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In the early years of the 1980s, the East Village, a neighborhood on Manhattan’s Lower East Side, had a population of roughly sixty thousand. But the worlds of art, music, and literature operating east of the Bowery and Third, south of Fourteenth, and north of Houston felt far smaller. The neighborhood of low buildings and crooked streets, a place so hollowed out and reduced to rubble that it resembled postwar Vienna, was intimate. Everyone seemed to be only one degree of separation from Madonna, from Jean-Michel Basquiat, from Keith Haring—from people on the cusp of changing the world but who were still, for the time being, well known only in New York. The community was so small that a gallerist estimated that 3,500 members of the art world lived in the neighborhood. Another number discussed was 500. The “Fabulous 500” was the coinage of fashion designer Dianne Brill to describe “the conceptual movers and shakers of everything” who made up the Village. Brill, with her big, bleached blonde hair and aheart-shaped smile, was herself one of the 500. In his 1988 work Andy Warhol’s Party Book, the wigged-up artist would observe, “Dianne Brill . . . was the first young girl in decades to really play up a big body with big curves and big cleavage. [She] operated full tilt all night all over New York as the ultimate Party Girl and earned herself the title ‘Queen of the Night.’” Michael Jerome Stewart wasn’t among the Fab 500. Still, he was very much a part of their world. The modeling job he’d told Patricia Pesce about had been for a spread in Mexican Vogue featuring Brill’s fashion. Michael hadn’t taken a single bad shot, the designer later said. “He always gave gorgeous faces.” Michael was also tightly connected to the Pyramid Club, the nightclub on Avenue A, just off Tompkins Square Park, where he’d met up with Pesce that night. Once a Ukrainian haunt frequented by local babushkas, the club fell on hard times until, in the early 1980s, new managers decided to dramatically alter the joint’s appeal. They left the tiles embedded in the pyramid shape of the floor that had given the club its name, but changed pretty much everything else. At the Pyramid’s grand reopening in 1981, the reconceptualized establishment on the Village’s perimeter announced itself as the place to be for the pansexual, the punk, the queer, those in drag, and anyone else comfortable in the milieu—anti-hierarchy; no velvet ropes; an alternative, coiled energy. On opening night, a classically trained dancer in a bustier, a red wig, and black-painted eye sockets performed The Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian as a nod to the gay icon. For the finale, he flipped himself over a railing and pretended to die—all while made up in, as he later put it, “glamorous gender-fuck punk drag.” The celebration was titled On the Range, a nod to the “frontier” that was Avenues A through D. Depending on whom you asked, it was also variously called Alphabet City, Loisaida, or just “the neighborhood.” Incredibly, real estate vultures had already begun to circle, but back then, it was still a mostly rundown, desolate area that was so quiet, one tabloid claimed, that “you can hear a rat crossing the street.” The neglect stretched from one end of the neighborhood to the other: Avenue A was dotted with empty storefronts, while there were lines around the block on Avenue D to buy heroin. A local poet, seeking solace, observed that such conditions would ward off gentrification, at least for a while: “. . . keep it looking messed up / Maybe the gentry can’t set up shop.” The Pyramid, thoroughly impervious, was printing money. Future indie rock royalty like Sonic Youth’s Thurston Moore was among the many willing to pay the ten-dollar cover to enter what he viewed as “the most significant spot in the East Village.” Night after night, a scrum of bodies rubbed up against one another, figuratively and literally. And what bodies! The patrons, observed one attendee, were “the right mix of lunatics, friends, drunks, and intellectuals.” It was a largely white and often queer crowd, but Pyramid regulars were intensely accepting. It was an odd oasis in which gender, sexuality, and race didn’t determine whether you got through the door. Michael, hired as a busboy, was welcomed there with open arms. * Michael Stewart was born on May 9, 1958, to Millard and Carrie Stewart of Fort Greene, Brooklyn. The Stewarts had left Kentucky three years earlier, during the Second Great Migration. Mrs. Stewart, a short woman with a thin smile, worked as a public school teacher. Mr. Stewart, whose tall, thin frame his son would inherit, was a veteran of World War II and Korea and now worked for the Transit Authority. Michael was the eldest of four children, all raised in a two-story home on a block of old brownstones within arm’s reach of the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. What Michael loved, from the time he was a little boy, was to draw. In elementary school his passion was obvious. “He would write imaginary stories and illustrate them,” his mother said years later. “He started sketching on paper napkins or drawing on top of photographs, or doing strange kinds of things that maybe you wouldn’t really call painting—or even artistic—but he started making things that seemed strange to other people but made sense to him.” Michael wasn’t academically minded, but he gave higher learning a try. After a year at City College, he enrolled in a summer program at Pratt Institute, a four-year university in Brooklyn that had graduated many eminences in the worlds of music, film, and fashion. There, he further developed an interest in art, working backstage on sets. Even after the program was over, Michael continued to orbit Pratt’s campus, which wasn’t far from the Stewart home. Sometimes he’d come straight from his job at the phone company, still clad in a dark blue jumpsuit and gear, his locs tucked under a hat. On an October night in 1981, a pair of Pratt students were at the Mudd Club in Manhattan to see the band Liquid Liquid. One gestured to Michael, who was wearing a Joy Division T-shirt. It was easy to notice Michael, who stood out in predominantly white spaces. The student knew him as the deep and sotto voce host of a show on the campus radio station, WPIR. Located on the first floor of the Willoughby dorm, WPIR had become a home away from home for Michael. Its deejays were divided into two camps: the art students, who played punk, rockabilly, and the like; and the engineering students, who preferred disco. Michael aligned himself with the art students. Allergic to the chart-toppers, his crowd gravitated toward the abstruse. Michael fit right in, collecting albums from labels like England’s Rough Trade Records, which distributed the Raincoats and a Certain Ratio. His musical tastes, said an awed deejay, “were pretty reaching at that point.” It didn’t bother anyone that Michael had a radio show despite no longer being a Pratt student. After his show was over, Michael would hang around the station, dancing along to music in the listening room adjacent to the studio, or making faces at whoever was on the air. Late at night, after the security guard stopped checking up on them, the deejays would gather to drink, play records, and make out. In those years, Michael would leave home, portfolio in hand, to return in the early morning hours after a night of drinking and dancing. Dancing was an activity he particularly loved. He and Cheryl Ricelyn “Rice” Jackson, a close friend of several years, entered contests around Manhattan: at the Ritz, the Peppermint Lounge, Save the Robots. Wearing fashionable clothes they found while dumpster diving in SoHo, they would do spins and dips in sync to Blondie and Talking Heads. No matter how hard they tried, the pair always finished second. “Every little beat, every little intonation of a song, of a record—even if we’d never heard it before—he could hit that beat, he could hit that note,” Jackson said. “The music was just inside of him.” (She and Michael would watch Looney Tunes with contemporary music on, so the escapades of Bugs and Elmer Fudd would sync in funny ways.) To his friends, it was obvious that Michael loved music, but the pull of art had intensified in his life. By 1982, he was developing his own style, creating murals at street level and drawing on Polaroids that he would then glue to Manhattan subway walls—a sort of public installation. And he began entertaining visions of making art on a larger and larger scale, with the idea of blowing up photos and painting on them. Artists at the time considered New York as one colossal canvas. Michael, too, engaged in more traditional tagging in the subway stations. On at least a dozen occasions, after finishing work at the Pyramid, he and Arthur “Chino” Ludwig, who was in charge of the club’s security, went out on the town with cans of spray paint. Michael favored green, yellow, and black. “We would go all over the place,” Ludwig recalled. Union Square, Forty-Second Street, to Second Avenue and Eighteenth Street on the F line. Sometimes they’d venture as far as Fulton Street in Brooklyn. During these outings, while Michael worked, Ludwig stood guard. It was well known that police targeted taggers. Still, despite taking precautions, Michael and Ludwig had the occasional close call. One night, they went to 138th Street in the Bronx, not far fromwhere Ludwig’s mother lived in the projects. At Third Avenue, flashlight in hand, they walked along the tracks for about a quarter of a mile, until they reached an old station. It was lit up and covered with graffiti. Other taggers were there, too, and they knew Michael. All was well—until the police arrived. Everyone scattered. But not fast enough, and several of their number were arrested. On these nights, as Michael sprayed, he and Ludwig would talk about family, girls, the crazy Pyramid patrons, drugs, and their life aspirations. As Ludwig remembered it, “He wanted to go on and be real famous. He wanted to do giant murals across the country. He wanted to travel to Germany. He wanted to go to Prague. I mean, he spoke about the world and how he wanted to just travel and become famous and do that. That was his goal. He really wanted to be worldwide. “That was his end game.” If Michael wasn’t yet one of the Fab 500, he planned to be. ** September 14, 1983, a Wednesday, had been a typical day for Michael. That afternoon, he biked across the Brooklyn Bridge (clack clack clack). (That’s the recollection of Patricia Pesce. However, in a 1988 interview with an attorney, Millard Stewart said he last saw Michael at 8 p.m., which suggests that Michael would not have been in Manhattan so early in the day.) He spent time at the studio he rented. Later, he met up with his sometime girlfriend Suzanne Mallouk, for drinks at Lucky Strike. He was special to Mallouk, an intense twenty-three-year-old, stylish in her oversize clothes, with short dark hair and bangs clipped just above the eyes. She tended bar at the Berlin, where Michael visited her on many nights to play tic-tac-toe and eat olives and cherries fromthe bartenders’ supply. They had known each other for over a year, having met the summer before, at the Pyramid. At the time, Mallouk was broken up with Basquiat, who was just emerging into fame. Mallouk and the artist had had an on-again, off-again relationship, and after one of their breakups, she began to date Michael, even as she continued to have deep feelings for Basquiat. Mallouk thought Michael was handsome and caring, but mostly he reminded her of her younger brother. She had real affection for him, but she didn’t love him. Meanwhile, Michael adored her and wasawed by her proximity to Basquiat. The year before, when Mallouk had been hospitalized over the holidays for pelvic inflammatory disease and confined to bed with an antibiotic IV drip, Michael visited her every day. On New Year’s Eve, he kept her company in the hospital room, and the two rang in the New Year together. Michael had lived with Mallouk for a while in her apartment on the Lower East Side, but then she asked him to move out, as she realized that her love for Basquiat made it impossible for her to be “fully present” in their relationship. So, Michael left, moving back in with his parents in Brooklyn. But the two stayed close. That night at Lucky Strike, Suzanne apologized for how she kept flitting between the two men. “Yes, yes,” Michael had said, stroking her arm. He was understanding, unfussed. After leaving Lucky Strike, Michael had met up with George Condo, a visual artist, and a friend of Condo’s named Freddie. The trio tried to get into a party at Haring’s Broome Street loft, which had become something of a quasi nightclub in the neighborhood. Haring, known for his vibrant white-chalk-and-ink drawings of faceless people and barking dogs, was a big deal, having been anointed by Rene Ricard, pursued by Warhol, and exhibited at Patti Astor’s Fun Gallery, the new locus of the city’s contemporary art. The artist, acting as the evening’s doorman as well as its host, had bounded down from the third floor when they arrived. Haring knew Michael from around the Pyramid, and well enough for a greeting and a salutation hug. Condo and Haring eventually would become close, but at the time, they hardly knew each other. It was Freddie who was the real obstacle to the group’s gaining entry—he’d swindled Haring out of a thousand dollars, and the painter was still angry. Haring refused to let the group in. So, the three men had moved along to the Pyramid Club instead. When they arrived, Basquiat was standing outside. Condo asked if he could borrow some money, and with the painter’s ten dollars, Condo and the group went inside. Michael seemed to enjoy the show, listening to music and drinking with his friends. While he appeared relaxed, his financial situation at the time