Jeffrey Cohen

I got to be Mr. Asperger again this week when I was interviewed by a radio station in Kentucky. The interviewer, who had actually taken the time to read the book (of all things), was very good, and asked intelligent questions, but it always worries me when I am asked to be the Spokesman for the Autism Spectrum. I’m just a parent who has to deal with something, that’s all. Doesn’t every parent have to deal with stuff?

My son was diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome, which is now considered a high-functioning form of autism, when he was about six years old (he’s now 17). It was the Ice Age of Asperger’s, when almost nobody had heard of it, when we were still being told by psychologists that our son was “eccentric,” and when school administrators, teachers, social workers and specialists were just finding out that there was something out there with a strange German name that might make an impact on the children they saw in class, and maybe they should find out more.

We were lucky to live in a school district (well okay, we had moved here with the schools in mind) that was not averse to differences among students. They were smart enough to explore what Asperger’s was, and early on, to note that this certainly explained students they’d had trouble with in the past, when they were frustrated and didn’t know how to respond.

Now, all school districts should take note: where diagnoses of autism once numbered about one in every 10,000 children, the number has now become one in every 166.

What causes autism and autism-spectrum disorders like AS? Nobody knows for sure, and I certainly can’t say with any authority. There is much debate, and I’m not a doctor. I don’t even play one on television, although I hear that’s a very sexy thing to do these days.

I can’t even say what it’s like to live with Asperger’s. I don’t have it; my son does. I can tell you what it’s like to live with someone who has Asperger’s, and tried to do so in my non-fiction books.

It gets a little uncomfortable when interviewers, readers, or anybody expects me to know all there is to know about all forms of autism. As an author, I don’t want to appear like I haven’t adequately researched my topic, but as a responsible human (which I aspire to be someday) I don’t want to make up information. I’ll often point out my almost criminal lack of credibility on a subject I’ve written about extensively for eight years, but there’s something just a little strange about having to do that.

Here’s what I know: people with autism, from the very high-functioning (boy, do I wish they’d come up with a better term than that–it makes my son sound like he should be spitting out pistons, or something) to the not-so-much, are different. They’re not sick, they’re not damaged, and I don’t believe they’re disabled; they’re different. They approach life in a way that the rest of us do not. I haven’t checked today, but I’m relatively sure that’s still not a crime in this country (although it seems pretty much everything is up for grabs these days).

What is needed is education. For the people with spectrum disorders? Certainly. If they want to fit in with the majority (some do, some don’t), they need to know what the majority expects, and at the very least, how to fake that. So education, from the earliest possible age, is desperately important. That means there need to be more people learning how to teach people who don’t see the world in the way most do, and we need to start doing that roughly 10 years ago, so it’s a priority.

But there also needs to be education for those of us who consider ourselves–and this is a word I shouldn’t be using–“normal.” (In the autism community, “neuro-typical” is the accepted term, and even that is pretty bad.) We need to be able to deal with a population that is growing geometrically by the day. And that means we need to understand where they’re coming from, how they view life, why they act the way they do. Police officers need to know it, teachers need to know it, grocery clerks, principals, deans, firefighters, writers, cable TV installers and virtually everyone else needs to understand.

People with autism and related disorders are not going away, and they’re not going to merely “fit in” because we decide they should. They’re going to be who they are, and if there’s one thing that living with my son for the past 17 years has taught me, it’s that they are very much worth knowing.

That’s why I write about Asperger’s, and autism, and everything in-between. Because if someone who’s reading a silly mystery book and isn’t expecting information about a neurological disorder to be included finds it anyway, maybe they’ll learn something. Maybe they’ll understand better. Maybe, when they meet my son, they’ll cut him just a little bit more slack.

It’s selfish, but it’s worthwhile.

Have you ever noticed how jury selection is pitched to the proletariat the same way timeshares are sold? "Hey Bob, you’ve just won the county lottery and you may have won the chance to be on a jury. To claim your prize, just pop along to the county court house."

Julie was lucky enough to get her jury duty notification letter a few month back. She’s always been pretty lucky with these things. She gets her call up papers once a year. Me, on the other hand, I don’t have to worry. As a non-citizen, I can’t serve on a jury. I think this should extend to not appearing in court as a defendant either, but I could be on my own with that one.

Well, just like with the timeshare pitch, Julie’s response to the notification was one of annoyance and irritation, which seems to be pretty much the common reaction with everyone. I can’t say I’m any different. I can think of many other painful ways to spend my time than serving on a jury. Not only that, there’s a lot of pressure on you as a juror. You have to pay attention for a start. The hardest thing is that you have to decide the fate of another person. That’s some scary responsibility and power.

Considering all that lawyers have to learn, are we (the general public) the best people to preside over a court case? What do we know and understand of the law? And saying you watch Law & Order on a regular basis isn’t good enough. In what other venue do we allow unskilled personnel to take control of such a serious undertaking? I don’t see nurses yanking people off the street to do brain surgery or airlines picking a passenger at random to fly a 747, so why have the decision of guilt or innocence placed in the hands of laypeople?

