your friend. Try patting one on the head and you may lose some fingers. Don't kiss one either. They spit, and camel spit is not a delicacy.

Criticizing Turkeyism is a crime. If someone asks you how you like Turkey, say you love it, whether you do or not. In our case, this was not a lie.

Mohammad must have looked like an ape. You should see his tooth in the Topkapi Reliquary. Working on him would have made a dentist's year.

Burqas must be air conditioned. Conservative Muslim women wear them in insufferable heat.

The hot looking tall blondes in mini skirts and deeply cut tops in Istanbul are Russian hookers. They will bleed you dry and piss off your wife.

Everybody in Turkey is selling a rug. And I'm not talking hair pieces.

If anyone tells you a rug is made of silk and cotton or wool, they're a fraud. Silk cuts through other fibers like fishing line through a spider web.

Efes is one of the world's best beers. One needs lots of them to drive in Turkey.

Many toilets in Turkey are a hole in the floor. Toilet paper is optional.

Don't drink the water or you'll be quite used to holes in the floor and no toilet paper.

Rent as small a car as you can find. Turkey has no oil or gas. Gasoline costs about $14/gallon.

In most cases, Turkish women look better in a burqa than without. Just sayin'...

And Turkish men? Don't ask. There's a very good reason why many of them have bushy beards and mustaches. Without them, they'd look like coyotes.

Avoid drinking Raki, the Turkish national drink. It makes Turkish women look better and provides a never-ending headache, which is why Turkish women give it to their men. So they can get married.

Greece

Triple-parking on a two lane street in Athens is standard. So is falling asleep on the horn. New Yorkers will feel right at home.

Every car in Athens is dented. They come that way.

Any car larger than a SmartCar in Athens is insane. But then, so are Athenians.

Take what I said about driving in Turkey and multiply it by three for Athens. A solution to the Greek debt crisis would be to remove all traffic signals. Athenians don't follow them anyway.

Arrive at the Acropolis at its opening, 8 A.M. The hordes of Japanese tourists begin arriving at 9. They'd blot out the sun if they were taller.

Greek food is the same as Turkish, with the exception of adding pork to the diet. They just call it all by different names.

Don't wear a Turkey baseball cap in Greece. Again, egg does not look good on your face and hair.

Greeks hate everybody; it's not just Americans.

If a car comes at you on a one lane mountain road, drive over the side. It's better than a high-speed head-on collision.

A day at the beach can be painful. And it's not just the unrelenting sun. There's no sand, only rocks, big ones at that. 

Don't look for Sparta in Sparta. It's in Mystras.

Greek camels aren't any more friendly than Turkish camels. But they can spit further.

Grecian hookers are Tunisian. That's why the Greeks love Tunisia.

Document each dent in your rental car before you drive it, even though doing so may take all day. You will add to them.

Greek women should wear burqas. In most cases, they'd look better, even if a burqa doesn't always cover a mustache.

Get a GPS. The Greek alphabet makes reading road signs impossible.

Don't be surprised if your GPS tells you to find a road when you're on one. Some of the GPS satellites must be on strike, too.

If the tour guide says a state-operated tourist site is open until 7 P.M., get there before 3. Government workers are pissed; they're closing tourist sites early so they can drain Greece's only source of income. 

Don't fret about dining tables in the middle of streets. Yes, they are streets intended for cars; yes, there are people dining on them. It's Greece; anything goes. And don't feel bad about making these people move their tables, spilling their drinks all over the street. Ignore their curses, their gestures. They're Greeks; they hate everybody. Besides, the roads will dry.

Mythos is the best beer in Greece. And it wears well when Greeks throw them at you.

Avoid Ouzo. It does for Greek men what Raki does for Turkish men.

Greek men make Turkish men look good.

Note: This is in jest, so don't anyone think about cutting off my head. Besides, as my wife says, there's nothing inside it anyway. 

Sisters in Crime on Cape Cod This Week

by Susan Santangelo

Sisters in Crime is celebrating its 25th anniversary. As part of the fun, the New England Chapter is sponsoring "Beach Reads" at the Cultural Center of Cape Cod on Thursday, July 7 at 7 p.m. What's "Beach Reads"? Six mystery writers who've had a book published this spring are getting together for a lively discussion of their new novels, plus the books they'll be reading on the beach this summer. Panelists are Sheila Connolly, Barbara Ross, Clea Simon, Sarah Smith, Leslie Wheeler, and, yes, Susan Santangelo. I'll be recommending Cynthis Riggs' latest Martha's Vineyard mystery, The Bee Balm Murders. If you haven't read this wonderful writer already, give yourself a treat and check her out. Her protaganist is 92 years old and still feisty. And solving crimes -- she's an honorary police deputy. Gotta love that role model for us "younger folks."

