I wasn’t able to get a galley this time, and so I checked out the audio version from Seattle Bibliocommons. This turned out to be the best possible way to read it, because Erdrich narrates it herself.
The Sentence is set in Minneapolis during the pandemic, from November 2019 to November 2020. It starts with the world’s most hilarious crime, one which sends our protagonist, Tookie, to prison; however, most of the meat of the story takes place once she’s out again. Tookie develops a love of writing (“with murderous intent,”) while she’s incarcerated, and so, once she is released, what more natural place is there for her to look for work, than a bookstore? But this bookstore is special. It’s haunted.
Tookie’s story is wrapped around a number of social issues and current events; most prominently, of course, is that of American Indians’ rights; this is the time and place of the murder of George Floyd by Minneapolis cop Derek Chauvin, and so the demonstrations of outraged citizens are folded into the novel as well. And of course, this is not one bit funny.
I came to read Erdrich late in the game, when The Night Watchman, which won the Pulitzer, came out in 2020. That one novel persuaded me that from now on, I would read every blessed thing Erdrich writes. The Sentence strengthens this resolution.
I was invited to read and review this book by Random House and Net Galley, and immediately I accepted, because it’s right in my wheelhouse. However, I also understood that it would be a painful read, and I postponed it for months, because 2021 was already a terrible year, and I wasn’t feeling brave. So my apologies for the delay; at the same time, this book is not quite as wrenching as I expected, and the research and writing are stellar. It’s for sale now.
Dasani Coates is the firstborn child of an impoverished, disorganized African-American mother with few marketable skills. She is named after the premium brand bottled water, because her mom thinks it’s a beautiful name. (Wait till you see what the next baby’s name will be!) They live in Brooklyn, and not long after Dasani is born, she has a sister. And another. And another, and then eventually a brother and a couple of step-siblings. None of them are the result of poor family planning; all are planned and wanted. But at the same time, they have very few resources, and the slender safety net provided by relatives doesn’t last forever; and the city fails to protect its most vulnerable denizens.
As a retired teacher that worked in high poverty schools, I have seen families similar to this one, and the children suffer the most, every stinking time. I’ve also seen children take on the role that Dasani assumes without ever planning to do so, that of the adult in the house (when there is a house,) caring for a large group of tiny people when the actual adult isn’t adulting. If you watch closely enough for long enough, it can eat you alive; as for the far-too-young surrogate parent, I have seen them cope admirably, right up until they become adults themselves, and often, it is then that they fall apart. I don’t know whether that holds true for Dasani, because we don’t see her as an adult, but I can well imagine.
Elliott, a Pulitzer winning journalist from The New York Times, follows this family closely for eight years, sometimes sleeping on the floor of their house or apartment. In her endnotes, she explains her methodology, her relationship to the family during this project, and the parameters determined by the paper, for whom she originally did this research. Dasani was the subject of a front page series on poverty in New York which ran for five days. Elliott’s documentation is impeccable, and she can write like nobody’s business.
Because I am running behind, I check out the audio version of this book from Seattle Bibliocommons, and I want to give a shout out to Adenrele Ojo, the narrator, who is among the very best readers I’ve yet encountered. Though I continue to use my review copy at times, I like Ojo’s interpretation of the voices for each of the large number of characters so well that I find I prefer listening to reading.
As I read, I become so attached to Dasani that I skip to the end—which I almost never do—because if she is going to get dead, I need to brace myself for it. I’ll tell you right now, because for some of you, this might be a deal breaker, and I’d hate for you to miss this important biography: it’s dark, but not that dark.
I don’t find myself feeling nearly as sympathetic toward Dasani’s mother, Chanel, as the author does, but I do think Dasani’s stepfather, who is the only father she knows, gets a bad, bad break. He jumps through every single bureaucratic hoop that is thrown at him in an effort to get some help for the seven children left in his care, and every time, the city turns its back on him, right up until a social worker comes calling, finds that they don’t have the things they need, and takes his children. This made me angrier than anything else, apart from a few boneheaded, destructive things that Chanel does.
For those that care about social justice and Civil Rights issues, this book is a must read. I highly recommend it to you.