was fraught, and a source of anxiety. Two months earlier, he’d been fired from his thirty-five-dollar-a-night gig as a busboy at Pyramid. He had lacked the aggression necessary for one to ruthlessly wade through a crowd to empty a table or ferry a tub of glasses held high above his head. Michael had wept when he got the news. He liked his colleagues, after all. One coworker had brought him back to her house for home-cooked meals. Another partied with him at Danceteria. She had vivid memories of their trips home on the A Train and had been immensely bothered that, in a crowded subway car, Transit Authority police always, somehow, ended up standing next to Michael. “It’s all right,” he’d tell her. “Don’t worry about it.” And he’d been close also with the Pyramid’s regulars, with whom he would dance until daybreak. Sometimes he’d go straight home afterward, but sometimeshe’d head into the subway, can of spray paint in hand. In the two months since being fired, Michael had drifted. Still, despite his precarious finances, he expected brighter days ahead. Aside from modeling jobs, like the one he’d done for Dianne Brill, he was deejaying, too, and that might prove a source of steadyincome. Just a month before, he’d spun records at a party thrown by Maripol, who’d earned acclaim as a fashion designer and photographer—capturing intimate Polaroid portraits of Warhol, Grace Jones, and Basquiat. Michael had also deejayed occasionallyat the Pyramid, and as he told Pesce, he was set to play at Lucky Strike in a few days. Whatever pressures or optimism he may have felt, he’d stayed at the club long enough to watch the night’s featured performer, Tanya Ransom, a progenitor of punk drag. Afterward, in an unusually garrulous mood, Michael had sat talking with former coworkers. “He seemed to be all bubbling,” one of them later said. He’d then stopped by the dressing room to see Ransom. Michael may have had a few beers, but to the performer, he seemed “fairly lucid.” ___________________________________ From The Man Nobody Killed: Life, Death, and Art in Michael Stewart’s New York by Elon Green. Copyright (c) 2025 by the authors and reprinted with permission of Celadon Books, a division of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC. View the full article

In another lifetime, I interviewed celebrities for glossy luxury magazines and a few newspapers. This was before the Great Recession, the rise of internet advertising (and influencers), and venture capitalists cored out much of print publishing as an industry; thanks to full-page liquor ads and subscriptions, there was still enough editorial budget to send you cross-country a few times per quarter, all in a quest to pry something new out of famous people who’d been telling the same stories to the same venues for the past twenty years. This was a job subject to odd flukes. At one point, I was dispatched to L.A. to interview a comedian who, at the time, starred in big comedies and sold out Madison Square Garden. There was just one problem, which didn’t come to light until I checked into my hotel near LAX: the Bigshot Famous Comedian had recently returned from a USO tour in western Iraq, during which a tooth had become infected. While he was recovering from an extraction and high as a proverbial kite on painkillers, his handlers refused to let me near him, no matter how much my editor screamed at them from his desk in New York. I was expected to chill out—expenses paid, of course—until someone in the ether of PR, celebrity assistants, and magazine editors made a decisive move. I decided to do my best imitation of a Michael Mann character, cruising the nighttime freeways, ending up in dives that usually featured some combination of cheap drinks, mechanical bulls, Christmas lights, and fried food. Along the way, I collided with freelance writers and photographers on their own assignments, plus the movie and TV people who keep the creative firmament spinning, from personal assistants to the lighting guys. When I finally got my 30 minutes with the Bigshot Famous Comedian, we ended up lying on a tarmac at Van Nuys Airport, where the accompanying cover shoot was taking place, while he talked about his father. Some stars never lower their shields; others treat you as their psychiatrist. Just as long as I got enough good quotes to soothe my editor’s skyrocketing blood pressure, I didn’t care. That wasn’t the first or last time an assignment flew off the rails. But smooth or rough, they all shared something in common: people talked. Whether waiting with a photo crew for a celebrity chef to climb from a private jet, or sharing drinks with a couple of blasted-out junior PR reps after they wrangled a nightmare fashion shoot, the pauses between events would inevitably lead to folks offering up stories from their position in the celebrity orbit—and the more hilarious or heartbreaking, the better. Because I’m a writer, I later wrote down many of these tales in the Moleskine notebooks I used to always carry around, but I wasn’t really tempted to use many as narrative fuel until I started writing “Where the Bones Lie,” my mystery novel about a Hollywood fixer who teams up with the daughter of a famous smuggler to solve a long-dormant missing-person case. That fixer, Dash Fuller, is burned out from years of helping bury Hollywood’s worst secrets. He drinks too much, his nerves are shot, and when the book begins, he’s exhibiting that number-one sign of hitting bottom: he’s trying his hand at standup comedy. It’s always a delicate thing to weave real-life events into fiction. Sometimes you want the readers to recognize your allusion to whatever happened in the past. In other instances, you’re just using those experiences to give your writing an added boost of verisimilitude. Plus, there’s always the omnipresent fear that surfacing something controversial will get you into trouble—you start wondering whether that little disclaimer in the front matter of most novels, the one about any resemblance to real people being purely coincidental, would actually hold up under legal scrutiny. I feel like my fears of blowback are valid, considering an Oscar winner once threatened to break my legs if I ever revealed [redacted] in print. I bet he’d do it, too. He’s older at this point, but still stunningly strong. With all of that in mind, how many Hollywood stories did I weave into “Where the Bones Lie”? There’s just one, and no, it’s not the PR flak stealing a rapper’s Humvee and using it to crush a fleeing paparazzi whose camera is full of incriminating evidence. I heard a lot of tales, some more believable than others, but none involved a lot of murder and mayhem, so they didn’t really fit with the chaotic narrative I was assembling. However, I based quite a bit on the people who’d told those tales: high-strung publicists, avuncular but vaguely threatening lawyers, creepers who saw themselves as fixers, B-movie actors happy to be killed in horror movie after horror movie if it meant they still had a shot at a bigger role at some point. Their mannerisms, the compromises they made in their professional and personal lives, all ended up woven into the DNA of my characters. (Stephen King once wrote, “It is the tale, not he who tells it,” but there’s a bit of a contrapositive there: sometimes the person telling the tale, and the environment in which they’re telling it, is more valuable than the details of their story. Especially if you’re a writer trying to create a believable atmosphere.) If there’s one thing I ported directly from real life (whatever that term actually means) to fiction, it’s the locations. The magnificent house where a movie star is gunned down at the beginning of the book, the Santa Monica castle where a PR master lives in drunken exile, the winery where a whole bunch of evil skullduggery may have taken place—those are all transported without much change, because why not? The chances of you figuring out those addresses are slim. I imagine that writers of virtually every genre, from cop mystery to espionage thriller, wrestle with how to effectively convert reality into fiction. I’m thinking in this moment of authors like Alma Katsu and her spy novels, or Michael Connelly with his Bosch books. There’s no “right” answer, of course—both real life and fiction are messy, and the lines between them are usually blurred. *** View the full article

Monday, March 27, 1871 “At ten minutes to ten o’clock, the Bailiff of the Court entered the door and flung wide both its leaves. A figure entered, dressed in black and thickly veiled, leaning upon the arm of Dr. Trask. It was Mrs. Fair, and behind her walked her mother and little daughter. When she had advanced a few paces into the room she threw back her upper veil, leaving over her face only a thin fall of black tulle, through which her features were plainly visible . . . Mrs. Fair has doubtless been a handsome woman, though anxiety and long sickness have left their indelible marks upon her face . . .” — San Francisco Chronicle The trial of Laura D. Fair for the murder of Alexander Parker Crittenden began on a brisk, cloudless spring morning at California’s imposing Fifteenth District courtroom in San Francisco, the Honorable S. H. Dwinelle presiding. Because of the intense amount of publicity surrounding the case, Judge Dwinelle had insisted that three policemen be stationed at the entrance to the spectators’ enclosure to prevent members of the public from entering. Only reporters, attorneys, and those directly involved in each day’s hearing would be allowed to witness the proceedings. Always a stickler for decorum in his courtroom, Judge Dwinelle was determined to keep this trial as uneventful and by-the-book as possible. The judge’s hopes, however, were doomed from the start. Almost six months had passed since the fatal pistol shot was fired on the El Capitan ferry, and the city’s fascination with the murder had shown no signs of abating. During that time, the Fair-Crittenden case had dominated virtually all other subjects of conversation. Few could resist the lurid tale of the twice-divorced, twice-widowed young woman who had gunned down her longtime paramour—one of the most prominent figures of the city’s legal community—right in front of the wife he refused to abandon for her. And now that the trial was finally starting, after weeks of legal maneuvers and pretrial motions, the public’s obsession with the case was as consuming as ever. Far more people wanted to watch the spectacle than any California courtroom could hold. Three policemen at a doorway would prove no serious obstacle to those who really wanted to get in. The man principally responsible for seeing that justice was done in this case was District Attorney Henry H. Byrne. A native of New York City, Byrne—like Judge Dwinelle and so many of the other principals involved in the case—had come to San Francisco some twenty years earlier, penniless and without reputation but eager to succeed in the wild new territory opened up by the discovery of gold. Like his colleagues, he had failed to attain fabulous wealth as a miner but instead had claimed a place for himself in the infrastructure of urban civilization that rapidly coalesced in Gold Rush San Francisco. Two years after his arrival, the neophyte lawyer had already risen to become the city’s district attorney. Now nearing fifty, he was serving his fourth term in the office. And while he was physically unprepossessing—one contemporary remarked upon his short stature, stiff carriage, and “sharp, harsh, and screeching” voice—he compensated for these deficits with exalted eloquence. “Harry” Byrne, as he was usually called, was famous for peppering his courtroom speeches with high-toned literary allusions and, when necessary, a scathing invective that could wound both friend and foe alike. The case he was about to argue would be the most important of Byrne’s career so far, and he had good reason to be optimistic about its outcome—not least because he was satisfied with his jury. During the day and a half of voir-dire examinations to assemble the panel, nearly every potential juror had admitted that the defendant was probably guilty; the twelve men who had survived defense challenges were those who’d merely expressed a willingness to be persuaded otherwise by the evidence. The one member of the jury pool who’d claimed sympathy for the defendant and disdain for the victim (“I think any man who acts that way ought to be shot,” he admitted) had been quietly excused. So it was a sympathetic audience that Byrne approached on the afternoon of the prosecutor’s opening statement. As expected, the courtroom was full to the rafters—all seats occupied, and with standing spectators jammed into every space available. It was all the three policemen could do to keep the aisles clear for the reporters and observing lawyers to come and go. “Gentlemen of the jury,” the DA began, one hand as ever in his waistcoat pocket in a classic lawyerly pose. “The defendant at the bar, Laura D. Fair, is charged with the commission of the crime of willful murder, alleged to have been committed on the third day of November last, on board a steamer called El Capitan.” For this opening statement, Byrne chose to lay out the facts of the case as simply and straightforwardly as possible. No one, after all, doubted that it was Laura Fair who had fired the shot that killed A. P. Crittenden. The question was whether it was murder in the first degree, which required a demonstration of malice aforethought. So Byrne began by stating exactly how the prosecution would establish the necessary elements of premeditation and motive. Premeditation was self-evident: Mrs. Fair had made threats of violence several times in the past; she had acquired the murder weapon three days before the shooting; and she had thought to take a black veil aboard the ferry in order to hide her identity. There could be no doubt: “The defendant . . . took