Combine that with the fact that most people consider jury duty to be such a hardship, I don’t fancy anyone’s chances of a fair and well-reasoned trial. Any of us could end up in court fighting for our livelihood and the last thing any of us want is twelve pissed off people who couldn’t come up with a decent enough excuse to get out of jury duty. It’s not exactly the justice system our forefathers imagined.  Remember, the judge won’t save us. All he’s going to do is slap a number on the proceedings. To me, a jury is a bigger deterrent not to commit crime than the various crime prevention programs the police currently have.

This is my script for a TV commercial to be broadcast nationally to scare us straight. Here it is:

"Trial by jury is a right of everyone in this country.  You’ll be tried by your peers–objective people who have nothing to gain or lose from your case. Meet your jurors:"

"Juror #1 was meant to be in Maui this week."

"Juror #2 didn’t get beyond 5th grade and needs help tying his laces."

"Juror #3 thinks J-walking should be a capital offense."

"Juror #4 will go with the flow and agree with the majority."

"Juror #5’s car was stolen last month and no one was caught. This is payback."

"Juror #6 knows you did it just by looking at you."

"Juror #7 will base your guilt on a coin flip. Heads or tails?"

"Juror #8 thinks evidence is overrated. It’s all about gut feel."

"Juror #9 has fifteen cats and doesn’t think you look like a cat person."

"Juror #10 hopes to hook up with Juror #9."

"Juror #11 hasn’t been listening."

"Juror #12 and foreman is the actual perpetrator of the crime you stand accused of and isn’t in the mood to confess."

"Now, you’ve met your jury. How confident are you they’ll do the right thing?"

If this ad went out, crime would cease in a week.

I know the court system is a symbol of our democracy, but can’t we palm the responsibility onto someone who likes this sort of stuff? Justice, she may be blind, but the rest of us, we’re just blinkered.  🙂

Yours tried and tested,
Simon Wood

by Pari Noskin Taichert

It’s a sad fact. Readers have chided me for it.

I gripe about being considered a "regional writer."

It might not bother me as much if I lived in a region with a large population — and that population supported its authors. But the Southwest just doesn’t come close to "The South" or "California" or "The East Coast."

So, I sulk.

I’ve been convinced that my series — even with its national nods — hasn’t "hit the big time" because those darn New York editors (and reviewers and bookstore owners) don’t understand that a book written with New Mexico as its focus can still have a broad appeal. Hell, I know it can. My readers come from all over the country, and beyond.

I know for a fact that THE BELEN HITCH was passed over at one NYC house because the publisher already had another Southwestern female protag and the marketing department didn’t believe it could "support" two.

Now, some Southwestern authors have done quite well: Tony Hillerman (Navajo Indians), Michael McGarrity (Western lawman), James Doss (Indians/shamans), Rudolfo Anaya (Hispanic culture). But has it  been overdone?

Or, are editors bound by their own stereotypes about the region?

Who else but me writes about a moderately urban, whipped-cream guzzling, reform Jewish gal with a wicked wit and an unending supply of ambitious clients gung-ho about putting their towns and projects on every travel agent’s and tourist’s map?  Who else ever wrote a mystery set in Clovis, Belen, or Socorro County?

I’m unique, gosh darn it. I’m fresh! I’m, um, regional?

It’s enough to make me scream.

Well, sort of.

Lately I’ve been rethinking my stance. I’ve taken to wearing elegant native New Mexican jewelry. At some conventions or signings, you might even find me sporting a classy red-and-green chile (yes, it’s spelled with an "e" in NM) tie.

You see, it occurred to me that all my grumbling was wasting energy and time. Frankly, if every reader in New Mexico bought my books, I’d be close to that big time success I so crave.

So, writing about New Mexico — being called regional — isn’t bad in itself. It gives me an initial identity.

The question I have is: Will being "regional" doom me to be considered a quaint, "little" writer?

It’s the same kind of question I ask about being published by a smaller house. The University of New Mexico Press has been very good to me; it gave THE CLOVIS INCIDENT a voice when no bigger publisher would even consider it. But, will starting with a small publisher — having limited distribution and endorsement from national book chains, limited attention from national news media — doom me to oblivion as well?

(Lest you think I’m being melodramatic, note that I spoke with a well-known, national reviewer who told me that until my books were published by a big house, she wouldn’t consider looking at them.)

Oh, I don’t know.

My hope is, eventually, that when I’ve written enough Sasha books, a broader audience will actually turn to my work to find out about this region — in the same way people turn to Tony HIllerman to find out about Navajo country.

Until then, I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep getting better at my craft, at storytelling.