Judith Jance has done it again. Unfinished Business is the sixteenth in the Ali Reynolds series; not only does she weave a compelling, tightly plotted tale, but she may have broken new ground with the role technology plays in solving crimes within the storyline. Add a sprinkling of social justice issues, and what emerges is an unmissable novel. My thanks go to Net Galley and Gallery Books for the review copy. This book is for sale now.
Ali is a former journalist, but now she and her husband, B. Simpson, own and run a cyber security firm called High Noon. B. is a nice enough fellow, but we see very little of him. Most of the time he is away on business, leaving Ali to flex her badass crime solving muscles, and providing her with a healthy chunk of disposable income that makes it easier. Other continuing characters are Cammie and Stuart; Frigg, the AI entity operating out of High Noon; and Bob and Edie Larson, Ali’s parents. Our two new characters are Harvey “Broomy” McCluskey, who is a serial murderer, and Mateo Vega, a second-chancer newly out of prison and in High Noon’s employ.
The best long-running mystery series are ones that go deep into the character of the chief protagonist and sometimes others, as well. When you think about it, there are only so many interesting crimes; only so many credible motives; and only so many believable plots an author can spin that involve only the mystery at hand. What makes the most successful ones stand out is the investment the reader has in the character and her life. Jance works her characters like a champ. Within this one, we have multiple interesting side threads. Ali’s parents are aging, and although she is more than willing to support them and advocate for them, they don’t tell her everything. They are independent and intelligent. They treasure their dignity, and their privacy. Sometimes this combination spells trouble, and so it is here. We see Ali trying to juggle the ever-changing aspects of the business while B is out of town, along with health issues facing her father, who won’t talk about them; one of her children gives birth; and then there are issues with her employees.
Point of view shifts between chapters, and so we first meet Harvey, who is a resentful, entitled jerk who has murdered his mother and gotten away with it. Unfortunately, Harvey is also a tenant of High Noon’s, and he’s in arrears on his office rent. No one at High Noon knows that he is dangerous; they figure he’s a deadbeat, and he has to go. Ohhh, honey, look out!
We also meet Mateo. Mateo has spent 16 years in prison for a murder he didn’t commit. His public defender told him the plea deal was the safe bet, and so he took it. He could have been released early if he’d expressed remorse, but nobody and nothing could make him say he did it when he didn’t, so he rotted there for his entire youth. But while inside, he continued to study technology, and earned an online degree. Now he’s released, comes out with skills, and is hired by High Noon.
I love the way Jance uses all of these characters, and the thread involving Cami is particularly interesting.
I read and reviewed most of the recent books in this series, and in number 13, I called this author out for making all of the bad guys in the story Latina or Latino, and all the good guys Caucasian, except for Cami, who is Asian. It’s great to see how she’s turned it around. The social messages here—the broken prison system; issues with keeping the aged safe; the difficulty former prisoners face in starting a new life; and of course, violence against women—are all progressive ones, and none of them hijacks the plot or slows it in any way. In fact, this novel is among Jance’s best, and that’s a high bar to meet.
How much would you pay right now to laugh out loud, and laugh hard, about something that has nothing whatsoever to do with current events? Exactly. My thanks go to Net Galley and Perseus Books for the review copy. This book is for sale now.
The author is a journalist who caught wind of a tiny hamlet in New Hampshire that was taken over by libertarians:
“The four libertarians who came to New Hampshire had thinner wallets than…other would-be utopians, but they had a new angle they believed would help them move the Free Town Project out of the realm of marijuana-hazed reveries and into reality. Instead of building from scratch, they would harness the power and infrastructure of an existing town—just as a rabies parasite can co-opt the brain of a much larger organism and force it work against its own interests, the libertarians planned to apply just a bit of pressure in such a way that an entire town could be steered toward liberty.”
By the time the long-term denizens of Grafton realized the extent of the mayhem that these people intended, they discovered that “the libertarians were operating under vampire rules—the invitation to enter, once offered, could not be rescinded…At the same time the Free Towners set themselves to shaping the community to their liking, the town’s bears were working to create their own utopia.”
The newcomers’ idea of liberty meant no enforcement of any law, and no taxes, even for basic infrastructure and services. And when the local bear population blossomed, it was every Free Towner for herself.
