The Black Mountain (Nero Wolfe, #24)The Black Mountain by Rex Stout
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Kudos to Rex Stout for grappling with the Poirot Problem: What do you do when your series detective, to whom you whimsically gave an exotic foreign background, becomes so popular that fans demand to know about his past? Agatha Christie created Ariadne Oliver to vent. Stout tops her by killing off Nero Wolfe’s oldest friend, forcing the sedentary sleuth not just out of his house but onto a plane to Montenegro.

This has to be the oddest book in the Wolfe/Goodwin series. Nero Wolfe, the legendary couch potato, transformed to a mountain goat? Archie — posing as his son — carries the luggage along with the narrative, which he’s reconstructed after the fact from Wolfe’s translations. I learned more than I could absorb about the geography and politics of that volatile region, which would soon explode into larger wars than the one our sleuths must navigate. The story is action-packed, full of disguises, deceptions, betrayals, and violence, suspenseful all the way back to New York.

So, more of a thriller than a Golden Age mystery. No women, except for the occasional glimpsed-from-afar wife or daughter. I enjoyed The Black Mountain, and I’d love to ask Rex Stout how he came to write it, but I’ll be happy to rejoin Wolfe and Goodwin in Manhattan.

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Happy Halloween! It’s Party Time for ZAPPED & You’re Invited!

What better publication date for Zapped: an Edgar Rowdey Cape Cod Mystery than October 31? Before it hits bookstores, please come help me toast this too-long-awaited sequel to Croaked. And thanks again to the many friends and experts who helped it along the way — I couldn’t have done it without you.

NEW ENGLAND:eghlaunch-invit-s / 508-362-3909


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2 Mystery Reviews: Spencer-Fleming in Snowy NY, Siger in Sunny Mykonos

In the Bleak Midwinter (Rev. Clare Fergusson & Russ Van Alstyne Mysteries, #1)In the Bleak Midwinter by Julia Spencer-Fleming
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

In my quest for contemporary mystery writers as enjoyable as the Golden Age greats (Christie, Marsh, Allingham, Stout, Tey….), I was referred to Julia Spencer-Fleming. This first book in her series starts with an appealing title — a lovely old Christmas carol — & follows up with that most promising of openings, a baby left on a doorstep in the snow. Although the ambience is classic English village, this particular snowy doorstep is in upstate NY & belongs to a newly hired female priest. Rev. Fergusson’s natural proprietary interest in the abandoned baby boy is sharpened by a loving note from his unknown mother asking for Cody to be adopted by a wealthy couple in her congregation.

What helps this maximum outsider (woman, priest, newcomer) connect with local police chief Van Alstyne, & the other local men she must deal with, is her past military service. Clare Fergusson makes an excellent amateur sleuth: she’s both feminine & tough, a lone stranger who’s deeply involved in this semi-rural town, & an unabashed Christian who practices what she preaches, i.e., Jesus’s teachings about compassion, courage, & generosity. Alstyne is married (happily, as far as we can tell), but as this story unfolds into a murder case he & Fergusson are committed to solving, the adrenaline rush of danger + collaboration crackles with sexual tension.

For me, the resolution of the mystery didn’t reach the same level of authenticity or inevitability as the characters’ adventures in getting there, but I enjoyed the book (recalling my own years of slogging through snowdrifts in upstate NY from the satisfying comfort of California); nothing about it was annoying (rare in these days when publishers don’t require writers to be literate); & I look forward to Fergusson & Van Alstyne’s next case.

   *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Murder in Mykonos (Andreas Kaldis, #1)Murder in Mykonos by Jeffrey Siger
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Siger doesn’t invite us into a picture postcard of Mykonos so much as blast a hole in it. This fast-paced thriller spotlights the Greek island’s all-night party side — bars, boats, beaches, blondes. Our first point-of-view character quickly becomes a murder victim. As the island’s new police chief hunts the killer, and rocks the political & social boat by digging into various nudge-nudge wink-wink local scams, he discovers this body is just one in what may be a long-running series. Meanwhile, the frantic parents of another tourist matching the same description report that their daughter has disappeared.