The next afternoon, all of us, along with 10 Cape Cod authors, will participate in the first annual Writer's Workshop sponsored by the West Dennis Public Library. Participants will learn about free digital tools available to writers, among many other helpful nuggets of information. I'm really looking forward to that panel. I never heard of tools like Microsoft Skydrive, TweetDeck, Nutshell Mail, MAPMYself, or Squiddo. And these are just a few of the things that will be covered.
Both events are free, and no pre-registration is required.

Happy 25th to Sisters in Crime. I'm glad to be part of the celebration!

The Adventuress

By Leighton Gage

In more than five-hundred years of history, Brazil has only fought in three foreign wars. The costliest in terms of casualties was the so-called War of the Triple Alliance.

In that one, Brazil, Argentina and Uruguay were all united against tiny Paraguay. The conflict, some say, was brought about by the actions of one woman. That woman was Eliza Lynch. Never heard of Eliza? Then let me enlighten you.

South America, like most other places, is rife with women who achieved fortune, fame, and even power, by their skill in the bedroom. The Marchioness of Santos comes to mind. And the two wives of Juan Peron, Evita and Isabelita. But, for my money, the most extraordinary was Eliza Alicia Lynch.

Eliza was Irish. In 1845, the Great Famine was in full bloom, and her family fled from Cork to Paris to escape it. She was ten years old, dirt-poor, uneducated, and illiterate. She spoke not one word of French. But she was hard-working and driven to succeed. Within five years, she’d bloomed into an attractive young woman with a full figure, a rich vocabulary and a passable accent in her now-fluent French.

After a short and unsuccessful marriage, which brought her to Algeria, and then back to Paris, she wriggled her way into the circle of Mathilde Bonaparte, the niece of Napoleon I – and set herself up as a courtesan. And then, in 1854, at the age of nineteen, she met the man who was to determine her destiny.

General Francisco Solano Lopéz, twenty-eight, was the son of Carlos Antonio Lopéz, president of Paraguay. He had two interests: women and war. He’d come to Paris to indulge them both. But his training with the French army was soon to be over, and he was scheduled to return home.

Eliza knew nothing of South America, spoke no Spanish, didn’t even know her new paramour that well – but, in an astounding act of courage for a woman of her time, she agreed to go with him. Their love affair was to last until Lopéz’s death, sixteen years later. They never married. She was to bear him six children.

In 1862, the president of Paraguay died, and his son succeeded him. The younger Lopéz was not a particularly ambitious man, but there’s no doubt that his girlfriend was – and she’d become the most powerful woman in the country.

Up to that time, Paraguay wasn’t much more than a buffer state between Brazil and Argentina.

  

But the country had grown rich from the production of maté tea, an immensely-popular beverage back then and one that, even today, you’ll often see the gauchos of Brazil, Uruguay and Argentina sipping from gourds through silver straws.

What the Paraguay of Lopéz’s day lacked to transform it into a full-fledged regional power wasn’t more money in the bank, they had enough of that. It was access to the sea. Eliza, her ambition outweighing her good sense, convinced her lover to try to get that access.

They began by invading Uruguay, which they might have gotten away with if they’d left it at that. But they soon bit off more than they could chew by making incursions into Argentina and Brazil as well.

It was a huge mistake. Eliza hadn’t done her homework. The people they’d attacked outnumbered them ten to one. And those people mounted a massive retaliatory response by sea and by land.

  

Lopéz and Eliza, to everyone’s surprise managed to hold out for five years against overwhelming odds. But by the time the inevitable defeat took place fully half of the total population of Paraguay was dead, and 26 percent of its territory had been lost, never to be recovered.

The final battle was at a place called Cerro Corá, nowParaguay’s largest national park. Virtually the whole male population of the country, still loyal to Lopéz, rallied about him. But to no avail. They were hopelessly outnumbered. Lopéz himself was run-through by a Brazilian lancer while trying to escape by fording a river.

After the Brazilians killed him, they moved on to capture the civilians who’d accompanied his army. Eliza was there. Her eldest son, Juan Francisco, 15 years old and recently promoted to Colonel, was there too. The Brazilian officers told him to surrender. "A Paraguayan Colonel never surrenders," he is recorded to have said. He didn’t. And they killed him.

Eliza was permitted to bury both father and son (she did it with her bare hands) before they took her away.She was banished from the nation and returned toEurope with the four children she had left (the youngest having died of dysentery while she was on campaign). There she lived on until 1886, dying at the relatively young age of 51. A little over a century later, her body was exhumed and brought back to Paraguay where it now lies in this tomb in the Cemetery of la Recoleta.

These days, she enjoys (if the dead can be said to enjoy anything) the status of “national heroine”, having been pronounced as such by another Paraguayan general who became a head of state (and government, and everything else) the dictator Alfredo Stroessner. 