Hongoltz-Hetling provides a succinct history of the town, then introduces a handful of the key players. There’s a man that buys and lives in a church in order to avoid paying taxes; an Earth Mother type that decides the bears are hungry and should receive free donuts, seeds, and grains daily in her own backyard; several tent dwellers that eschew basic hygiene and food safety; and oh, so many, many bears. Some of the townspeople are identified by name, but those that prefer anonymity are identified by colorful nicknames.
At the outset we see jaw-dropping levels of eccentricity coupled with hilarious anecdotes, and true to his journalistic calling, the author spends a good deal of time in this tiny, lawless burg, and so he reports events not second hand, but from his own experience. My favorite part is the showdown between Hurricane the Guard Llama and an ursine interloper looking for mutton on the hoof. Another is the conflict between “Beretta,” the resident next door to “Doughnut Lady,” who hates all bears primarily because they are fat.
Eventually things take a darker, more tragic turn for some; the most impressive aspect of this story is the seamless manner in which the author segues from the hilarious to the heartbreaking, and then brings us back up for air.
Ultimately, the bears are emblematic of the need human beings have for cooperation and organization.
Though the material used for this story is rich and original, it takes a gifted wordsmith like Hongoltz-Hetling to craft it into a darkly amusing tale of this caliber. If I were to change one thing, I would lose the digression near the middle of the book with regard to typhus, Tunisia, and diseases shared by bears. It slows the pace and could easily be whittled down to a single paragraph. But the rest of this book is so engaging that I cannot reduce my rating by even half a star. My advice is to skim that passage, which eats up about five percent of an otherwise perfectly executed narrative, unless of course you like that aspect of it.
In six years of reviewing, and out of the 666 reviews I have provided to Net Galley—and yes, that’s the actual number, until I turn this review in—I have purchased fewer than one percent of the books I’ve read, either to give as gifts, or to keep. That said, this book is going under my Christmas tree this December. If you read it, you’re bound to agree: the story of Grafton is the best surprise of 2020.
In celebration of the 100th anniversary of the American Civil Liberties Union, a large cross section of the finest writers alive have written essays, each about one landmark case. Chabon and his co-editor, Ayelet Waldman, contributed their advance to the organization, and all of the contributing authors did so free of charge. As for this reviewer, I’d have been interested in an ACLU publication, even if I hadn’t heard of the writers involved; and I’d have been interested in anything written by Chabon, even if the story or topic wasn’t in my lane. As it is, I count myself beyond lucky to have scored a review copy courtesy of Net Galley and Simon and Schuster. It’s for sale now.
This is the sort of book that invites skipping around, either according to subject, or according to the authors you love best. Because of this, I recommend buying it in paper rather than digitally, because flipping around out of order in digital format is a pain in the butt. Also, this is the sort of classical reference material that you’d want on your shelf. In fact, I want a physical copy for myself.
I haven’t read all of the entries, but I’ve read enough of them to recommend it to you. The cases discussed are meaty and interesting, and they aren’t the standard fodder that shows up in every undergraduate course on Constitutional law. Each entry is succinct, and the writers refrain from self-promotion. The entries I appreciate most so far are by Jesmyn Ward, who discusses the use of anti-loitering laws to transform free Black boys and men into slave laborers; Timothy Egan, who details a 1962 decision regarding the right to receive Communist literature in the U.S. mail; and Louse Erdrich, who discusses digital snooping and surveillance used against the Dakota Pipeline protesters in 2016. I know there are many more I want to read, but I am posting this now so that you can get a copy while it’s in the stores.
Here’s your chance. You can get an outstanding addition to your home library while contributing to a worthwhile organization whose work is more crucial now than ever. Highly recommended.
Cassie Chambers was born and raised in Owsley County, Kentucky, the poorest county in the United States. With the determination handed down to her by her mother and grandmother, she attended Ivy League schools and became a practicing attorney. This memoir is her story as well as a defense of the women from her homeland, a manifesto opposing stereotypes and misconceptions. I read it free and early thanks to Net Galley and Random House Ballantine. It will be available to the public January 7, 2020.