Siger’s edge-of-your-seat plot is as full of twists and turns as the old mining tunnels burrowed under Mykonos’s picturesque landscape. I couldn’t put it down. There’s enough sex and violence to ratchet up the stakes without pandering to porno fans, enough scenery to please armchair tourists, & enough action to leave a reader breathless.

The writing isn’t inspired, but it’s not that kind of book. My main quibble is that it doesn’t matter to the author who turns out to be the killer. Although we spend a fair amount of time inside that tormented head, which we know must belong to one of 4 suspects, none of them are characterized enough from the outside for any realistic “whodunnit” guess to be possible. Even when the cops catch up with their quarry, they don’t let the reader know who it is. That secret the author keeps until the book’s last line — in my opinion, a cheesy trick.

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2 Crime Fiction Reviews: Ryan’s Truth Be Told, Randisi’s East of the Arch

Ryan TruthBToldHank Phillippi Ryan: Truth Be Told

It took me 2 tries to read this #3 in Ryan’s Jane Ryland series. Truth Be Told is half police procedural, from the POV of preppy Boston detective Jake Brogan, & half mystery, from the POV of mostly-TV journalist Jane Ryland. I hadn’t read Book 1 or 2, but it’s obvious that Jake & Jane are entangled in a conflicted, passionate affair — very distracting to them, & also to me. I shy away from series that center on the characters’ personal problems, particularly doomed romances & maddening bosses. Unfortunately, this book overflows with both. Fortunately, the plot ratchets up fast to a gripping, compelling pace, while the POV jumps from the star-crossed lovers to several intriguing secondary characters. Within 25 pages, I was hooked.

What first drew me to Truth Be Told was the good things I’d heard about its author, Hank Phillippi Ryan (who I didn’t realize is a woman). What made me give it a second try was Ryan’s focus on the heartbreaking mass (and MA) evictions that followed the late-2000s recession. Just as horrifying as the book’s multiple murders are the multiple lives ruined by greedy, deceitful banking practices. A hardworking homeowner thrown out on the street for no fault of his/her own is a desperate person, & Ryan does a fine job of depicting the murky borderland between greed, desperation & violence.

Randisi East of ArchRobert J. Randisi: East of the Arch

When I learned I was going to be on a panel with Robert Randisi at Killer Nashville, I grabbed the first non-Western, non-RatPack novel of his I could find. This one, a police procedural, hooked me right away. The man (an expression he uses a lot) has written 500 books — published at least 1 a month since 1982. Like a good TV-series writer, he knows how to get the job done.

East of the Arch gives us the right ingredients in the right order: a young woman’s mutilated body spewed up by the Mississippi River; an inexperienced but hardworking local detective (often referred to as “the black detective,” which I found jarring); more bodies; a serial-killer expert from a larger police force brought in to take over the case (Joe Keogh, a recurring series character transferred to St. Louis from Brooklyn); a resentful sergeant, an egocentric mayor, & all the high-stakes pressure & infighting that set-up enables. We first meet Joe getting out of bed with a woman, which also sets up his perennial conflict between work & any kind of private life.

Interestingly, Randisi starts stepping in & out of the killer’s point of view fairly early in the book. Given that a serial killer is by nature difficult or impossible to empathize with, this helps make the story a plausible duel rather than a good-vs-evil cliche.

East of the Arch is very much in the “guy” noir tradition: men battle in the arena (police stations, bars, cars); women flutter around the edges helping or interfering. It’s gripping while you’re in it — the prose, characters, & plot all workmanlike & sometimes witty, but unpolished — & forgettable afterwards.

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Killer Nashville, Part 1: Music City

We picked Killer Nashville because Pat and I — fellow Sisters in Crime — each had a finished mystery novel which was ready for the quantum jump off the computer screen into the arena of agents, editors, and marketing. Pat’s living in Georgia for the summer, near the Tennessee border; I’d never seen Nashville, and my next book centers on rock-&-roll. Although I’d been up since 3 AM, and this hot afternoon was so damp it drizzled, the lure of live music trumped a nap. So I dropped off my luggage, donned my new cargo shorts and walking sandals, and started over the bridge.

NashvilleFromBridge-MAs soon as I caught sight of it across the muddy Cumberland River, Nashville filled me with exhilaration. AT&T might build a Bat-Tower looming over the skyline;  the Disneyesque entertainment center calling itself Opryland might lure tourists out to the suburbs; but my map promised that beyond this mass of green trees and shrieking cicadas lay Music City.

