BOUNDARY

Martin Boundary. Sounds patronymic, probably Irish. In fact, the Martin Boundary is a mathematical theory associated with random walks near a boundary in space.  I do not pretend to comprehend the theory in its entirety, but I believe that random occurrences constantly impact all aspects of our existence. My hero, Martin, is a random walker. Twyla, his wife, constantly attempts to impose order. Working together, they arrive at very good outcomes.

   Martin, without really understanding what he is doing, employs game theory in Follow the Leader to protect himself from reputational harm, and this strategy fails.  Consequently, he faces the implacable ire of Twyla, whose thinking is founded on the idea of evidenced-based “certainty.”  When he pursues a murderer, it is as much to establish his own innocence in Twyla’s eyes as it is to bring the malefactor to justice.

I give you these clues about my lead characters to enhance your enjoyment of the story. Enjoy the twists and turns in this wild ride!

Murder, I’ve Covered It.

I know a thing or two about murderers. Back in 1979-80 I was the courthouse reporter for the Asbury Park Press in Freehold, N.J., and I covered several high-profile trials, two in which the alleged killers walked. Jurors want an iron-clad case before they’ll send someone up for life.

I spent three months covering a trial in which the state was trying to establish the existence of The Mafia. I met a hit man, Tony DeVingo, who the state accused of having gunned down mafioso Anthony “Little Pussy” Russo, a cat burglar. He was acquitted of the hit, but I had no doubt of his guilt.

Vernon Jeter in 1980 was convicted of stealing rings from the murdered corpse of Sandra Goldstein, but the jury unanimously acquitted him of killing her. I would have found him guilty of stabbing her to death. Vinnie the Hot Dog Man of Long Branch, the fence to whom Jeter offered the rings, covered up for the killer on the witness stand by pretending he was retarded.

Two blonde-headed twin brothers living in a field in an abandoned trailer because their father had thrown them out of the house, prostituted themselves to a local pedophile, then robbed and murdered him. They buried him in the field, stripped his car down to the frame, and buried most of it too. The jury convicted them.

I’ve seen criminals who are genuinely evil, like some of my characters—living devils.

In shot, I know what I am writing about.

Boundary and Me

Like Martin Boundary, I was a tenacious reporter. I was fearless and fierce. I made my editors at one paper, the Asbury Park Press, squirm. 

The Press back then (1975-80) was family-owned and an influential “cat-killer.”  By that, I mean it was so fat with ads and stories that if the delivery guy inadvertently tossed it on top of a cat, that feline would give up all nine of its ghosts at once.

(Interjection: I am writing this with great haste because I am a caregiver and have scant free time these daze. So, forgive any flaws. Caregiving is the most time-consuming, labor-intensive, round-the-clock endeavor that I’ve ever known.)

  One time, a colleague went on vacation for two weeks and I was assigned to cover her beat in Long Branch, N.J., including meetings of the local HUD office, which had a reputation for corruption. A guy sitting next to me said, “Thank God the Press has a new reporter here. The old one doesn’t cover the real news.” Further conversation revealed that he had heard there was a sweet-heart contracting scheme at the local agency favoring the son of a powerful county politician who ran a heating business.

  I showed up at the HUD office one day and asked to take a look at the binder with the contracts.  The receptionist made a call to the guy in charge of that office and informed me that he was not in. Simultaneously, out the window, I saw the same guy bolt from a side door and run towards his car in the adjoining parking lot. I immediately exited the building and yelled for him to chat. He jumped in his car and sped off. I jumped in my car and chased him.

  (My car was a joke at the Press. It was a 1970 Ford Maverick, colored gold, with a black racing stripe on the hood, that I had purchased the previous Christmas Eve during a snowstorm from a dealer for a few hundred bucks.  The wages at the Press were rock-bottom.)

  Like a scene out of Bullett, we raced and turned and ran redlights through the streets of Long Branch. He finally pulled over outside a pharmacy—he probably needed blood-pressure pills—and exclaimed, “I’m not the one who did anything wrong!”  He then promised to let me see the paperwork for several jobs replacing boilers in HUD buildings.

  HUD rules dictated competitive bids for any job exceeding either $25,000 or $50,000, I can’t recall detailed numbers.  I quickly deduced that the HUD guys were breaking big jobs into multiple little jobs so that they could award contracts to the politically connected contractor.

  I wrote a great story, and the son of the publisher killed it because the politically connected contractor was a good friend.  Pissed off to the boiling point, I took my story to the bravest NEWSMAN ON THE STAFF, Sunday Editor Si Lieberman, who had complete control of the highly-profitable Sunday paper. I believe the circulation was around 150,000. Did I mention that back then we had 126 reporters, a larger staff at the time than the Atlanta Constitution?  Si ran the story as the Sunday lead.  The Monmouth County prosecutor subsequently launched an investigation. The publisher wanted to fire me but decided it would not look good, so, instead, he transferred me to the Red Bank Bureau.  I became sort of a legend there. Ask around.

Blog Post Title Four

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Be clear, be confident and don’t overthink it. The beauty of your story is that it’s going to continue to evolve and your site can evolve with it. Your goal should be to make it feel right for right now. Later will take care of itself. It always does.