Eastern Kentucky is in the heart of Appalachian Mountains, and its residents are stereotypically called hillbillies by outsiders. As a scholar whose childhood was rooted there, Chambers is in a unique position to share the culture’s nuances and strengths. She was raised by parents that had to save up to buy her a set of Old Maid cards from Walmart; going out to dinner, which happened Sundays, meant a single Happy Meal at McDonald’s shared three ways. But her mother’s determination to graduate college drove home the value of an education, and when Cassie had the opportunity to spend the last two years of high school at a boarding school for high achieving students, she leapt and her family supported her.
Chambers’ narrative is intimate and deeply absorbing. She weaves her own story into the larger story of Appalachian women: their culture, their history, their strengths and the challenges they face. She discusses the difficulty of receiving public services in an area that is spread out among hills and hollers, devoid of transit and low on personal transportation, and that has no government buildings to speak of; she also describes the pride that sometimes prevents its residents from accepting help for which they are qualified. She has a bottomless well of riveting anecdotes that illustrate the sense of community and willingness to lend assistance to neighbors in need even when those offering help have nothing extra to give; the Justice system often fails those that need protection from domestic abuse, as well as those addicted to drugs and alcohol. And she discusses remedies, including Jeanette’s Law, which reverses Kentucky’s absurd legal requirement that victims of domestic abuse must provide the spouses that they are divorcing with an attorney at their own expense. This was one of Chambers’ most important projects. Another is having expungement fees waived for low income residents, an especially urgent matter since in Kentucky, felons aren’t allowed to vote. Democracy is sidelined when class and race become obstacles to participation in civic life.
But the most memorable tidbits are the more personal stories, for example that of her Aunt Ruth, who married late in life. Before they were wed, Aunt Ruth had a conversation with Sonny, her husband-to-be, in which she explained to him carefully that if he ever hit her, she would be forced to kill him, in his sleep if necessary, using a large claw hammer, and so if this was likely to be a problem then the wedding should be canceled. (It wasn’t.)
The best memoirs combine a social issue or political problem with a personal story told by a top-drawer storyteller, and Hill Women succeeds richly in both regards. I recommend this book to women everywhere, and to those that love them.
This magnificent collection took 10 years to organize, collecting Madiba’s letters from the many points where they were received, and from the prisons–where many of them were not mailed out, for various technical reasons that were a poor disguise for censorship. The preface suggests that most people will want to flip through it rather than reading it cover-to-cover, but I am a habitual cover-to-cover sort, and so I read the first 50 pages in sequence. And the book’s editor is correct. This is not a cover-to-cover read.
Nevertheless, I am struck immediately by the dignity with which Mandela communicates with his captors. Time and again he writes to them in a courteous, civilized, and highly educated hand about the various ways in which his rights under South African law are being violated and what he is requesting they do to remedy it. He is persistent. He forces them to treat him as a human being. Mandela was an attorney, but he was also possessed of social instincts that nobody can teach anyone. And although I never met him, everything I have read–which is a good deal, where this man is concerned–convinces me that he was also a very nice person.
This is a tome, and it’s a treasure. I am glad I was denied a galley because this is the sort of volume I want as a physical copy. In the end my son purchased it for me for my birthday, and so I thank Benjamin. What a treasure.
If you are looking for just one book about Mandela’s life, read his hefty autobiography, Long Walk to Freedom. However, if you are a collector of books about South Africa, or about civil rights in general, or of course, about Nelson Mandela, go out and get this book now.
This is the RBG book I’ve been waiting for. My huge thanks
go to Net Galley and Henry Holt Publishers for the review copy. This book will
be publicly available November 5, 2019.
Justice Ginsburg wants us to know that the sky is not
falling. Though progressive thinkers see great cause for concern, primarily
within the executive branch of the federal government, the U.S. Constitution
hasn’t changed, and the Supreme Court, she insists, is made up entirely of
strong legal minds that revere it. Precedents are still the basis of future
rulings; the overturn of precedent is rare and unusual. But for activists—and she
loves us—she also points out that public opinion is what alters the course of
the law. Congress makes laws based on what their constituency desires. So she
isn’t suggesting we put away our pussy hats and our picket signs; she just
wants us to know that our advocacy works, and she appreciates everything we do
to further women’s rights, civil rights, and gay rights.