OldSpagFact-MLike New Orleans, Nashville is a moveable feast for music-lovers. Stroll down Second Street and — eureka! There’s BB King’s Blues Lounge, with a skinny hunched old flute and harp player outside serenading passers-by. In the foyer of the George Jones Museum, a band played “I’m proud to be an Okie from Muskogee.” I cut up past the Johnny Cash Museum to Schermerhorn Symphony Center, where I’d heard Lyle Lovett & his Large Band were performing. Wrong night . . . but how wrong can you go, drifting with a cowboy-booted soul-patched whiskey-drinking big-haired babydoll-bloused crowd up and down Broadway? On this corner is Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville, Margaritaville-Mwhere the kid manning the gift shop confirms he’s got the world’s best job, pasting labels on T-shirts and listening to live music. Over there is a virtuoso fiddler, and next door a lightning-speed banjo picker. I stepped inside the Crossroads bar to listen to an outstanding band, and paused across the street to place the oddly familiar non-Bluegrass tune coming from behind a punk-pompadoured drummer: Tom Petty’s “American Girl.”


But as the night life cranked up, I caught a cab back for some sleep. Tomorrow I’d wander around Nashville in daylight, and then meet Pat to head south for Franklin and our reason for coming here: Killer Nashville.


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Killer Nashville, Part 2: Insights for Crime Writers

KNLogoStarted in 2006 by Clay Stafford as a charitable project of his media company American Blackguard, Killer Nashville is a terrific meeting place for authors, agents, and fans. Its website calls it an “International Thriller, Mystery, Crime Literature Writers Conference held annually in downtown Nashville, TN.” The actual location is Franklin, 15 miles south of Nashville, in the frigidly air-conditioned Embassy Suites Hotel. We occupied most of the hotel’s 9 floors.

I’m not good at estimating crowd size, and I never discovered any official stats, but I’d guess we numbered about 300. That meant you could strike up a conversation with anybody wearing a nametag, and easily find them again (or not) later.

Clay Stafford interviews Robert J. Randisi

Clay Stafford interviews Robert J. Randisi, who’s published at least 1 book every month since 1982.

Clay Stafford’s opening speech reminded us that we were all there for the same reasons, starting with making contacts. So this was a notably friendly conference. I enjoyed chatting with my fellow Point of View panelists Kathleen Cosgrove, Charley Pearson, and the staggeringly prolific guest of honor Robert J. Randisi, as well as dozens of agents, authors, and fans who’d come from New York, San Diego, and points in between.

Evanovich-panelRandisi, who wrote a book set in Nashville called The Honky Tonk Big Hoss Boogie, received a Fender acoustic guitar as a farewell gift. So did guests of honor Janet Evanovich (left) and Kevin O’Brien (who was heard to mutter, “What am I supposed to do with this?”) Some 30 or 40 presentations were made at the gala closing buffet dinner, culminating in the Claymore Award for Best 50 Pages of a New Book. The spirit of fun and generosity that infused this conference also included a comic video, fabulous homemade cookies, spectacular chocolate cake, wonderfully dizzying glass elevators, and a mind-boggling array of panels, agent-author roundtables and evaluations, breakout sessions, and a daily breakfast and booze-&-schmooze so we could bookend each day by exchanging information and maybe even relaxing.

Among the useful tidbits I picked up:

  • Literally millions of new books are published each year. In bookstack2016, Amazon alone has been launching 5,000 books a day.
  • “Cozy” is out; identify your genre as “mystery” or “amateur sleuth” instead.
  • Agents currently tend to rank voice ahead of plot. Your query letter as well as your manuscript should display your voice. A fresh unique story also is key.
  • Along with an introduction, synopsis, and bio, your query packet should include comps (other books in the same market niche as yours), identify your genre, and confirm that your ms. length matches what’s expected in that genre (i.e., what publishers’ marketing & manufacturing departments have determined is their ideal price point).
  • All crime novels should fall between 65,000-120,000 words, preferably around 80,000. Amateur sleuth mysteries in particular should be under 100,000 words.detective-flashlight
  • Suspense should escalate from the first sentence, with a dead body or crime or highly alarming threat within the first chapter.
  • Prologues are frowned upon. Italicized sections are out. Flashbacks are frowned upon, especially in the first few chapters. Short chapters are preferred.
  • Agents try to respond to queries they want to follow up within a month or two. Those they don’t want to follow up, they may just ignore. Once they’ve received a requested full or partial ms., they’ll usually get back to you within 1-6 weeks.
  • An agent may offer a ms. to a dozen or more publishers, all at once or in rounds. An editor should respond in about 6 weeks.
  • It’s very hard for an agent to sell Book 2 in a series if Book 1 was indie published. If you want representation, you’re better off starting over with a new series.
  • Your agent wants to see a ms. that’s as perfect as you can make it. Then she’s likely to edit it (often heavily) before sending it out to editors. If an editor accepts it, she’ll edit it again. That’s one reason the commercial publishing book-editor-officeprocess takes so much longer than indie publishing.
  • The other main reason is marketing. Your publisher expects to push your book for about 3 months. Preparation — e.g., sending out ARCs (advance review copies) — starts 4-8 months before your pub date. You may want to hire your own publicist to work with your publisher, to take full advantage of those 3 months in the spotlight.

Armed with all this, it’s back to the grindstone, AKA keyboard, and onward into the arena. Best wishes to everyone who took part!

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Lessons from My Dad, and Trump’s Secret Weapon

dad-girl2A loving, encouraging father is one of the biggest breaks any girl can get. First, he’s a source of food, shelter, and moral support. Second, he’s a role model and guide. Third and not least, he’s a tutor in how men and women interact. I remember my college psychology professor telling us that the biggest factor in whether an adult woman has a satisfying sex life is the warmth of her relationship with her father.

My dad was a generous, outgoing, physically attractive and affectionate man. Hugs were common in our house. With no brothers, and mostly boys living on our street, I was encouraged in sports: badminton, volleyball, softball, and basketball, as well as fishing, sledding, ice skating, and horseback riding, and games like tag and hide-and-seek. Dad also was my supportive partner in designing gadgets, cars, even houses.

vintagefamily-noFDayIn our cultural tranche, traditional sex roles ruled: Men supported the family by going out to work, women by staying home to look after the house and kids. The up side was that nobody had to think much about identity, at least on the macro level. You knew from birth how you’d be spending your life.

On the micro level, individuality meant there were plenty of fine points to negotiate. The kitchen was Mom’s domain, but if Dad was a better cook, he might take over for Sunday brunches, or grill a lot of burgers on the patio. Money was Dad’s responsibility, but if Mom had a better head for figures, she might be the one to balance the checkbook.

Being the official head of household, the husband held more power than the wife. The range of a woman’s pursuit of happiness, and her children’s, too, was shaped by whether he treated her as a servant, a mistress, a fragile treasure in need of his protection, a trophy to be envied by other men, and/or a respected partner.

hillary-flag.politico.comNow that the Democratic Party has nominated America’s first female candidate for president, our country is starting a long-overdue conversation about gender biases — particularly the ones we don’t recognize. Daniel Bush gives a good overview of the problem in The Hidden Sexism that Could Sway the Election on PBS’s website. He observes: “Social science evidence, primary exit polls and my interviews with researchers and dozens of voters indicate that white men’s attitudes toward Clinton are driven by a complex mix of conscious and subconscious sexism.”

Retro-Golf-Lady-Clip-Art-GraphicsFairyThat’s my dad. He subscribed to what researchers Susan Fiske and Peter Glick have dubbed ambivalent sexism: “I like women a lot, as long as they don’t trespass on male turf.” An early shock for me was the day Dad came home from a golf game fuming against his country club for making his foursome (all male, as golfers should be) wait for a group of women players. A few years later, when he was looking for a new secretary, Dad rejected Betty, who came highly recommended by his close friend John Doe, because she called her ex-boss John instead of Mr. Doe.

Bush’s PBS piece quotes diverse experts:

“Bias in general, whether it’s directed at gender, race, or anything else, is more automatic than people think,” said Susan Fiske, a leading researcher on prejudice and stereotypes who teaches at Princeton University. “And it’s also more ambivalent than we realize. So that makes it harder to detect in ourselves.”