passage on that boat for the purpose of accomplishing what she did so successfully—the shooting of Mr. Crittenden.” As for motive, it was equally obvious: Crittenden had called his wife and family back to San Francisco in order to reconcile with them and end the seven-year affair with his mistress. Naturally, Laura Fair sought to avenge this rejection—by destroying the man she could not have for herself, in front of the woman who had kept him from her. During the DA’s recitation of these points, the defendant, looking pale and fatigued, sat in a rocking chair between her lawyers at the defense table, listening in grave silence. “Her expression is that of great sadness, weariness, and passive suffering,” one newsman reported. Such a face, he felt, would likely be an aid to the defense in this case. What’s more, Mrs. Fair’s bright golden hair—worn today tied back in short curls—would also have a softening effect on the jury’s sympathies, as would her blue eyes, well formed eyebrows, and appealing features. But Harry Byrne, while fully aware of the defendant’s potential to elicit an all-male jury’s pity, was counting on there being no such effect with this particular group. These were practical businessmen who would understand the importance of the city’s image in the mind of the general public. “That, gentlemen,” the DA concluded, after a re- markably brief opening statement, “is substantially the case on the part of the people . . . So far as the definition of murder in the statute can fix it, this was a willful, deliberate murder, and in the name of the law we pronounce her guilty thereof, and ask at your hands a verdict of guilty.” It was thus a straightforward case, open and shut—or that at least was what DA Byrne hoped for. In truth, there was nothing straightforward about the trial that would unfold in that courtroom over the next four weeks. For this would not play out like the typical local murder case. The defendant was a woman, for one thing, and while female murderers were not unknown in Victorian-era California, Fair’s gender was still enough of a novelty to cause a sensation on that score alone. But there were other, more fundamental, issues involved. At a time when reputable women were expected never to step beyond the private realm of home and family, Laura Fair had made a lifetime practice of invading the public sphere—as an actress, as a successful businessperson and investor, and as the unapologetic mistress of a prominent (and married) man. This brazen murderess, in other words, had posed a grave threat to the social order even before she ever pulled a trigger. Would a jury of respectable men feel sympathy for a woman like that? Ultimately, the trial of Laura Fair would prove to be deeply controversial, provoking bitter debate nationwide and challenging long-held beliefs of a populace still searching for moral consensus after the shattering disruption of civil war. For many, even for those just looking on from the sidelines, the ethical stakes could hardly have been higher. By calling into question fundamental assumptions about the sanctity of the family, the value of reputation, and the range of acceptable expressions of femininity, the case would become profoundly divisive; it would cause rifts and arguments between husbands and wives, provide endless fodder for newspaper editorialists, and inspire paroxysms of indignation among sermonizing clergymen. Even such prominent national figures as Mark Twain, Horace Greeley, and Susan B. Anthony would be drawn into its orbit. But while the spectacle of the trial would make front-page headlines from coast to coast, its outcome would be of particular importance to the city in which it unfolded—San Francisco, a still-adolescent metropolis in the early 1870s, hoping to shed its Gold Rush–era reputation as a raucous and untamed frontier town. For a city eagerly trying to establish its name as a mature, orderly, and law-abiding place, the kind of violence and depravity exemplified by Laura Fair’s crime demanded the severest punishment. Only a death sentence would serve as a clear demonstration to the world (particularly to the East Coast capitalists whose investments the city needed in order to grow) that the rule of law had finally come to the former Wild West. So for District Attorney Byrne and many of the other community elites of San Francisco, there could be only one acceptable outcome to what he called “the most important case that has been tried upon the Pacific coast”—a simple and straightforward verdict of guilty on the charge of murder in the first degree. But for those who knew of the events that had preceded the crime on the El Capitan ferry that November night, the matter of Laura Fair’s guilt or innocence would be significantly more complex. ___________________________________ Excerpted from Trespassers at the Golden Gate: A True Story of Love, Murder, and Madness in Gilded Age San Francisco, by Gary Krist. Copyright 2024. Published by Crown Publishing. Reprinted with permission. View the full article

CHAPTER ONE If she’d blinked, she would have missed it – an ancient signboard, half hidden in the trees twenty feet below her transport lane, its faded letters almost unreadable. But what caught seventeen-year-old Clea Fletcher’s eye, as she rode by on her air-chair, was a newer banner pasted at a bold angle across the original sign. ILLUSION CENTER GOING OUT OF BUSINESS SALE. Clea hadn’t known any of the old centers still existed. Oh, she’d heard about them from Anton, her stepdad, but he’d told her the last ones closed eons ago. Two specks past the sign, curiosity, and vivid memories of Anton’s stories from her childhood, got the better of her. She turned her air-chair around and headed back, smiling at her foolishness for she’d no money to speak of; she was hungry and cold and there were other priorities far more important. That morning, when she’d been urgently called home, she’d torn out of her new place without even a jacket and was now paying for her oversight. The season seemed to have changed from high summer to the first cool days of autumn without her noticing, and even though the sun still shone, the wind-chill twenty feet above the pines was brutal. Clea pulled out of the transit lanes and landed her air-chair on what looked like an abandoned land road, with weeds pushing through cracks in the tarmac. Once set down, Clea hugged herself, rubbing her arms against the chill. The impatient wind swirled around her, reminding her she was cold, and had another eight-hours hard travel ahead. The faint grumble of traffic from the transit lanes above her nagged at her to keep going. She had to get home. Clea hesitated. She really ought to be on her way. But I’ll be quick. On the sign, in the lower corner, an arrow pointed to the right. Shrugging off a feeling of guilt—for she’d few spare ciphers to spend on illusions, old or new—Clea revved her air-chair, followed the arrow and skimmed eight feet off the ground above a track leading to a tumbledown cottage surrounded by weeds. She slowed her chair to a hover. An ancient sign above the door announced this was HAPPY ENDINGS ILLUSIONS. Underneath that, a name so worn she couldn’t make it out, followed by the words, Purveyor of Anything You Want. At first, discouraged by the weeds and the building’s air of abandonment, she thought that the little store must have closed years ago and was about to go on her way when the door scraped open, and an elderly man in a faded blue shirt tucked into matching blue jeans limped out and stood looking up at her. His eyes, bright and merry, set in a face like old parchment folded too many times, crinkled at the corners as if he’d spent much of his life laughing. He was smiling now, and Clea watched in delight as his eyes disappeared into his wrinkles. "You come to buy some illusions, Missy? Best you hurry; today’s my last day of business, and then I'm done. Come on in. I'll give you a good deal on anything you like.” He peered up at her. “Well, don't just float above me, gawking, girl! Park yourself— take a look around. This store’s likely the last old illusion center you’ll ever see.” After a brief hesitation, Clea landed her chair, clicked off the controls, and on legs made clumsy from exposure, stumbled up the steps after the old man. Blowing on her fingers, grateful to be out of the wind, Clea looked around the space and then promptly forgot how chilled she was. The late-afternoon sun, pouring in through a small side window illuminated dust motes dancing in the last golden light of the day, creating a magical ambiance in the otherwise dimly lit interior. As her vision became accustomed to the gloom, she saw, lining the walls, cobwebby shelves with many open fronted boxes, each once painted a bright color now faded to softness; many of them empty or less than half-filled, and each marked with a different symbol. The cobblestone fireplace in the corner stood dark and empty, but unlike the outside, the room was warm, its air thick with the musty smell of old buildings and a lingering odor of long-dead fires. The old man chatted on, "Once was, I'd get loads of people out here to buy illusions, but nowadays, everyone wants government holograms—much fancier stuff than mine. But let me tell you, the old illusions are the best. Kids today don't know what they're missing." He paused to smile at her again. "You wanting anything in particular?" Taking his time, he looked her over, and Clea was amused when he volunteered, "You're pretty enough with those big greeny-brown eyes, but a few improvements never hurt. How about an Appearance illusion? I still got some of 'em left. They used to be real popular. Or how about one for your air-chair? Make everyone think you’re flying on something new and fancy, instead of that poor excuse for transport. The great thing about these old illusions is they don't show up on scanners. No one will suspect your air-chair’s decrepit.” He pulled two brown packets out of the boxes behind him and laid them on the counter. Clea smiled, not in the least offended by his remarks about her AR transport. Lacking the sleek curves of the newer air-chaises and woefully slow, she was used to the comments on it. "Decrepit” was far kinder than “Broke-down kitchen seating,” or “Pile of trash.” "Sorry, I’m not wanting any visual illusions. I don't have much time or money to spare, but I’m cold. I’m hoping you might be able to sell me a warmth illusion.” “I guess you do look frozen. Give me a moment––I got just what you need.” He reached into a small pot sitting on the counter and scooped up some blue powder. “Hold out your hands.” Clea did as he asked. He sprinkled the powder over her upturned palms. “Now, think about heat.” Clea obeyed; in a second, the blue dust disappeared, and her hands and feet tingled as warmth swept through them. She flexed her fingers, relishing the pleasure of being able to feel them again. “Oh––wonderful. Thank you.” “Won’t but last a few minutes––but you’ll be fine on your own by then.” “This is fabulous. My weather shield and heater on my air-chair don’t work very well. Do you also have an illusion I can buy to keep me warm while I ride?” "Sure do. There’s some warmers mixed in with other stuff in that box over there, but you gotta take the whole box. Didn’t expect a customer this far on in the day, and I need to be on my way quick. You can have 'em all for five ciphers. That's a real good deal.” She turned away, shoulders drooping. “I’m sure it’s a wonderful deal.’ She spoke with care, trying to hide her disappointment, ‘but I’ve only got one cipher I can spare. I'm sorry to waste your time." She was halfway down the steps when he called her back. "Oh, come back in. The box is yours for the cipher. Don't think anyone else is coming to buy me out." His eyes did the disappearing act again. Clea found herself smiling, too, as she ran back up the steps into the dim and dusty interior. The old man went behind his counter, picked up a cardboard box more than half-full of square brown envelopes, each about the size of a seed packet. He placed the box on the countertop. "OK, Missy, there’s a couple of warmers in here somewhere. But, before you’re on your way, you need to learn a few things. What have you heard about packet illusions?" "Not much––only stories from my Stepdad. He told me about an inventor who made packet illusions so realistic they could be dangerous in the wrong hands. Years ago, there was some kind of failed coup, using old illusions? And then I think the government took control of the entire industry. Is that right?” "You got it—only the government don’t call them illusions anymore—they’re all fancy holograms now. It was after that coup attempt everyone started carrying a scanner to check what’s real and what’s not." "I thought you said your illusions wouldn’t show up on scanners." "Yep––because mine is all old stock. Scanners once used to work on them too, but today’s ones only work on the government holograms.” He paused, as if he was looking off into the distant past, before sadly shaking his head. "Government control did my business in––people got bored with my simple stuff when the fancier holograms came out. It’s a good thing I'm ready to retire." "Sounds like you're looking forward to it." He gazed around the shop, swallowed hard, and changed the subject. “Ever used a packet illusion?" Clea shook her head. "Then, look and learn." He reached up on the shelf behind him, picking out a small brown packet with a picture stamped on it of a rabbit with long floppy ears. “What’s your name?” he asked. "Clea Fletcher." "Cleeah? Haven’t come across that name before. Well, Miss Clea Fletcher, these illusions are real easy to use, but you must pay attention to the instructions. Each one can be a bit different, so let's start with a simple one. This one here’s for a rabbit. Sold lots of these to little girls and their Poppas in early growing season."