Twice previously I read other books about RBG; one is a
popular biography that I enjoyed, but that didn’t go deeply enough into
Ginsburg’s legal ideas, and the second is just dross, minutiae gathered from
her high school year book and whatnot. Whereas part of me just wants her to
write an autobiography, I have to recognize that she is very elderly, has faced
health challenges lately, and to stand a chance of writing any sort of memoir,
she’d probably have to resign from the Court. And goodness knows, I want her to
stay there, ideally forever. Instead, Rosen’s series of interviews with this
feminist icon serves nicely.
Rosen has been friends with Justice Ginsberg for many years;
they were drawn together initially through elevator discussions of opera. His
chapters are brief but meaty, organized around key rulings and topical
interviews. Rosen explains succinctly at the outset how this friendship formed
and grew, but he doesn’t get windy or use the opportunity to aggrandize
himself. He keeps the focus strictly on his subject. The interviews flow in an
agreeable manner that is literate without being verbose or Byzantine.
We live in politically polarized times, and so even when I
am reading about a political figure that I admire, I generally expect my blood
pressure to rise a little, perhaps in passionate agreement. But if anyone in
this nation has the long view of history and the key domestic issues that have
unfolded, particularly with regard to the rights of women, it is RBG. And
although I am not as senior a citizen as Justice Ginsburg, many of the changes
she mentions that have occurred over the decades are ones that I can also
attest to, though I hadn’t thought of them in years. For example, when I came
of age in the 1970s, it was still not unusual to try to enter a bar or club
only to be barred at the doorway because women weren’t allowed inside. (“Gentlemen
only, Ma’am. Sorry.”) I had forgotten about these things; as her recollections
unspool I see that she is right. Change happens, but lasting change happens
slowly. We are getting there, at least with regard to women’s rights and gay
rights. Issues of race and class are something else entirely, and she points up
specific instances where justice has not progressed and change is imperative.
I could say more, but none of it would be as
wise or as articulate as when Ginsburg says it. If you’ve read this far in my
review, you should go ahead and order this excellent book now. I highly
recommend it to all that are interested in social justice, both formal and
It’s almost as if two crimes are committed inside these
pages: the first is the premeditated murder of Sherri Rasmussen, and the second
is this atrocious book. How many writers
can take a compelling story—that of a cop killing her romantic rival, and her
arrest and conviction—and make it this dull? So I still thank Net Galley and
Henry Holt for the review copy, but nothing and nobody can make me read
anything written by this author again. It appears that very few reviewers even
forced themselves to finish it; those of us that soldiered on till the end
either deserve commendations for our determination, or a mental health referral
for not cutting our losses.
The book’s beginning comes the closest to competent writing
as any part of this thing. We get background information about Sherri and John’s
courtship and marriage, as well as John’s relationship with the murdering woman
he scorned, Stephanie Lazarus. Don’t get me wrong; I am not saying this part is
well written. Even here, there are serious issues with organization and focus,
yet I continue, believing that when we get to the meat of the story where the
truth is revealed and the killer arrested, tried and convicted, it will be
worth the wait. In that, I am mistaken.
The author wanders anywhere and everywhere, apparently
unwilling or unable to exclude one single fact about anyone, even those
tangentially involved. Why do we need pages and more pages devoted to the life
and times of people the victim barely knew? To add insult to injury, many of
the facts he’s uncovered are inserted into multiple places in the narrative in
a way that emphasis doesn’t justify. It
appears as if he is attempting to reveal a cop cover-up, but his inner attorney
forces him to equivocate, hinting throughout without ever reaching the
punchline. He infers that maybe Sherri’s husband John knows more than he’s
saying, but again we see innuendo everywhere without an accusation being made
outright. The writing is riddled with clichés. In many places he tells us how
one character or another feels, or what they are thinking, and yet there are no
citations anywhere for anything; this is a cardinal sin in writing nonfiction.
I go to check the notes at the end of the book and there are none. The copious
gushing over Sherri’s excellent character and intelligence, while it sounds
warranted, is salted so liberally over 597 interminable pages makes me wonder
if there is a connection between the author and the victim’s family, but again,
if it’s true, he doesn’t say so. All told, it’s a very unprofessional piece of…writing.
By the time I consider abandoning this thing, I have put in
the time required to read over a hundred pages, and so I see it through. I skip
the section about the murder of someone else; had it shown up before I was
completely disgusted, I’d read it in case it provides strong evidence to back
up what the author is inferring but not saying, but as it is, I just want to
get to the meat of the matter and be done with this thing.