11-19-09-9“The more female politicians are seen as striving for power, the less they’re trusted and the more moral outrage gets directed at them,” said Terri Vescio, a psychology professor at Penn State who studies gender bias. “You’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t. . . . If you’re perceived as competent, you’re not perceived as warm. But if you’re liked and trusted, you’re not seen as competent.”

I suspect my dad would have been one of the millions of white men now refusing to vote for Hillary Clinton. I hope he would have been one of millions who’ll be persuaded between now and election day by their wives, daughters, sisters, and mothers to poke into the dark corners of prejudice they’d rather keep hidden. I vividly remember the jolt when Anita Hill’s accusations against Clarence Thomas opened discussions in offices all over the country which revealed to thousands of shocked men that every woman they work with — yes, every single one — had experienced sexual harassment.

Most of all, I hope that over the next three months, American men like my dad will open their hearts and their minds and vote for the most qualified presidential candidate: Hillary Rodham Clinton.


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2 Mystery Reviews: Beason’s The Only Witness & Horowitz’s The House of Silk

The Only Witness (Neema Mystery, #1)The Only Witness by Pamela Beason
An ingenious & charming mystery, starring improbably sympathetic characters: Brittany, a feckless teenage mother who leaves her baby in the car to dash into a store. Finn, a grumpy detective who’s saddled with his ex-wife’s menagerie & out of the loop in this grapevine-infested small town. And Neema, the only witness to the baby’s abduction: a gorilla who’s learned sign language, in a program that’s just been de-funded. Pamela Beason deftly weaves local prejudices, personal quirks, & challenging circumstances into a believable net that traps each protagonist. Each plot strand is compelling, & they converge in a satisfying resolution.

The House of Silk (Sherlock Holmes #1)The House of Silk by Anthony Horowitz
As the creator & writer of Foyle’s War, Anthony Horowitz is up there in my firmament with Jane Austen, Aaron Sorkin, Hilary Mantel, & Tom Stoppard. I really wanted to read & love The House of Silk, even though most pastiches of storytellers from another era hurt my ears & sink my spirits. OK, Horowitz’s stab at James Bond (the cleverly titled Trigger Mortis) lost me in the first 2 pages; but his excellent TV recreation of World War II boded well for stepping back another half-century into the role of Dr. Watson narrating a Sherlock Holmes adventure.

House of Silk starts out familiar & promising — Baker Street ambience, unnerved client, deductive legerdemain, bristly camaraderie (Holmes-Watson) & sibling rivalry (Sherlock-Mycroft) — & expands fluidly into a web of business, art, society, & politics. There were a few jarring anachronisms, but the voice wasn’t cringe-worthy, & the plot kept me on board for 128 pages.

Then this:
“…Holmes had no idea of the type of people with whom he was dealing nor the lengths to which they would go to protect themselves. He had entered a veritable miasma of evil, and harm, in the worst possible way, was to come to us all too soon.”

Translation: “As a 21st-century reader you’re probably bored with this 19th-century pace, or about to be, so here’s a violent jab to keep you hooked.”

At that point I closed the book, & I haven’t reopened it until now.

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San Francisco Then & Now: Vigilantes & Smartphones: Hoist with Our Own Petard

lamppostWiFi1-M “Hoist with their own petard”: in Shakespeare’s day that didn’t mean hanged, but blown up with their own explosives. Here on the fringes of Silicon Valley, we’re unwittingly paying the price for our addiction to staying connected 24/7. Above, my view now; below, my view as ExteNet/Verizon/City of San Francisco proposes to amend it by installing a Personal Wireless Service Facility outside my window. lamppost+WiFi1-M

All parties concede this neighborhood already is saturated with wifi/cell service. However, in 1997 the Federal Communications Commission (FCC) made 3 key rules: cities can’t limit communications corporations from expanding coverage and capacity; every provider has the right to install as much as every other provider; and–crucially–since we (=FCC) have no irrefutable evidence that radio-frequency emissions are dangerous to humans except in huge quantities, no one’s allowed to object to any new installation because of health concerns. In these photos, just out of sight to the left are a large rooftop transmitter array owned by AT&T and another owned by T-Mobile. Verizon plans at least one lamppost transmitter for every block in North Beach; and two more companies have proposals in the pipeline. Meanwhile, a new study by the US National Toxicology Program has found that cellphone emissions do in fact cause cancer. But responding to that will take the FCC years.