AS IN THE DAYS OF NOAH: A woman and her family are thrust into a battle for survival when an alien race enforces global control, unveiling an Antichrist no one saw coming and an end-times prophecy no one truly understood. Chapter 1 Twenty Years After Liberation Day Sophie pounded on the door. Rain hammered down, each drop stinging like tiny pins against her skin. Come on, open the door! She was exhausted from the day's events, but the real pain was deeper—her chest felt hollow, like a knife had carved through her heart. Too much had happened. Too much to process. As she knocked, she kept an eye on the street to see if someone was following her. Her entire body was on full alert as she knew all too well the violent capabilities of the people who wanted her dead. The will to keep going surprised her. In these dire circumstances, most people would have thrown in the towel by now. It had certainly crossed her mind several times just to give in, but there was this tiny little flame inside of her still burning with hope. At this moment, all she knew was the key to her hope was behind this door, and she could not retreat. She kept knocking on the metal door, looking nervously down the dark alley. The building was an abandoned hotel, its windows shattered and weeds spilling over cracked pavement in the front. Since the Philadelphia airport shut down, every hotel in the area had been left to decay, a blighted cover for what lay hidden inside. The disrepair cloaked the building, a perfect veil for those who didn’t want to be found. After what felt like an eternity, the door creaked open a few inches, revealing a bald man with glinting glasses in the dim light. He lifted his chin, looking down through the lenses and groaned when he recognized Sophie. “Keep it down! What are you doing here?” he hissed. “Please, Norman,” Sophie gasped, shivering. “If you don’t let me in, I’m dead.” “Yes, and if I do, I might be too,” he sneered. His eyes darted nervously down the alley. From further inside, a deep voice commanded, “Norman! Let her in. We don’t turn away Unaltereds.” With a begrudging sigh, Norman swung the door open, and Sophie stumbled into the damp, moldy darkness. Broken dishes and rusted utensils littered the floor, remnants of the hotel’s former life before it was abandoned to decay. She took a shaky breath, the stale air thick with mildew. As her eyes adjusted, Sophie noticed a tall figure watching her from the shadows—a man in a dark tailored suit with a face as stony as a statue. He exuded the kind of calm authority that only came with military training. “I trust you made sure you weren’t followed,” he said gruffly. “Yes,” she replied, trying to keep her voice steady. “I wouldn’t risk the Institute.” He eyed her skeptically before holding out a scanning device. She slipped her arm into the cuff, exhaling in relief when the words “100% Pure” blinked blue across the screen. “Sad how rare that is,” he murmured, a flicker of something akin to pity crossed his face before his expression hardened again. “Sophie!” a familiar voice broke through the tension, and she turned to see Kat, her sister-in-law, rushing toward her with open arms. Sophie’s resolve cracked as she collapsed into the embrace, choking back tears. “They have my kids, Kat,” she whispered. “I’m desperate.” Kat hugged her tightly. “Come on. We’ll get it sorted.” As Sophie followed Kat down a dimly lit hallway, memories of the Grand Rosenwood Hotel tugged at her mind. Only ten years ago, it had been a luxurious destination, the kind of place where she and Ben had celebrated their anniversaries. She could almost smell the faint traces of the hotel’s past—a hint of expensive cologne, lingering beneath the mildew. She remembered how he’d surprised her on their eleventh, slipping diamond earrings into her hand over a candlelit dinner. That was before everything changed, before the world spiraled into chaos. They passed through what used to be the hotel’s grand ballroom, now a makeshift storage space filled with crates of supplies and stacked metal bunk beds. The Freedom Institute had been on the move for years, relocating their command center from one hidden location to another until they’d finally taken over these ruins. “They turned this place upside down,” Sophie murmured, taking in the marble pillars and tattered chandeliers. The elegance of the old world was buried under layers of dust and utilitarian reinforcements. “Yeah,” Kat nodded, glancing back at her. “It took them nearly two years to make this bunker operational. Had to reinforce the walls and shield the whole thing with that new palladium-glass alloy. Keeps out EMPs and blocks us from satellite detection.” The Institute was one of the last safe havens for people like her—Unaltereds, those whose DNA hadn’t been “upgraded” by the alien invaders. The thought sent a chill through her, and she wrapped her arms around herself. Kat led Sophie to a nearby elevator, punched in a code, and the car lurched downward. Sophie gripped the rail, feeling the tension in her chest ease as they descended deep into the heart of the Freedom Institute’s hidden command center. When the doors opened ten floors down, a rush of fresh, filtered air met her, filling her lungs with the first taste of hope. Kat’s hand on her shoulder brought her back to the present. “Hey,” she said softly. “I know it’s overwhelming. But you’re safe here, Sophie.” They stepped into a wide hallway. Kat gestured to the left with a small, tired smile. “Welcome to Central Command, Sophie.” Sophie tried to return the smile, but her face felt stiff, as though it had forgotten how to relax. She focused on the rhythmic footsteps, hoping they would calm the unsteady pounding in her chest. They passed a series of unmarked doors, each one a solid block of reinforced steel, giving no hint of what lay inside. At the end of the hall, a large room enclosed in glass shimmered under harsh fluorescent lights. Sophie paused, watching the scene inside. The setup looked like something out of a documentary she’d once watched—a high-tech command center deep underground, alive with glowing screens and murmured voices. In the center of the room, a three-dimensional holographic display hovered, casting ghostly blue light over the figures bent over their consoles. A man in the center waved his hands with practiced precision, data flickering and expanding in response to his gestures like some futuristic conductor guiding an invisible orchestra. Ten floors beneath the city, they had a better setup than she could have imagined. “No one knows we’re here,” Kat murmured as if sensing her awe. “Come on. I’ll bring you back later and explain everything, but first, let’s get you cleaned up with a shower and some fresh clothes.” A shower. Just the thought of it loosened something in Sophie’s chest, allowing her to unclench her fists for the first time since stepping inside. A plan, even if it was just a shower and fresh clothes, gave her something to hold on to. Kat led her down another hallway, this one brighter, lined with doors made of dark walnut, each with a small brass number gleaming softly against the white walls. They stopped at number 46. Kat opened it with a little flourish, the hint of playfulness lost in her tired face. “Here you go, Soph,” she said gently. “Get cleaned up. I’ll bring you some fresh clothes and hot coffee. Then, you can tell me everything.” Sophie swallowed, blinking away sudden tears. “Katrina Wright, you are the balm my soul needed on this dark day,” she said, managing a hoarse chuckle. Kat’s smile softened. “You know who the real balm is,” she replied, voice tender. “He’s the one who directs my path—and yours.” Sophie’s lips twitched in a polite smile, though something tightened inside her at the mention of God. Anger stirred, raw and unwelcome, but she was too exhausted to let it surface. “Thanks, Kat,” she said instead, her voice quieter than before. Kat nodded, giving her a brief squeeze on the shoulder before slipping out, closing the door softly behind her. Alone at last, Sophie exhaled and peeled off her wet clothes. She laid her 9mm handgun carefully on the bed, the black metal gleaming against the white linens. She unzipped her bodysuit with practiced hands, revealing the mesh of breathable armor beneath. Old-school firearm, new-school bodysuit. Keep them guessing. She looked around the room, taking in the dark wood furniture—the bed, the small nightstand, the delicate curve of an antique lamp. She recognized them. These were pieces scavenged from the old Grand Rosenwood Hotel, back when it was a place for anniversaries and celebrations, not a sanctuary for the hunted. She remembered a weekend she and Ben had spent here, the laughter over wine and candlelight, the feeling of his hand on hers. That was a lifetime ago, from a world that felt as far away as the surface. In the bathroom, she caught her reflection in the mirror. Her green eyes looked back at her, dull and shadowed, refusing to shine. A thin scratch traced her cheekbone, raw from the cold rain. Her chestnut hair hung limp around her shoulders, tangled and damp. She brushed her fingers through it, noticing the firm muscle in her arms, her body shaped by necessity, honed by survival. Once, she might have been proud of the definition in her biceps. Now, it just reminded her of everything she’d lost to get here. Her gaze dropped to the silver chain around her neck. Two rings dangled from it, catching the fluorescent light. She lifted the chain, letting the rings rest in her palm—hers and Ben’s, a silent testament to days she could never get back. She closed her hand around them, letting herself sink into the memory of their warmth, the laughter, the safety she hadn’t realized was so fragile. The good old days, she thought bitterly, feeling a prickling at the back of her eyes. She leaned over the sink, gripping the cold porcelain as if it could hold her steady. For a moment, she allowed herself to remember—Ben’s easy smile, her kids’ laughter echoing through the house. The memories washed over her, piercing and painful, but somehow grounding. Sophie remembered the first time she saw Ben, standing in the doorway of a crowded college party, a little lost, scanning the room with that easy smile of his. He later joked he’d come with his eye on one of her friends but lost all interest the moment he saw her. They’d fallen hard and fast, and a year later, she was walking down the aisle to him. Those early years were a blur of dreams and plans—first apartments, cheap dinners they made special, lazy Sunday mornings that felt like they could go on forever. She couldn’t help but wince at the things that used to consume her back then—petty worries about money, simmering arguments with Ben over his parents, endless to-do lists. If only she’d known how quickly life could turn, how fragile their happiness really was, she might have let the small stuff go. She’d have clung to every single moment, without letting the trivialities weigh her down. But hindsight was a cruel companion. Ben’s face flashed through her mind, kind and steady as always. He had been patient, a steadying force when her worries spiraled. A good man. Losing him had been like losing gravity, an anchor she hadn’t realized held her steady until it was gone. She remembered the day she’d buried him, the way the earth had looked, dark and cold, swallowing him up. Part of her had dimmed that day, a light she could never reignite. Life, after that, had lost all color. She forced herself back to the present, fingers slowly unclenching as she set their wedding rings down on the bathroom counter. The past was a dangerous place to linger. She took a deep breath, straightening her spine, and practiced her “robot” face in the mirror—eyes blank, expression neutral, walls up. There would be time to unpack the grief later, when her kids were safe. Right now, slipping even a little would drag her under. She couldn’t afford that. She stepped into the shower, letting the hot water pound over her shoulders, washing away the grime and cold. She closed her eyes and let the heat seep in, loosening the knots in her muscles, quieting her mind. Everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours had left her spinning and disoriented, her sense of reality twisted. She took another deep breath, willing herself to find a center, a plan. The water ran hot over her skin, rinsing away the day, the grief, the fear, leaving her with only what she needed: clarity and focus. When she finally stepped out of the bathroom, a faint calm had settled over her. She noticed a set of fresh clothes folded neatly on the bed—a pair of jeans and a light blue T-shirt, simple and familiar. She pulled them on, the fabric soft and comforting against her clean skin, and took a moment to savor the small relief. On the bedside table, a pot of coffee waited for her, still steaming. Sophie poured a mug and wrapped her hands around it, inhaling the familiar warmth. She took a slow sip, the bitter taste grounding her, bringing her fully back into the moment. She sank onto the bed, meaning just to rest her eyes for a moment, but exhaustion pulled her down like a weight. She lay back, eyes drifting closed as the day’s tension finally released from her muscles. Images swirled behind her closed eyelids—Ben’s smile, the kids’ laughter, the smell of coffee in their old kitchen. Shadows of what once was, now forever out of reach. Sleep found her, though it was anything but restful. ********

