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TIME: Almanac 1990
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1990 Time Magazine Compact Almanac, The (1991)(Time).iso
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022089
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02208900.071
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1990-09-17
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BOOKS, Page 98Out to Make KillingsCrime pays, at least for the many authors who write about itBy Stefan Kanfer
Criminal trials used to have four main components: defendant,
attorneys, judge and jury. Now they have a fifth: writers, eager
to make a killing of their own. The more notorious the case
nowadays, the longer seems the line of authors in and around the
courtroom, armed with notebooks and contracts. Last year's "preppie
murder" trial of Robert Chambers for strangling Jennifer Levin in
New York City's Central Park, for example, will soon yield Wasted,
a book by Linda Wolfe (The Professor and the Prostitute). The
Tawana Brawley affair has inspired a team of six New York Times
reporters and an editor to collaborate on a volume projected for
release in late 1989. Politics and sex were the surefire
ingredients of the fraud, bribery and conspiracy trial of former
Miss America Bess Myerson, and, sure enough, they are soon to be
clothbound in a book by Shana Alexander, whose previous titles
chronicled the murders of a diet doctor and a Utah millionaire.
The Joel Steinberg case, decided two weeks ago, dwarfs them
all. The Manhattan lawyer was accused of brutalizing his lover
Hedda Nussbaum and was convicted of manslaughter in the death of
their illegally adopted daughter Lisa. Here was every ingredient
of the true-crime blockbuster: cocaine, an S-M relationship, a
beautiful six-year-old and a battered woman, all set against the
background of Greenwich Village. Most important, in a city
afflicted with racial malaise, it starred what Tom Wolfe identified
in The Bonfire of the Vanities as the Great White Defendant.
From the trial's opening statements, aspiring authors jockeyed
for space on courtroom benches. Joyce Johnson, a contributing
editor for Vanity Fair, began work on What Lisa Knew. Free-lance
writer Maury Terry launched into The Dark Side of 10th Street. Sam
Erlich, a fellow free lance, undertook Lisa, Hedda, Joel. Marie
Winn, author of a television critique, The Plug-In Drug, jotted
notes for an untitled book of her own.
Winner of the race to print is Susan Brownmiller, whose novel
Waverly Place (Grove; $18.95), published this week, was completed
long before the verdict came in. In this fictive version of events
leading to Lisa's death, Nussbaum (thinly masked as Judith
Winograd) is programmed for catastrophe. Her childhood begins with
abuse: "Whack. Where were you? Whack. Ma, I got lost. Whack. I told
you . . . always to come straight home. Whack."
Once she moves in with Barry Kantor (Steinberg), himself a
victim of childhood beatings, sadomasochism reigns supreme: "He
didn't mean to bang my head against the wall . . . This is a man
who cares so deeply, who feels so much pain."
Brownmiller attempts a novelist's overview, tracing the
domestic tyrannies that slowly escalate to mutilation and death.
But her squabbling adults have little more personality than Punch
and Judy, and their maltreated daughter is a mere shadow. Waverly
Place takes 294 pages to express what W.H. Auden did in a quatrain:
"I and the public know/ What all schoolchildren learn,/ Those to
whom evil is done/ Do evil in return."
Today that evil is worth millions in hard-cover and paperback
sales. "More crime books are being written for larger advances than
ever before," says Daphne Merkin, an editor at Harcourt Brace
Jovanovich. Merkin cites the $200,000 she paid to Newsday reporter
Steve Wick, who had never written a book before, for Bad Company,
an anatomy of the 1983 Hollywood murder of producer Roy Radin. John
Baker, editor of Publishers Weekly, estimates that 10% of all
nonfiction best sellers are chronicles of true crime. "The number
has possibly doubled over the past decade," he claims.
So popular have these books become that two studies of the same
crime were selected last year as Literary Guild alternates: Daddy's
Girl by Clifford Irving, and Cold Kill by Jack Olsen. Both focused
on a teenage Texan who hired a boyfriend to kill her parents. This
kind of multiple offering is not unusual. In 1985 two works also
focused on a single crime: the murder of Franklin Bradshaw,
engineered by his socialite daughter and carried out by her son.
Both Alexander's Nutcracker and Jonathan Coleman's At Mother's
Request became best sellers; both were made into separate network
mini-series. There have been five books about the executed serial
killer Ted Bundy.
Analyses of the true-crime phenomenon range from the cosmic to
the cruel. Publishers Weekly columnist Paul Nathan believes that
readers feel "surrounded by the possibilities of violence and the
threat of some kind of nuclear or biological or chemical warfare.
So in a way it's a kind of relief to channel your apprehensiveness
into something as specific and neatly rounded as a crime story."
Michael Korda, editor in chief of Simon & Schuster, has a chillier
view: "We're in an age of intimate crime. Back in the '70s it would
have seemed almost inappropriate to write about a rapist who kills
his victim in Utah, when we had people offing the most important
figures in the land."
Whatever the reasons for their success, the authors generally
have elaborate rationales for their exploitation of human misery.
Linda Wolfe uses the Emma Bovary defense: "Many of the writers I
admired had treated themselves to the inspiration of current
events. Flaubert had been told by a friend about a doctor's
dissatisfied wife who had killed herself after having a series of
lovers, and invented Madame Bovary . . . It's not a new
phenomenon." Olsen takes the educational approach: books about
psychopaths, he asserts, make it easier for people to identify
them: "The date rapist can be spotted even before he tries to hold
your hand, and any book on that subject should help elucidate
that." Says Brownmiller: "I hope for a subversive effect, reaching
people who would not read a 400-page nonfiction history of a crime
and theoretical discussion of child abuse." Alexander deals with
the true-crime genre by denying its existence. "I don't recognize
it," she says. "I think there are two categories -- fiction and
non. And I am unable to do one, so I do the other."
Not all writers and critics are receptive to these arguments.
Olsen admits that "there's no field more prone to charlatanism than
nonfiction crime writing. There is more crap being written under
that guise than any other genre because there are no checks and
balances." And Nathan has deep moral concerns. "There's something
rather ghoulish about seeing a number of people getting together
competitively, each with a project based on somebody's death," he
says. Steinberg's is a case in point: "It's hard to know where to
draw the line between simple sensationalism and something that is
socially valid." That line grows a little dimmer every time a new
defendant gets measured for a dust jacket.