Back in 1856, the petard of choice was literally explosive. As today’s tech geeks carry their smartphones everywhere, the entrepreneurs of 160 years ago carried guns. In November 1855, a drunk and threatening U.S. Marshal, William Richardson, was fatally shot after he stalked and then attacked gambler Charles Cora.

JKWposterJames King of William, editor of the Evening Bulletin, jumped on the incident to expand his crusade against the City’s gamblers and politicians. King urged his readers to take the law in their own hands and drive out the likes of “assassin” Charles Cora and his common-law wife, Belle, the beautiful madam of San Francisco’s finest parlour house.

Belle Cora hired an eminent lawyer, Col. Edward Baker, for her lover’s January trial. Its outcome sent James King of William into fresh hysterics:

“Hung be the heavens with black! The money of the gamblers and prostitutes has succeeded . . . The jury cannot agree and are discharged!”

King’s inflammatory views spread as fast as the fires that used to gut the city. Many San Franciscans were exasperated by their government’s failure to do its job. Bulletin sales spiked as King attacked anyone urging calm and patience. He bragged of carrying a pistol and invited his critics to shoot him. One editor who opposed vigilante justice had his office smashed and his newspapers burned in the street.

Supervisor James Casey struck back. His May 11 Sunday Herald noted that while King’s Evening Bulletin urged hanging Richardson’s killer, its editor was pulling strings for his brother Tom to get Richardson’s job. That provoked James King to note in the May 14 Bulletin that Casey had served time in New York’s Sing Sing Prison before stuffing himself through the ballot box in California.

CaseyShootsKingThis was not news, but it was an insult. Casey demanded a retraction; King scoffed. An hour later, as King crossed Montgomery Street, Casey confronted him. “Are you armed? Draw!” King ignored him. Casey shot him in the shoulder.

James King of William staggered into the Pacific Express office; later he was moved to the Montgomery Block. James Casey was arrested and stowed by Sheriff David Scannell in the jail on Broadway, where Charles Cora awaited a retrial. Already a mob was forming. Sam Brannan and others began reviving the Vigilance Committee. By morning they’d enlisted 1,500 men.

As the news spread, doctors swarmed to the victim’s side. King’s own physician expected him to recover. But in that crowd of medical help, well-wishers, and cigar smoke, a sponge was pressed into the wound to stop the bleeding, and stayed there until James King of William died of infection on May 20.

JailTakeoverPosterThe Vigilantes didn’t wait death to try Casey (and, incidentally, Cora) for murder. On Sunday, May 18, 2,600 of them removed both prisoners from the jail to their Sacramento Street headquarters, Fort Vigilance (AKA Fort Gunnybags). Each defendant would have a kangaroo-court-appointed lawyer and jury; a Guilty verdict would require a 2/3 majority. Casey was condemned easily. Cora wasn’t; but since hanging was the Vigilance Committee’s mandate, they ignored that technicality.

On May 22, a mile-long funeral procession escorted James King of William’s body to Lone Mountain Cemetery. Back at Fort Vigilance, Belle and Charles Cora’s priest married them, then gave the groom last rites. Cora and Casey were hanged at 1 PM.Lynching-of-casey-and-cora-M

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The Roots of Vigilante Justice, San Francisco, May 1856

Sam Brannan

Sam Brannan

Any time a group of citizens snatches the political reins out of their government’s hands, they’re bound to offer a reason. As the United States of America’s founders put it in their Declaration of Independence, “A decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.”  When Sam Brannan and his comrades pulled a coup d’etat 160 years ago, in a small but burgeoning city in the nation’s newest state, their recruits signed this declaration:

Seal of the San Francisco Vigilance Committee, 1851 (engraving)Whereas, it has become apparent to the citizens of San Francisco that there is no security for life and property, under the laws as now administered, since by the association together of bad characters, our ballot boxes have been stolen, our elections nullified, our dearest rights violated, and no other method left to manifest the will of the people,

Therefore, the citizens whose names are herewith attached do unite themselves into an association for maintenance of the peace and good order of society.