Imagine my surprise when the Rasmussen murder case is not
reopened, and Lazarus is not investigated, arrested, tried and convicted until…the epilogue.
There is not one redeeming feature of this book. It’s a train wreck from the start to the blessed ending. If I feel this way after reading it free, how might you feel if you paid money for it?
“Oh, Mrs. Churchill, do come over. Someone has killed Father.”
Lizzie Borden is the subject of one of America’s most
enduring legends, and Robertson is a towering legal scholar, educated at
Harvard and Oxford, and then at Stanford Law. She’s participated in an international
tribunal dealing with war crimes, and has been researching the Borden case for
twenty years. Here she lays it out for us, separating fact from innuendo, and
known from unknown. My thanks go to Simon and Schuster and Net Galley for the
review copy. This book is for sale now.
The Borden family lived in the heart of Fall River, and it consisted of Andrew, father of two grown but unmarried daughters Emma and Lizzie, still in residence, and his second wife, Abby. Their mother had died when Lizzie was tiny; Andrew had remarried a woman named Abby, whom Emma never accepted as a parent, but whom Lizzie called her mother until a short time before her grizzly death. Until this time the Borden household was well respected; Andrew was possibly the wealthiest individual in this Massachusetts town, but he was a tightfisted old scoundrel, and his refusal to relocate the family to the fashionable neighborhood on the hill where well-to-do citizens lived made his daughters bitter, as appropriate suitors would not call on them in their current home. Both had passed the age when respectable young women were expected to have married; they held that their father’s greed had ruined their chance at marriage and families of their own. Things had come to a head when Borden was persuaded to purchase the home in which Abby’s sister lived in order to prevent her from being cast out on the street. Emma and Lizzie were angry enough that they wouldn’t go downstairs when the parents were there, and poor Bridget, the servant, had to serve dinner twice to accommodate them. Everyone locked their bedroom doors against the others. Andrew had belatedly tried to smooth his stormy home life by purchasing a comparable house for each of his daughters, but the damage was done.
The story of Lizzie Borden is not a new one, but what sets
Robertson’s telling apart from the rest—apart from the meticulous research and
clarity of sourcing—is her explanation of how the cultural assumptions and
expectations of 1893 New England differed from ours today, and how these
nuances affected the trial. They lived in a time and place in which it was
assumed that women were ruled far more by their hormones and ovulation than by
intellect and reason. In fact:
“Experts like the influential Austrian criminal psychologist
Hans Gross contended that menstruation lowered women’s resistance to forbidden
impulses, opening the floodgates to a range of criminal behaviors…Menstruation
may bring women to the most terrible crimes.”
Had Lizzie confessed to the killings, she might very well
have been judged not guilty; her monthly cycle would have been said to have
made her violent and there was nothing to be done about it, rather like a moose
Criminal behavior was believed to be inherent in some people
and not in others, and this counted in Lizzie’s favor. The Bordens were seen as
a good family, and a girl from a good family doesn’t plot brutal murders. It
isn’t in her. This sort of thing, experts said, was more likely to be done by a
transient or a member of the working class. The women of Fall River were
polarized around this case, and though women from comfortable homes were all
certain that poor Lizzie was being railroaded, working class women weren’t as charitable
in their assessments.
There was a ton of evidence against her, most of it
circumstantial; the most damning aspects of the case against her were ruled inadmissible,
and the jury never got to hear them.
Robertson is a fine storyteller, and her narrative lays it
out for us so clearly. There is occasional gallows humor, as well as amusing
bits of setting not seen in cities of any size today, such as the neighborhood
cow that mooed near the courtroom window at inauspicious moments while
testimony was being given. However, the first half of the book is more compelling
than the second half, because prosecutors and attorneys must repeat things,
sometimes many times and in many ways, in order to convince judges and juries,
and since this book is about the trial, Robertson must do the same. Still it is
fascinating to see how the whole trial shook out.
Those interested in the Borden case, or in true crime
stories in general, should read this book. It’s the clearest, most complete
recounting and analysis available to the public today, written by a legal
scholar that has done the work and cut no corners. `