1. Write your story statement. A young man matures throughout his struggles for personal freedom from the tyrannical grasp of a host of oppressors amid events driven by ambitious and desperate power players. 2. Less than 200 words, sketch antagonist as their background, ways they react to world about them, their goals. Asaker al-Baqadin, possessing a disturbed mentality forged in the fires of macabre family tragedy, embodies a sinister drive for revenge. He leaves behind destruction through his relentless struggle to weaponize a synthetic nanobot that terrifyingly disrupts genetics controlling the human mind. A younger Asaker became passionate and competent with weapons and martial skills. He reacts to obstacles as existential threats provoking aggressive response. He knows his greatest challenge among many that he must overcome is Konen Windstone holding in his memory Asaker’s secret plans to build a genetic assault weapon. He must hunt down the elusive Konen before he realizes the consequences of his knowledge. Asaker’s character arc includes after he realizes his weapon’s effect he concludes it his duty to cleanse the world of many bad people, and why shouldn’t he be paid to do so? Anecdote (optional?): “Asaker mused there was the matter of the man who had driven his father's reckless greed and his family’s murder. Andross Gastos, of the most evil Napoleron Banque Nationale, living lavishly on Allée Lecouvreur Reclus, in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. Asaker knew he would look down that shadow as he made it far darker than Gastos could dream possible.” 3. Create a breakout title (list several options, not more than three, and revisit to edit as needed). MetaMentum Series: Book One – Origins: Konen Windstone's Fragile Path Within Shadows of Power Book Two – Forging Will: Konen Confronts His New Warrior Culture Book Three – Diffusion: A Fragile Freedom Amid the Hunt for Konen Book Four – Convergence: Konen’s Clashes with Asaker Develop two smart comparables for your novel. This is a good opportunity to immerse yourself in your chosen genre. Who compares to you? And why? Genre: is an Action-Thriller shaped by regularly appearing advanced technology that helps characters drive story in varying fashions. The comparables aspect of the utilized technology is drawn from the author’s knowledge of story-friendly advanced technology. • Comparables: A loose high concept comparison may be made as ‘The struggles and capabilities of Jason Bourne meet the ensemble and cross-cutting episodic elements of a modern day Game of Thrones (GOT). • Konen Windstone’s personal journey from slavery to gladiator to finally attaining a new and unfamiliar freedom loosely parallels Jason Bourne's character arc. Both individuals struggle to discover who they really are while they rely on their advanced skills that have been partially attained through externally-effected physical alteration. • Metamentum utilizes plot elements of GOT for both protagonist and antagonist arc progression in how John Truby defines his cross-cutting story structure element. Similar to GOT, MetaMentum’s geopolitical intrigue involving powerful and driven characters such as Konen's father Tecumseh and his close ally Marctane Bodine; Asaker al-Baqadin and his tech wizard Sami Shah; Colonel Gerisimov, his son Petor, nephew Mannikko Tazmanakos, and accomplice Nastya Dubrushkinova; Roman and Katarana Titanov, As well as the strong alpha female Markresha van Reethrum, harbor strong motivations and are mostly not adverse to whatever level of conflict the deem necessary. • MetaMentum is a further comparables' hybrid that deliberately draws upon story elements, albeit only where they can find an organic home, from other stories such as 24 (where Sami crosses Asaker in a manner similar to where in 24 Michael Amador deliberately crosses Stephen Saunders); and Traffic (where Katarana Titanov undergoes a Helena Ayala (Catherine Zeta-Jones) type renaissance to replace her husband in leading their respective dangerous enterprises). Like it's comparables, Metamentum has multiple (at least three firmly established) potent female characters who have no need for men to perform as alpha story engines with rising intensity as story persists. 5 . Write your own hook line (logline) with conflict and core wound following the format above. Konen Windstone, a long held slave commando, must overcome the traumas from his past and escape to freedom from the tyrannical martial circumstances that Asaker imposed upon him throughout his formative teen years. When Konen accidently learns Asaker’s dangerous secrets, he becomes a serious threat for as long as a desperate Asaker is unable to end his life. Konen’s boy-to-man journey for freedom begins when he unexpectedly transitions from Asaker’s slave commando to Colonel Gerisimov’s ‘strategic’ prisoner in a Russian mining camp North of the Arctic Circle. Konen’s transition is set in motion where he becomes the unwitting linchpin to a power play between Asaker versus a powerful Imam, as well as simultaneously between Colonel Gerisimov versus his military competitors for greater trans-national crime power. Konen’s bloodied face appears in a viral YouTube video that directly triggers both Asaker and Gerisimov to gain significant material rewards while it also enables Konen’s father, Tecumseh, to discover his long lost son is still alive. Konen’s quest for freedom and vanquishing inner demons remains unfulfilled until he becomes forced to confront Asaker, the man who had for too long held him captive both physically and psychologically. 6-A: Sketch out the conditions for the inner conflict your protagonist will have. Why will they feel in turmoil? Conflicted? Anxious? Sketch out one hypothetical scenario in the story wherein this would be the case--consider the trigger and the reaction. INNER CONFLICT: The trigger for Konen Windstone’s major inner conflict was when slave traders kidnapped him at age six from his parents in Morocco, during the infamous ‘Agadir Tornado of Souls’ terrorist attacks. Asaker acquired Konen and relentlessly worked to brainwash him throughout his continuous training as one of many slave commandos who together executed mercenary operations for Asaker’s profit. Konen maintained a convincing fallacious pretense of devout fealty as his conflicted life of impersonating submission to the persistent religious indoctrination in order to stay alive. 6-B: Next, likewise sketch a hypothetical scenario for the "secondary conflict" involving the social environment. Will this involve family? Friends? Associates? What is the nature of it? EXTERNAL CONFLICT: Konen had a difficult time accepting that only fifteen minutes before the mission commenced, Hassan warned him exactly how he would be responsible for taking direct action in the event that the sea became punishing enough to weaken any of the boys into a state of unacceptable risk. He warned Konen that anyone in danger of either straggling too far behind, or even panic, would compromise the mission and thus Konen must shove and hold their head under the water, without remorse, for the sake of mercy and stealth. Konen’s eyes jerked over to the sudden seven-foot eruption in the water, but it was too late to warn Amir of the whitecap that had quickly soared beyond his peripheral vision to blindside him, collapsing onto his face, and leaving him gagging for spasmodic gulps of air. Konen recalled Jihadi lore that danger had an affinity for the weakest. Had they remained in their Zodiacs longer, Amir might have had a chance. But in this cold rough water, this long, made Konen regret Hassan had approved the skinny boy for this mission. His stare drifted left to Amir’s older brother, Jamal, glancing at Amir between his own laborious strokes. Despite the scant light, Konen could see the worry deeply etched into Jamal’s young face. Konen now realized Jamal lied to him when he had asked if Amir was fit enough to join the mission. Asaker forbade outside doctors into the madrassa, for fear of them witnessing the harsh methods that he had recklessly applied to ‘properly train’ some of the more stubborn boys. Over the last few days, Jamal his his anguish as well as hid Amir from the others even though his vomiting expelled more grotesquely after each meal. Konen now regretted not stepping out of his hidden vantage point the day before, and intervening when he overheard Jamal arguing with Amir. Jamal had told him to stop discarding his rations and eat them instead, but Amir argued back saying that if he stopped eating just for one more day it would stop his sickness and improve the color in his face so that he would appear to Hassan to be fit enough for the mission. Now Konen painfully witnessed, moment by moment, how Amir’s swimming gradually appeared weaker, until the choppy sea started pushing him backward, and nearly stopping his forward progress. Konen looked over to his left and saw a grimacing Jamal anxiously watching Amir obviously struggling to keep his arms moving through the water. As Konen closed in on Amir, he was amazed to watch Jamal turn and swim further away from his brother. That left Konen to be the first to hear Amir’s pained breathing growing shriller. Konen drifted himself close enough to see Amir struggling to draw air into his lungs, his quick shallow gasps signaling he was failing to get enough air. Konen winced at Jamal to see if he realized the trouble that his brother was in, when he abruptly turned back to the sound of Amir’s asynchronous breaths slowing into a faint whisper. Konen suppressed his gasp at Amir’s deep grimace reflecting the seizure that completely halted his breathing. Konen became terrified at the young boy’s face expressing a horror similar to the atrocity he would recall forever on Memet, the boy who Asaker Abu al-Baqadin had burned alive last year to set a disciplinary example. Konen jolted at how suddenly the cold fog reverberated Amir’s gagging cry that sputtered a petite froth of his combined dwindling air and acrid water out from his lungs. Konen saw the other boys around him startled at the sudden guttural broadcast. They all turned heads to find who risked exposing their pre-dawn attack on the Serdyukov, the Mistral-class amphibious assault ship that France had provisioned under Russian command to transport its expeditionary forces to its secretly planned point of assault. Seeing Amir plunge helplessly beneath the surface, Konen knew that Hassan would insist on him pushing and keeping his head under to drown him as silently and quickly as possible. But witnessing so closely how horribly the boy was about to die spiked a surge of adrenaline in Konen. He spun behind Amir and thrust out his arm to seize his wet suit’s rear collar, yanking his limping head out of the swirling water. As soon as Konen saw Amir’s gagging face clear the water, he had to duck away from his angry clawing hands back over his shoulder and barely missing Konen’s eyes. Konen saw Hassan approaching from over Amir’s left shoulder, glaring at him, and baring his thick teeth in a ferocious anger. “Release him Konen, God summons him.” Konen deliberately tightened his chest muscles to fight off the shaking sensation pressing outward from his gut, and the consequent stuttering. “My Hassan, we shall let Amir drown?” Konen watched Hassan’s eyes ratchet larger into a frenzied glare. He cringed at Hassan’s hoarsely whispered warning. “I declare God requires him now! Of all my warriors, I would never expect it to be you Konen -- to set this wretched blasphemy upon our Imam's sacred mission and our path, say I, your path to Heaven!” Feeling boxed in with intimidation, Konen broke his gaze from Hassan and faced Amir, who he still held buoyant; however, now he froze at seeing that Amir had suddenly ceased all struggling. Konen already feeling the cold water, shuddered a lifeless chill from seeing Amir's eyes lock into his with a trans-humanly glow out of his agony from the lethal brine that had displaced nearly all the essential air from his lungs. With such a sudden cold fright that quickly made the water around him feel disturbingly warm, Konen abandoned his grasp of the boy. Turning away, he swam not daring to look back, but winced at hearing Amir’s final gurgle as a vanishing echo blanketed under the low fog concealing their approach to their target. Konen steeled his eyes amid the salt spray to fight back the tears. He suddenly felt his shoulder stinging from Jamal’s hard open palm strike. “Konen, you should have pressed his head into the water. What if you exposed our mission?” Rubbing the punch out of his shoulder, Konen had never in his life felt so incredulous. “He was your brother Jamal. Why did you fail to take responsibility for your family?” Konen floated face-to-face with Jamal, seeing his eyes burst wide and his mouth grimace in agony before compensating into a rage that unsheathed his rubber-handled knife. Jamal raised his hand-length grey steel blade high over his head and lunged down at Konen. “You blasphemer…unworthy of Jihad…unworthy of the Imam!” Amid a splash loud enough to turn heads, Konen whipped his hand to block and seize Jamal’s wrist, torquing it back into the arm to release the knife into the deep water. Before the blade sank a meter, Konen swept Jamal aside with his lean powerful forearm. Hassan hissed at them both. ”Silence! Another moment of your drivel and you both die here.” Konen flashed a wide-eyed warning to Jamal, before he swam on. “Stop pretending your wrist hurts. You would know it if I wanted to hit you hard.” 7th Assignment: sketch out your setting in detail. What makes it interesting enough, scene by scene, to allow for uniqueness and cinema in your narrative and story? Please don't simply repeat what you already have which may well be too quiet. You can change it. That's why you're here! Start now. Imagination is your best friend, and be aggressive with it. 7-A. Immersed in the Black Sea The opening scene finds Kirov, one of our protagonists. It became more difficult for Kirov to ignore the aching sensation from the chilly sea threatening to cramp his upper legs. The 30 kilograms of tactical assault gear awkwardly swaying across his upper back weighed on every stroke as he swam strong into the outer reaches of the coastal tide turbulence. He cursed under his laboring breath they should have rowed longer inside their inflatable Zodiac boats before immersing themselves in this aggravating water. Here where the very deep sea met the shallow shelf it became choppy enough for whitecaps that suddenly sprang up hissing like a cobra to spit burning salt into his eyes. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 7-B. Georgian Port of Batumi, Waters Edge of the Heavy Ships Pier: Kirov shuddered from the winds swiftly swirling out from the alpine air mass cascading down the Caucasus highlands that made each minute feel colder than the last. He watched the plummeting chill forge part of the sea mist into crystals that settled into a dull glaze all around him. Each aching minute relentlessly grated into Kirov. It became harder to balance himself in his cramped kneeling position on the prickly iron skin of the 100 year old pier. He felt the rough metal drawing out his dwindling body heat. His lips and nostrils burned from the slimy brine splashing into his face each time another gust burst over the beaten down sea wall. Repeatedly, Kirov felt each breaker’s splash crystallize to an ice skin on his legs and feet that began to feel like it insulated him from the frigid air, until the next breaker splattered him once again before retreating to the sea. His wrists pulsed raw from the taut plastic clasps cinching them behind his back and his ankles scraped into the chains pulled tight around them on one end with the other end clasped to an ancient iron ring welded into the dock. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 7-C. Vorkuta - Russia, North of the Arctic Circle The greater visibility of daybreak only intensified Kirov’s dread. He stared at the fanning dawn rays neatly painting their deep purple aura to sharpen the naked ridge masking the horizon. Now soft lavender beams probed between the plump clouds retreating from the southward advancing pressure of crisp Arctic air. To Kirov, the distant rays felt warmer than his surrounding atmosphere. It chilled him to watch how the reckless SPETZNAZ, shoved each other into the profuse flames crackling out from their dazzling bonfire. The SPETZNAZ came to Shestaki for only one thing; live adversary combat training. Once each month Shestaki guards escorted selected puppets to the wide shallow lake within walking distance. The Vorkuta-garrisoned SPETZNAZ maintained their tradition of fighting their puppets while in a natural body of water; and the colder it was then the better it would deaden the staggering effects of the vodka drunk long into last night. And they would find it cold enough to their liking at sunrise. ---END---

Below is chapter one and the first two pages of chapter two. The opening scene introduces the main character Jacob Johnson. The scene is a flash-forward scene that the reader will return to later in the novel. The tone is cold and distant. The opening scene foreshadows the man Jacob will become. Chapter two is set in 1986 when Jacob was a boy. The scene begins in his bathroom, toggles to a flashback, then back to the bathroom. This scene of him speaking with his father establishes their relationship because later his father will die shortly before his tenth birthday. I He took her life with spite. The instrument of death didn’t slice flesh or rip it with the pull of a trigger. His tool ensured a deeper death. He concealed the deed, committed it to silence—the kind kept in the family, secrets protected by blood. Jacob Johnson, like absolute monarchs before him, did not just ascend to the throne— he took it. His province, the boardroom, not a royal court, though similar rules applied. His coronation took place in the mansion he designed on Lake Norman, thirty-two miles from uptown Charlotte. Enveloped in opulence, he was master. There would be no questions as to what happened; his word was law. He surveyed the room he’d designed—a room accented with roses, their aroma of citrus and mint lingered while the pink walls fought to maintain tones of softness and safety. The truth of the morning’s events whispered to him until it became reality: she was gone. His eyes turned to water, but tears never fell, the lump in his throat never formed. His heart maintained its rhythm. He was safe now. Outside, the brilliance of the morning sun encouraged the chirps of birds and crickets. The sun’s light beamed through the bay window behind the four-poster California king, where she lay cooling. The room now illuminated with power and death. The only witnesses to the spectacle were French oil paintings whose judgement sat silent from their place on the walls. In the aftermath, there was no time to consider his actions. No time to mourn his loss. No regret and no reflection. It was morning; he needed to make decisions, and business continued. Today he became CEO of one of the southeast’s largest companies. After contacting the paramedics, he called the head of communications at Carrington Enterprises. He recounted what happened and gave instructions. “That’s right, I want the press conference here. I am committed to the same schedule. I also do not under any circumstances want prepared remarks.” “But, Mr. Johnson, we’ve—” “Two more items. First, have the lawyers check their file on Tonya Lewis. Second, there is a folder in the top drawer of my desk. The folder has the names of three that will need to be terminated immediately. They were connected to Doug Wilbanks. I verified their role in that fiasco. Prepare a press release for Tanya’s release and an email to the organization about the others.” “Right away, sir.” “Personally see to it that all of this is completed by the close of business—that’s all.” His calls completed, he looked at her again. She appeared peaceful as if she was in a deep sleep. His concentration broke when he heard the media trucks arrive. Local and national business media sent whoever they could to cover the press conference. His personal security team, inherited from Mr. Carrington as the leader of the firm was entitled, ushered members of the media in place. They positioned the reporters outside his front door in the sixty-six-degree October afternoon. Inside the home, the hum of news vans and the chatter of reporters getting their live shots muted the birds and crickets. In his closet, the size of a studio apartment, adorned with mahogany and marble, he chose not one of his tailored suits, but the only off-the-rack suit. It was the suit his mom picked for him when he took her out for a shopping day. She encouraged him to “just try it on.” He did, and to his surprise liked it. The ten-foot-high mirror reflected the man to himself. His shoulders slumped. His face was dormant, but his eyes were steel. Jacob adjusted his tie in the mirror and saw the reflection of the wooden chessboard he received from Deacon Rose the Christmas after his father died. The paint on the board had not chipped or faded through the years even though he had used it to aid him through many of his pivotal moments. He closed his eyes, briefly, then took the elevator to the ground floor. His shoulders lower now. His face transitioned from dormant to hibernation. “Take it. This is your time,” the voice said to him. At that moment, Jacob Johnson erected his back. His face awakened and his shoulders rose. He stood symmetrical. Jacob walked to the front door of the main house. He opened the door, then walked to the microphones. With no notes, he looked at the assembled press and began. “Today, I lost two of the most important people in my life. Both will never be forgotten and always remembered in my heart.” Jacob paused. He expected his emotions to whipsaw. Instead, his feelings were stock-still. He continued. “Today we begin anew. Personally, I begin a new chapter, but also does Carrington Enterprises, and I look forward to working with our employees and shareholders to see that Mr. Carrington’s vision, his life’s work, is accomplished.” The story of Jacob Johnson did not begin in the room of mint and citrus by the lake. The future began in the past, the year, December 6, 1986 with his father. II Jacob eyeballed two tablespoons of baking soda. He emptied the contents onto the stained khakis. A mix of mud and fescue stained the pants. With an assist from the bathroom spigot, a thick paste formed, allowing him to work most of the stains out. His left eye, slightly swollen, would not be as easy to hide. The sound of the fabric’s friction grated, off-key. As the desafinado ensued, his memory flinched. He replayed the pictures from the creek and how the whole mess started—he found himself here once again. He walked to the creek. The crisp December air instructed his nose to run. Wind from the east made his eyes water. The creek made winter colder. Jacob’s windbreaker and gloves were just enough to keep the situation tolerable. In his right hand, he held the mason jar he brought to catch tadpoles. He liked going to the creek and was familiar with its contours. Jacob identified two medium-sized rocks in the shallowest end of the creek. He tiptoed to them, steadied his hand, and situated the jar in the water. On cue, one tadpole went in as if it had been waiting for a new home all day. The tadpoles blended with the water’s mud. The brown mixture made it difficult to determine his success. The capture made him anxious to see how many he caught. He made his way back to the edge of the creek. That’s when he spotted them. Like skilled predators they used the terrain to cover themselves. He wanted to run, but the hunters, led by Mikey, rendered all routes of escape invalid. The prey stood helpless. Fear soaked his pants. Jacob was stricken with panic fit for a soldier affixing his bayonet to his rifle before a charge. He considered resistance but accepted the fists with bitter resignation. Back in the bathroom, he conducted the ritual of humiliation he perfected. He let the pants sit in the water while he patted a cotton ball to disinfect his eye with isopropyl alcohol. A few strands of the cotton ball stuck in the wound. Lucky for him, the cut sat just below his left eyebrow, so it took a squinted eye to notice. He continued his checklist of items. Jacob erased the stains from the pants and dropped them in the hamper. No evidence, no conversations. He concealed the effects of the bullying most days, but even a nine-year-old’s self-examination couldn’t justify why. He was not a child deprived of love. He had two parents, toys at Christmas, and thoughtful chastising which was abnormal in his neighborhood. He understood his mother’s love in the peanut butter and jelly sandwich she placed in his lunchbox. In conversations with his father, he felt nourished, wanted, even needed. While he felt the love, he also leveraged his father’s work schedule and his mother’s adherence to her stories on ABC as a sufficient cloak. His toothbrush, wash cloth, and towel were the sorrowful audience yet again. He wrung out his pants then opened the bathroom door. There, on the worn tan carpet, his father, Ricky Johnson, stood before him. “You plan to put those in the hamper?” Jacob stood in the doorway. His shock at seeing his father suspended his motion. “Would you like to tell me what’s going on?” His father said. Jacob once again had no escape. The boys at the creek had cut off his routes, and now his dad made avoidance of the conversation impossible. Ricky Johnson’s arms were folded. Most mechanics didn’t dress in a white shirt and slacks even if they did own the shop. But most mechanics were not Ricky Johnson. He styled himself to command respect. The boys at the shop called him “Mr. J”; it was a sign of respect. Dress shirt and slacks were his uniform in a shop mired in oil and grease. Jacob admired his dad’s fashion choices even in this moment when he wished he could be anywhere else. Jacob had seen his father’s expression before. Ricky’s mood was not angry it was worse. His father was even-tempered and employed logic. He didn’t spare the rod, but his rod struck the mind, not the body. “I’ve known about the bullying. I also know it just doesn’t happen at school. Were you down by the creek?” Jacob looked down. “Yes, sir. I didn’t start it.” Ricky told Jacob that he had seen the shirts and pants in the hamper. He implored his son to fight back. “The only language a bully understands is violence. Otherwise, they will feed off your fear.” In the doorway of that bathroom, under the watchful eye of his audience, Jacob felt he let his father down. School came easy to him, but he consistently felt that to get all his father’s love he needed to improve with his hands. His father once asked him for a straight edge, and he froze. After an awkward silence his father said, “Hand me that ruler.” His knowledge of cars was less impressive. His father not only owned the repair shop, but he also repaired the cars. He knew car makes and models. Jacob wasn’t even sure of the kind of car his parents drove every day. In every measure he believed his dad cared about Jacob did not make the grade. He wanted his dad to take it out on him, but Ricky never did. Jacob’s eyes welled as Ricky kept going.