Now that, ladies and gentlemen, was an adventuress. Don’t you think she makes Evita look like an amateur? Isn’t Eliza the one who really deserved to have Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice create a musical about her?

A Conversation with Acquisitions Editor, Sunny Frazier

Sunny Frazier is a mystery writer and acquisitions editor for Oak Tree Press. She speaks to writers groups and offers advice online to a group she calls her posse. She also dabbles in astrology, which has become the basis for her mystery series.

Sunny, what does an acquisitions editor look for in over the transom submissions?

First, I look to see if it's a genre we publish. We concentrate on mystery, romance, paranormal and Westerns. Next, I look at word count. Books are cost effective to print and sell between 55,000 and 85,000 words. Next, I google the person and see if they have any presence on the web. I want to know what they've done up to now in regards to their career. Then I look over the synopsis to see if it will fit in with our line. I will do a search to see how many cuss words are in the book, if there is a strong religious or political angle. We're looking for entertaining reads, not sex or violence.

Once I get past that, I look to see the level and quality of writing. I expect proper formatting, good grammar and spelling. Finally, I'm ready to read the story for plot and characters.

What are the biggest mistakes writers make when submitting to a small press?

Usually, they lack any sort of knowledge of the publishing world. They have no expectations of marketing or the amount of work they will have to do to make a profit. They've heard stories of huge advances, big royalty checks, book tours. A small press doesn't have that sort of money or resources. It's usually just a handful of people running the company. Often they think they are being ripped off because their expectations are so unrealistic. I try to weed those authors out ahead of time.

What in your writing background prepared you to serve as an editor?

My degree is in journalism, so writing has always been a business for me. I write for an audience, not for my own pleasure. I understand many people want to think of writing as an art, but I think in commercial terms. I've applied that to acquisitions. Can this book sell? Is this author flexible?Where is the target market? How do I reach it? I factor in everything before I make recommendations to Billie Johnson, the publisher.

How did your interest in astrology come about and how have you incorporated it into your work?

I discovered astrology at 19 from a strong reaction when I saw Alexandra Mark's book Astrology for the Aquarian Age in the dusty window of a book store in El Monte, [California], where I worked as a telephone operator. Everything in the book just made sense, although it involves lots of numbers and calculations--not my strong point. I put it all away when I joined the Navy (they don't exactly approve of such things). I really kept it under wraps for a long time, but every once in awhile I'd sense someone would need their chart done. The word got around in the sheriff's department where I later worked. Many of the deputies wanted their horoscope done to see if they would die on the job. Women wanted to see if they would find love.

To write about astrology was a tough decision. Would people take me seriously or think I was a kook? I figured if I was going to put it in my mysteries, I would come clean about what I physically experience when I cast horoscopes. Some are so difficult, so sad, that I have to go to bed to recover. It's not all fun and games. It's telling people things that they might not be prepared to learn. It takes a toll on me. In order for my character, Christy Bristol, to ring true, I had to go pretty deep inside myself and try to find a way to explain it to readers without losing them in jargon.

What are the most frequent questions asked when you talk to writers’ groups?

"How can I get published?" and "How much money do you make?"

How did your posse come about and how many members are there?

It started when I found people who queried me had potential but no clue as to the publishing industry. I market and research anyway, so I thought "Why make them navigate that maze?" I collected emails and started sending the group to sites that I found interesting or informative. I believe I can take 5 years off of a writer's career path if they just follow the lead. The title "Posse" is part of my law enforcement mentality. There's 40 of us who ride together.

What’s your current work n progress?

I'm working on the 3rd book in the Christy Bristol Astrology Mysteries: A SNITCH IN TIME. As with the others, it has a real law enforcement story behind it. I'm also examining the friendship between Christy and her sidekick, Lennie. I also want to see if astrology can be used as a profiling tool.

What’s your work schedule like? And do you have a day job?

I'm retired. I get up, feed the cats, read my email and then pick up where I left off on the manuscript. I rest when my eyes get tired. I do acquisitions in the afternoon and sometimes late into the night. I work seven days a week and holidays. I don't have family obligations, children to worry about or a husband/boyfriend who needs my attention. The cats have to go outdoors if they become obnoxious. They don't know how to dial the SPCA to complain.

What about your social media links?

I blog at Buried Under Books and the Oak Tree Press blog, monitor Facebook, Crime Space, Book Blog, She Writes, Authors and Publishers, a total of about 35 sites. I don't twitter, have no cell phone and screen my calls. I don't allow visitors, although I can be persuaded to go to lunch if a friend is buying. My time and energy is invested in the authors who query me, authors at the publishing house, my publisher and the Posse. Sounds boring, but I couldn't be happier.