As I’ve said before, I read a lot. And if you read a lot, you start to pick up on the cliche’s and habits of fiction.
Here in New Hampshire, we have a criminal prosecutor by the name of Kenneth Bernard. He’s been recently touched by tragedy — his sister and her two children were murdered, and the main suspect is their brother Christopher — arrested after attempting to kill himself the evening of the murder.
Now, in books, if a prosecutor found his own brother accused of murdering their sister and her children, he’d probably go on a drunken bender, then come back as a crusader against domestic violence (the sister was staying with Christopher when murdered) or dedicate his life to preventing such tragedies from happening again.
But this is real life. In real life, mundane crap happens. Kenneth is going through a divorce, and his estranged wife has busted him for marijuana possession.
Obviously, Mr. Bernard hasn’t been convicted of anything yet. And just as obviously, if anyone deserves a brief vacation from reality, it’s Mr. Bernard. And even more obviously, if it’s true, he can’t continue as a prosecutor.
But damn, it’s events like this that make me wish life was a story.