Chapter 1 and 2 word doc.docx

A - Processing January 15th, 2025, Day one of six The red sensor lights blink three times. Diego’s mother stiffens—then starts to cry. From her assigned observation post near the barbed-wire perimeter of Facility 17, Mrs. Rios watches the scene unfold through a maze of plexiglass partitions and steel desks. The air smells of bleach and desperation, the same way it does in every detention center along the U.S.-Mexico border. Her team from the Coalition for Algorithmic Justice (CAJ) has spread out strategically: Sarah documenting times and faces near the main door, Javier positioned by the intake desk, and Marcus hovering near the exit with his tablet ready. The guard manning Station Four keeps his eyes fixed on his screen, deliberately ignoring the woman and her small son—who can't be older than three—clutching her skirt, his thin jacket offering little protection against the facility's aggressive air conditioning. The overhead announcement flashes in cold, unfeeling letters on digital screens: "Welcome to Facility 17. Year 2025. Artificial Intelligence Border Systems Active." The message repeats in Spanish, its mechanical efficiency cutting through the air. This was no ordinary immigration checkpoint—Facility 17 was a fully automated detention center, where algorithms dictated asylum seekers' fates. Through reinforced windows, the winter morning sun barely penetrates the thick glass, casting weak shadows across polished floors. Beyond the fences, razor wire coils glisten with frost under a slate-gray sky. Surveillance drones circle in precise patterns, their sensors scanning endlessly for signs of dissent or desperation. A guard shifts his weight, hand hovering near his weapon. The movement catches Mrs. Rios's attention, and she steps forward, heels striking against polished concrete. Each tap echoes through the space, competing with the hum of machinery that seems to pulse through the walls themselves. A line of exhausted detainees shuffles forward, corralled by armed guards and faceless machines. Towers loom above them, cameras swiveling, feeding endless streams of data into invisible systems. The processing gate flashes its verdict in bold red letters: "RISK DETECTED – DETAIN INDEFINITELY." "Who flagged him?" Mrs. Rios's voice cuts through the mechanical ambiance. She doesn't need to raise it – authority radiates from every syllable. The nearest officer doesn't look up from his tablet. "Algorithm did. Category Three risk. Facial recognition found previous matches." He gestures vaguely toward the woman. "It's automated." "And wrong." Mrs. Rios's tablet appears in her hand, screen illuminating her sharp features. "Her name is Juana Torres. That boy is her son, Diego. Your system is marking her as suspicious based solely on shared indigenous facial features. Tell me, does that sound like justice to you?" Behind her, her team moves with practiced efficiency – three advocates spreading out to document everything. One photographs the denial screens, another whispers gentle reassurances to Juana in Spanish, while the third takes rapid notes on a secured device. Their first day at Facility 17 has barely begun, but already they've fallen into a grim rhythm, knowing their time here is limited. The officer fidgets but holds his ground. "The system shows a 99% match." "A 99% match to what?" Mrs. Rios steps closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "To every other brown-skinned mother who's walked through these doors? To every other child you've traumatized with your perfect technology?" A door slides open with a hydraulic hiss. The supervisor emerges, clipboard clutched like a shield. His uniform is pristine, badges gleaming under fluorescent lights that wash all color from his face. "Ms. Rios, you know the protocol. Observe all you want, but don't interfere." He checks his watch with a slight smirk. "Besides, everything changes next week. This investigation won't matter much then." "That's where you're wrong," Mrs. Rios turns, eyebrow arched. "Since arriving this morning, I've documented seven cases of your AI targeting indigenous families. Seven mothers facing separation from their children because your system can't tell the difference between facial features and actual threats. This evidence isn't going away. The MIT Media Lab is already analyzing similar patterns across other facilities. Stanford's AI Ethics Institute has started their own investigation." The supervisor's smirk falters. "Policy changes—" "Don't erase evidence," Mrs. Rios cuts in. "The Algorithm Justice League and the ACLU are building cases. Universities are studying your system's bias. You think this ends next week? This is just the beginning." "Por favor," Juana's voice trembles. "Por mi hijo." The room falls silent except for Diego's muffled sobs and the ever-present drone of machines. Mrs. Rios crouches down to the boy's eye level, her stern expression melting into something warmer. Around them, other detainees watch with a mixture of fear and desperate hope. "Hola, Diego," she says softly in Spanish. "I promise you – this fight isn't over. Not next week, not ever." Standing again, she faces the supervisor. Every word falls like a hammer strike. "I'm filing an emergency appeal for this family's release. And for every other family your algorithm has wrongfully detained. When the review board asks why children are being separated from their parents based on facial recognition errors, I expect detailed answers." The supervisor's face drains of color, but before he can respond, Mrs. Rios's tablet buzzes – more alerts, more families, more fights ahead. She glances through the facility's glass walls where dozens wait in plastic chairs, their faces carrying the same fear she sees in Juana's eyes. The weight of their silent pleas presses against her shoulders, but she stands straighter under the burden. "Start the appeal process," she tells her team, her voice steady and determined. "Document everything. I want every denial, every flag, every algorithmic 'match' from the past month. We're not leaving until we've reviewed every case." She turns back to face the supervisor, her expression hardening. "We'll be here all day. I suggest you get comfortable with that fact." Through the glass partition, she catches a glimpse of Diego watching her, his small hand still clutched in his mother's. His eyes follow her movements, filled with a mixture of fear and desperate hope. Hours later, she stands in the private lobby of The Grant Tower Hotel, reviewing emails on her phone: responses from Columbia Law School's Center for Race and Justice, meeting requests from the Electronic Frontier Foundation, data analysis updates from MIT. The prestigious hotel has become their base of operations, its fortified Executive Wing and proximity to Facility 17 making it an ideal choice. Her shoulders ache from hours bent over documentation, but each new alliance brings a spark of hope. The soft ding of the elevator brings her back to the present moment. In her room, she finds Dante sitting by the window, his guitar resting against the chair. He looks up as she enters, his smile warming their cozy temporary home. The soft glow of the bedside lamps casts a golden hue across the room, and the faint scent of coffee lingers from his afternoon brewing. A half-written song lies on the notepad beside him, the words a mix of Portuguese and English, while a throw blanket from their Brooklyn apartment is draped across the back of his chair – a small touch of home he's brought to make the space their own. The room itself has been transformed during the day. Dante has arranged their family photos on the desk—Lucas and Sofia at the beach last summer, their anniversary dinner in São Paulo, the day they'd moved into their Brooklyn apartment. A small electric kettle sits beside his ever-present coffee supplies, and the room service cart still holds the remains of his afternoon composing session—a plate of half-eaten cookies, a dog-eared notebook filled with lyrics. "There's my warrior, Morena," he says softly, rising to embrace her. "Tough day?" She melts into his arms for a moment, allowing herself this breath of comfort. "Always tough. But necessary." She breathes in his lingering scent—coffee, guitar strings, and home. "The Stanford team wants our data. Columbia Law is organizing a conference. It's growing bigger than just this investigation." "That's good, isn't it?" Dante's fingers gently massage her shoulders, working out the knots from another day of tension. "The more people who know, the harder it becomes to ignore." "Minha mãe called," he continues, sensing she needs a moment of normalcy. "The kids are having the time of their lives. Lucas apparently convinced her to make brigadeiros at ten in the morning." Mrs. Rios laughs despite her exhaustion. "Your mother spoils them rotten." She can picture it clearly—Lucas with his charming smile, so much like his father's, wearing down his grandmother's resistance with the same gentle persistence that has always been his trademark. "She's thrilled to have them for the week. Said Sofia's Portuguese is getting better every day." He smiles, adjusting his guitar. "She's even teaching them old Brazilian folk songs. Sofia's apparently mastered 'Se Essa Rua Fosse Minha' already." The warmth of childhood memories flickers across her face as she listens to Dante speak of their children. Sofia, at seven, is already showing signs of Dante's musical talent, while Lucas, two years older, has inherited his father's easy way with people. "I've been thinking," she says, settling into the comfortable chair he's positioned by the window. "When your tour starts, maybe we could use those stops to connect with local advocacy groups. Build a national network." "Thirty-two cities in two months," he says thoughtfully, running a hand through his hair. "That's a lot of potential allies." He pauses, then adds with a smile, "Starting with Boston? The MIT team is there, and the kids love that aquarium." "I'd like that." She squeezes his hand, picturing not just Lucas pressing his face against the penguin exhibit or Sofia watching the sea turtle feeding, but meetings with researchers, building connections that could help families like Juana and Diego. He picks up his guitar. "I wrote something while you were gone. Want to hear?" Before she can answer, her phone buzzes—MIT's preliminary analysis of the AI's facial recognition patterns. Mrs. Rios moves to the window, looking out at the border city sprawled below. Somewhere out there, Juana and Diego are trying to comfort each other in detention. "I can't stop thinking about them, Dante. Not just these families, but all the others we haven't found yet." He comes to stand beside her, his presence solid and grounding. "Then we keep fighting. Not just here, not just now, but everywhere, always." She turns to face him, drawing strength from his quiet understanding. "It's going to be a long battle." "Come, Morena," he says, leading her to the small couch. "Then you need rest too. The fight will still be there tomorrow." She allows herself to be pulled down beside him, her head finding its usual place on his shoulder. Dante begins to strum softly, a gentle melody that seems to catch the city lights flickering below—a constellation of human lives intersecting in the desert night. The music wraps around them like a shelter, creating a momentary refuge from the battles ahead. His fingers move across the strings, weaving together notes that speak of hope and determination. Each chord seems to carry the weight of their shared life—their children's laughter in New York, the quiet mornings in their apartment, the strength they draw from each other's presence. The melody rises and falls like breathing, like prayer, reminiscent of the lullabies he still sings to Sofia on restless nights. The guitar's quiet notes fill the room, a reminder of the life they've built together, so far from this harsh border landscape. Yet here she is, fighting the same battles she's always fought, with new weapons and new allies. Her phone buzzes again on the table—probably more cases flagged for tomorrow's facility visit—but for these few minutes, she lets it wait. In the morning, she will return to the facility, her arsenal filled with evidence and her resolve hardened by the faces of every family she's met today. For now, in this moment, she allows herself to be simply a woman sitting beside her husband, gathering strength from his music and his unwavering support. But tomorrow—tomorrow she will face those cold machines again, will stare down their blinking lights and algorithms, will challenge their every automated judgment until she proves what the evidence already shows: Not guilty. Chapter 1: Cross-Examination Beatriz waited in the U.S. Customs and Border Protection line at JFK Airport—immigration, as she usually called it—yet nothing about this return felt familiar. Around her, travelers flipped open their sleek Motorola phones or punched at the small buttons of Nokias, their sharp beeps blending with the hum of announcements overhead. A nearby TV screen played silent news captions, the words "2001: Economic Growth Slows" scrolling beneath a weather forecast. The fluorescent lights buzzed, and the line inched forward, but Beatriz's gaze drifted to the worn edge of her passport. It was new back then, she thought, tracing the faint scuff marks with her thumb—so new, it practically glowed. A year ago, she had been light and laughing, excited for new adventures with friends who had just graduated with her from Communications School. They were all journalists, eager to explore the contrasts between the first world and their third-world home. Everyone, that is, except Caio Silva, her boyfriend, who hadn't graduated but had decided to join them on this journey. Now, as she stood, her heart racing with each passing moment, under the stark airport lighting, she glanced at the officers, their expressions unreadable, and felt a knot tighten in her stomach. The line moved slowly, each step forward growing heavier. She caught snippets of conversations around her—some filled with laughter, others with anxious whispers. A chill ran down her spine as she tried to shake off the creeping unease, reminding herself of those carefree days, but the uncertainty hung in the air, heavy and uninvited. Memories of Caio surfaced as her mind wandered. He was waiting for her in Nantucket, Massachusetts. That's where she wanted to be—where she needed to be. But the knot in her stomach reminded her that things weren't that simple. They had known each other since first grade, growing up together in Tijuca, a traditional bairro in Rio de Janeiro. It felt like their lives had always been intertwined: they went to the same schools, wandered the same street fairs on weekends, and had the same neighbors. They spent so much time together, and even though they didn't share everything, there was a comfort in their connection—just two kids navigating life side by side. The thought of him brought a wave of nostalgia, reminding her of those simpler days back home. One afternoon, during her third year of college when they'd finally started dating, Caio had shown up at her door with a worn shoebox tucked under his arm. Inside, carefully preserved, were dozens of little notes he'd written to her over the years but never delivered. Some were scrawled in crayon on scraps of paper, others on his sister's decorative stationery he'd "borrowed" when they were young. Each one captured a moment: stick-figure drawings of them playing at recess, carefully folded paper hearts, and messages like "Você quer ser minha namorada?" Will you be my girlfriend? - written in a wobbly child's handwriting. They'd sat on her bed, laughing and crying as they went through them. The earliest ones dated back to their first days of school—tiny love declarations from a boy who couldn't yet spell her name correctly. "I kept every single one," he'd admitted, his cheeks flushing. "Even when I thought you'd never see them." Some notes were just simple drawings: Beatriz with her curly hair flying as she jumped rope, or both of them sharing a popsicle at the corner store after school. Each piece of paper told the story of his quiet, steadfast love, growing alongside their friendship through the years. "I can't believe you waited so long," she'd teased him, touched by the years of unspoken feelings. After all her past relationships, all the guys she'd dated throughout college, here was Caio—her childhood friend—revealing that he'd loved her all along. The thought of that box, now carefully stored in their apartment in Nantucket, still made her smile. It had been the sweetest surprise—discovering that while she'd been experiencing their childhood as best friends, Caio had been silently collecting moments, hoping that someday they might become something more. Bia, as her friends and family called her, couldn't help but smile at the memories. The name felt warm and known, just like the laughter they shared during those lighthearted afternoons. But the warmth faded as quickly as it came. "It's your turn," a voice from the front of the line called, snapping her back to the present. Her heart skipped a beat. The smile vanished, replaced by the tight knot of anxiety twisting in her stomach. What questions would the officer ask? Would his sharp gaze over those thin-rimmed glasses send her to the dreaded "salinha"? The small room her family always talked about, where everything came under scrutiny. "What's the purpose of your visit?" Bia's throat tightened. She couldn't tell the truth, so she forced herself to lie. "To visit New York," she said, her voice faltering, the words sounding more like a question than a statement. The officer's eyes locked onto hers, and she felt exposed, as if he could sense the lie in her hesitation. She tried to stay still, but her body betrayed her. "And have you visited the United States before?" "Sim... yes," she corrected quickly, feeling the pounding in her chest grow louder. Could he hear her heart beating? "How long did you stay?" "Four weeks," she lied again, her voice barely steady. Her hands began to tremble, and she gripped the edge of her bag. She knew the consequences if she slipped—if she admitted that she'd overstayed her visa and spent almost a year working in a kitchen without authorization, she wouldn't make it past JFK. She could be banned from the U.S. for three years, maybe even ten. The thought of it sent a sharp twist of pain through her stomach, but she had to keep her cool. Not now, not here.