The name and style of this association shall be the Committee of Vigilance, fobrannan-store-widerr the protection of the ballot box, the lives, liberty, and property of the citizens and residents of the city of San Francisco.

Samuel Brannan was a master of both spin and revolution. Seven years earlier he’d launched the Gold Rush by running down Montgomery Street shouting “Gold! Gold at the American River!” Brannan wasn’t a miner; he was an entrepreneur who’d bought up every pick and shovel in town. He’d already lost his race with Brigham Young to establish the new Mormon headquarters in San Francisco, as well as his race with the U.S. Navy to take California from Mexico. But he succeeded in goosing the sleepy little port of Yerba Buena into a Wild West free-for-all. In the process, along with creating San Francisco’s first monopoly, Sam Brannan printed the city’s first newspaper, milled its first flour, preached its first sermon, opened its first school, and became its first millionaire.


Buena Vista Winery in Sonoma still turns the grapes from Col. Agostin Haraszthy’s vineyard into a variety of fine wines, including the Zinfandel he’s said to have originated.

Men (and a few women) flocked in from everywhere seeking gold, adventure, and/or a fresh start. In California you could be whoever you said you were. If Sheriff David Scannell previously ran the Osceola Gambling Saloon, if Judge Edward McGowan’s first job was spinning a roulette wheel, who cared? Hungarian Count Agostin Haraszthy morphed into an American colonel, the head of the first U.S. Mint on the West Coast, and the father of modern California winemaking. Charles Cora, from Genoa by way of New Orleans, openly made his living as a gambler. His beautiful mistress–Clara Belle Ryan, a Baltimore runaway–became Arabella “Belle” Cora, madam of the city’s finest parlour house.

By 1851, Sam Brannan had carved himself a solid foothold as a merchant. Ironically, the anarchy that had enabled his rise to prosperity now threatened it. So he rallied his friends and formed San Francisco’s first Committee of Vigilance. Clamping down on lawlessness by hanging a few miscreants and scaring off many more not only protected their wealth but buffed their public image. Instead of looking like greedy entrepreneurs, Brannan and his fellows could look like civic heroes.

JKWposterOne of the city’s bankers was James King, who’d tacked “of William” onto his name back in Georgetown. He’d left behind his black-sheep younger brother Tom to join his admired older brother Henry, who was off charting the California wilderness with the bold but feckless explorer John Charles Fremont. To James King’s chagrin, Henry failed to meet his arriving ship, or to return to San Francisco at all. (Diaries would later disclose that he’d starved to death and been eaten by his lost comrades.) However, Tom soon followed his brothers West.

James King supported his wife and six children as part of the Montgomery Street financial crowd until the crash of February 1855. Broke and betrayed, he railed against the “too big to fail” corporations that had ruined him. In October he expanded his vendetta by launching the San Francisco Evening Bulletin, tackling vice and corruption citywide.

A month later, Charles and Belle Cora took their usual dress-circle seats at the American Theatre on Sansome Street. In front of them sat new U.S. Marshal William Richardson and his bride. Mrs. Richardson complained that a rude fellow in the pit was staring at her. When the marshal rebuked the offender, he answered that his eyes were on Belle Cora. ordered the theatre manager to evict the soiled dove and her partner. The manager just laughed.

For the next two days Marshal Richardson stalked Charles Cora from bar to bar: drinking, threatening, and reconciling. Business in the city was a high-stakes gamble; many deals were sealed after hours, and many men carried weapons. Tension between the Tammany (Northern) and Chivalry (Southern) factions sometimes led to a duel. Richardson ambushed Cora, who narrowly escaped. The following night, when Richardson reached for his pistol, Cora shot him dead.

That was the break James King of William had been waiting for.

“One of the most cold-blooded assassinations . . . committed in our midst, and the same old song is being sung by the San Francisco press. ‘The prisoner must have a fair and impartial trial’ . . . I can see but one course for this community to pursue, and that is to take the administration of justice in their own hands.” So declared the Evening Bulletin.

That was the break Sam Brannan had been waiting for.

For what happened next, stay tuned for another episode in the remarkable yet true story told in my play and soon-to-be book After the Gold Rush.

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