The last time I wore this suit was at Grandad’s funeral. I was sweating through it in the shade, that after the chill of the church’s A/C. I can’t tell if it smells of Georgia pollen or my own stink. I lift my collar and lower my nose to meet it. “All rise,” calls the bailiff. Up I jump, pulling my suit jacket down from around my neck. I button it, station my feet at shoulder width, chest out. The judge enters and settles into his chair behind the bench. There’s a symphony of creaking wood as the rest of the courtroom sits. The congregation may be seated. Grandad hated church and court. A white collar is a white collar, and they can’t be trusted, and by dint of some socioeconomic devilry known as the American Dream his seed wears one. My hands aren’t hard like his. My neck isn’t burnt. Shame. He’d cuss out loud if he saw me arguing a civil rights case. I guess he’d slap his knee though if he knew I’m suing a rich yankee. Somehow Trump being the pinnacle of rich yankee didn't occur to Grandad, but the rest could go to hell. “Attorney Wallin, what are we here for this morning?” asks the judge. My chest deflates. The judge was too busy to read our motion. I stayed up late prepping for this. Sometimes judges are babies buckled into a stroller – along for the ride and in charge. I guess I have to be the mom. “Your honor, we filed a motion for leave to file a surreply to Defendant’s reply to Plaintiff’s objection to Defendant’s motion in limine.” You heard me. The judge shuffles some papers, stares at his computer screen, and glances at his clerk. I should back up. “Your honor, this is a housing discrimination complaint. My client—” I gesture toward her, just like in the movies. The judge frowns at me without moving his mouth. I know who the plaintiff is, say his eyes. “—Trisha Daphne was denied a subsidized condo unit in favor of a white buyer. We are prepared to present expert testimony that subconscious racial bias is endemic in the housing market. The defendant has moved to block our expert from testifying. We’re asking for ten days to file a surreply.” I glance at my co-counsel, giving her a telepathic high five. That’s right. I said ‘endemic.’ The judge clacks some keys on his heavy government keyboard, looking back and forth from his screen to an open file folder. His shoulders relax when he finds what he’s looking for. He taps a stack of paper on the bench in front of him. At the bottom of the stack is our request for ten days to add more paper to the stack. I give him a moment, then I explain how subconscious racial bias is a burgeoning field of study. I admit that it would be groundbreaking for the court to hear this testimony. I want the court to get excited about being groundbreaking. My co-counsel nods. We’re excited about it. Opposing counsel rises from her seat, standing erect and still. Her suit looks like she remembered to clean it. “Your honor, my client, Bob Woodward, is a longstanding member of his community. He has built numerous housing developments all over the south shore and has never before been accused of discrimination. Now the plaintiff is accusing him of subconscious discrimination? This abuse has gone on long enough.” The judge looks at me for a response. All I want is ten days for Christ’s sake. “Your honor, widespread subconscious bias is the milieu in which the defendant has operated for decades.” I lose the judge’s eye contact as soon as I say ‘milieu.’ I press on. “It informs the significance of the defendant selling to a white buyer over the plaintiff.” Opposing counsel jumps back in. “Mr. Woodward has sold and rented units to all kinds of people for decades, your honor – white, brown, black, green, purple, you name it.” Not fair. You can’t wear that suit and be folksy. She continues, “My client is a respected small businessman in his chamber of commerce. He’s won awards for his contributions to the growth of the local economy.” She’s doing a good job making this irrelevant character profile seem relevant. I feel a tug at my sleeve. Ms. Daphne looks up at me. Fight for me, Ethan, say her eyes. I watch opposing counsel sit down, scoot in her chair, and put her pen down. She’s running circles around me, isn’t she? My chest rises and falls with a sharp breath. I look at the judge. The room goes dark. A spotlight clicks on, its echo reverberating through an empty theater. “Your honor, this is an important procedural issue with significant implications for this case and for hundreds of cases like it.” I catch myself clicking my pen. Putting my pen down, “Your honor, this court has a choice. Will it push civil rights in this country forward, or will it leave it stuck in the mud of complex procedure, expensive litigation, and the inertia of precedent?” Fight for me. “A fair shot at owning a house – that’s all Ms. Daphne has asked of the law. Ms. Daphne deserves a discrimination-free chance at the American dream.” Fight for ME, said her eyes. “Ms. Daphne worked her way through school to get a job in health administration.” Cue the strings. “She kept her children housed in changing neighborhoods with rising rents. She guided them through sputtering school systems that were ill equipped for her children’s learning disabilities. This condo was more than four walls with new appliances and a parking spot.” The music builds. “It was opportunity manifest. It was lush green grass under her tired feet. It was the reward for all Ms. Daphne’s dreaming.” Silence. “Ten days?” asks the judge, looking at me with heavy eyelids. “Your honor?” “All that over ten days?” The judge looks at his clerk, one eyebrow bowing into upward facing dog. “But Defendant’s counsel was—” I start. My co-counsel intercedes. “Yes, ten days to file a surreply is what we’re requesting your honor.” “Why not ask for fifteen?” The judge suggests, flipping a page in the file. “That works for—” I start, stopping when co-counsel backhands my leg. “Wait. Are we here in ten days?” the judge wonders, looking at his computer. His clerk murmurs something. “Right. That’s a Sunday. Fifteen days it is,” he says. Justice prevails! “Next matter,” says the judge.

Even compared to Mississippi and Connecticut, Albuquerque, New Mexico is by far the most infuriatingly difficult city name to spell in the United States of America – no wonder they often opt for just ABQ. Apparently the 556,000 people from Albuquerque are known as “Burqueño” or “Burqueña” and “Albuquerqueans” – something I did not know till I started reading crime novels set in Albuquerque. Asking around, and hunting up a few Albuquerquean contacts, they all recommended New Mexico Native American author Ramona Emerson’s Shutter (2023) – and they were right to. The novel features Navajo Rita Todacheene, a forensic photographer working for the Albuquerque police force. But Rita has been hiding a secret: she sees the ghosts of crime victims and those ghosts won’t let her sleep. When Rita is sent to photograph the scene of a supposed suicide on a highway overpass, the ghost of the victim latches onto Rita forcing her on a quest for revenge. It’s a seriously different crime novel that is both beautifully written and (that most over used phrase, but here applicable) a page turner. Rita Todacheene returns in Exposure (2024), this time in Gallup, New Mexico, where violent crime is five times the national average and a serial killer is at large targeting indigent Native people whose murders are easily disguised as death by exposure on the frigid winter streets. Tower Lowe is a New Mexico based author and writer of the mystery novel Albuquerque, Abandoned (2016). Leon tried to rescue a baby abandoned in a dumpster in Albuquerque but his brother, Booth, is killed before he has a chance to get the baby. Two detectives with (this may be a regular feature of Albuquerqueans crime fiction?) some spiritual insights, Cinnamon and Burro, investigate the case and use their visions to search for the baby. Lowe has also written several other mystery novels set in various New Mexico locations. Native American life is a big part of New Mexico crime fiction. Carol Potenza’s Hearts of the Missing (2018) starts with members of the Fire-Sky tribe disappearing with a trace. Pueblo Police Sergeant Nicky Matthews is assigned to the case and has to hunt a killer connected to dozens of missing tribe members. Potenza taught biochemistry at New Mexico State University before becoming a full time writer. Hearts of the Missing won the Tony Hillerman Prize winner and is the first book in the Nicky Matthews mystery series followed by The Third Warrior (2021), and then Spirit Daughters (2022), all set within the Fire-Sky police department. Rudolfo Anaya’s Albuquerque: A Novel (2006) was a winner of PEN Center West’s Award for Fiction. Abran Gonzalez is a homeboy from the barrio, a young boxer whose world is shattered forever the night he is summoned to his mother’s deathbed. He learns he is the son of an unknown Mexican man – a man he is desperately compelled to find. His quest will bring him in contact with many unpleasant characters. Anaya is also the author of the Sonny Baca series of novels set in and around Albuquerque, with Baca struggling in the footsteps of his legendary lawman grandfather as a small-time private investigator. In Zia Summer (1995) Sonny Baca seeks out the truth about his cousin’s bizarre murder. Then in Rio Grande Fall (2006) dead bodies are falling from the sky at the Hot Air Balloon Fiesta de Albuquerque (which, by the way, is a real thing and takes place every October). In Shaman Winter (1999) Sonny is hired to find the mayor’s daughter – kidnapped the night she stars in a Christmas pageant. And finally, in Jemez Spring (2005) the governor of New Mexico is found drowned in the Bath House and Sonny is called in to investigate. I also love that all Anaya’s books are published by the University of New Mexico press – great to see a uni press getting into crime fiction. The Hot Air Balloon Fiesta de Albuquerque festival also features in JP Hudson’s A Senior’s Moment: A Balloon Murder in New Mexico (2009). Bodies pile up as balloons disappear. The Woman Who Knew Too Much (2011) is the first book in Bett Reece Johnson’s Cordelia Morgan “Woman who…” series set in the New Mexico outback and featuring Cordelia Morgan. Others in the series take Morgan across New Mexico and also to Colorado. And then there’s the Neil Hamel Mysteries from Judith Van Gieson. The series features Albuquerque attorney and sleuth Neil Hamel and her Latino lover. there’s about nine books in the series. Sandi Ault’s Wild Indigo (2019) is set in the high desert of New Mexico as Bureau of Land Management Agent (for non-Americans the agency within the US Department of the Interior responsible for administering US federal lands) Jamaica Wild witnesses a Tanoah Pueblo man being trampled to death by stampeding buffalo. Wild Indigo is the first in a series of five books featuring the BLM agent Jamaica Wild and all set in New Mexico. And finally, how could we write about Albuquerque and New Mexico without mentioning the late, great Tony Hillerman. Hillerman moved around New Mexico and settled in Albuquerque in 1966, where he earned a master’s degree from the University of New Mexico where he later taught till 1987. His 18 books in his Navajo series were internationally massive – at one point he was New Mexico’s 22nd-wealthiest man!! Hillerman wrote a bunch of detective novels but is perhaps best known for his mystery novels featuring the Navajo Nation Police officers Joe Leaphorn and Jim Chee (and there’s been a TV series too). Joe Leaphorn first appeared in 1970 in The Blessing Way. A decade later in 1980 Leaphorn was joined by Jim Chee in People of Darkness. Then the two finally began working together in the seventh novel Skinwalkers (1986). The novels have sold well all over the world, in particular in France apparently. And New Mexico loves Hillerman too – the Tony Hillerman Library was dedicated in Albuquerque in 2008 and a school in his name in 2009. View the full article

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