Each of my books has brought growth. THE CLOVIS INCIDENT is a great first ride. THE BELEN HITCH is a better written and plotted mystery. THE SOCORRO BLAST, my newly finished manuscript, tackles ethnic profiling and how our paranoia — born of the events of 9/11 — have changed the way we treat each other. (Believe me, it still has humor.)

Book # 4 will take a hard, hot look at the chile pepper industry in southern New Mexico.

Book #5 will explore the culture surrounding alternative energy in my state.

After that, I’ll focus on the role New Mexico plays in the space industry; we’re getting a space port (or the sciences at Los Alamos and Sandia Labs).

Obviously, I have many more Sasha stories to tell.

Will they find a bigger audience? A major publishing house? The big time?

Only time will tell.

Jeffrey Cohen

First, you have to understand: writers spend most of their time not writing. That’s why my mind is wandering this way.

I’m not discussing Robert B. Parker, who has 106 series running at once and probably writes in the check out line at Foodtown, or any of those other maniacs who are prolific enough to drive the rest of us to the liquor cabinet. I mean the average, garden-variety author like myself, who spends more time thinking about writing than writing. We’re nice, too.

Don’t worry, this is going somewhere. I’m pretty sure.

So, given that writers spend a good deal of time not writing, and given that we are, by nature, a slovenly, slug-like people (this is a gross generality–there are few grosser), it follows that we spend a good deal of time looking around the walls of the room in which we are, at that moment, not writing. In my case, it would be in my "office," which is supposed to be the dining room of our house, but instead has an imposing dark-wood veneer piece of furniture that doubles as a desk, bookshelf and file cabinet (perhaps that should be "triples as a desk…").

It is the sort of room that would send Martha Stewart into a screaming fit that might result in more jail time, but in which someone like Sherlock Holmes would feel quite at home, assuming that Mrs. Hudson hadn’t been in to clean recently.

It would also serve as a terrific source of information for Holmes, who was fond of looking at the stuff a guy has in his room and making enormous leaps of logic (which were invariably proven correct) based on what he saw.

So: what would Sherlock Holmes make of this room?

Let’s start with a few ground rules. Sherlock has to be a modern-day sleuth in this case, so he’d be familiar with the iMac, the fax machine and the all-in-one copier/printer/scanner/waffle iron that takes up a good deal of shelf space in the room. He’d have to be familiar with the telephone. He wouldn’t be surprised that I have a shredder (recently purchased to make me feel more like an employee of the Nixon Administration) nor would he ask me where my quill pen was kept.

Also, let’s assume for the sake of argument (and my own sanity) that no major crime has been committed in my house. Sherlock’s coming by for late afternoon tea (boy, is he in for a disappointment!) or to attend a seder, so he can see how the Semites celebrate Easter.

What would Sherlock Holmes be able to find out about me by looking around my office?

"Well, to begin, you are clearly a professional musician," he might begin. "Note the case full of music books and the vintage 12-string guitar left out of its case, no doubt for quick access during periods of practice or composition. You have an interest in neurological disorders and historical figures, as is evidenced by the few books on the bookshelves. You are enamored of a particular writer on business topics; you own hardcover editions of many of his books. You have been presented with some sort of entertainment award, are a graduate of Grinnell College in Iowa, have a large number of children aged 11 to 17 who love to read, you exercise regularly, do your own sewing, drink beer in the afternoons while watching baseball games and are planning a trip to Italy."

"Amazing, Holmes! How did you guess?"

"I never guess, Watson." (Apparently, Sherlock has brought his "friend" along with him today, without feeling the need to ask in advance. The matzo ball soup will have to stretch a little.) "It is an appalling habit. I observe, and make deductions based on the observations. For example, the entertainment award, patterened after the ‘Oscar’ (as I believe it is called), is visible on the bookshelf. The Grinnell College connection can be deduced from the t-shirt Mr. Cohen is wearing, emblazoned with the words ‘Grinnell College Alumni Assocation.’ The inordinate number of bibliophile children–at least seven or eight–in the teenage years is evident from the huge piles of Young Adult mystery books on the floor. Exercise is indicated by the large ball used for that purpose that has not been put away because it will be used again soon, and the computer print-out sheets of exercise routines on the sideboard. There is a sewing kit on the same piece of furniture, which indicates Mr. Cohen has done some tailoring recently. He has a New York Yankees bottle opener on his filing cabinet, which indicates the need for a beer–most soft drinks have recloseable tops–and the fact that it has the imprint of the team would indicate a desire to observe their contests. The trip to Italy is indicated by the number of books on Rome and its environs on the shelves."

"Is there more, Holmes?" Watson loves to ask such questions, lap dog that he is.

"Of course, Watson. Those were only the most obvious observations. I can also tell you that Mr. Cohen owns a dog, is an observant Hebrew, prefers books on cassette to printed volumes, is devoted to the latest in technology, and has a considerable ego, as is evidenced by the large crate with a dog bed inside, the local newspaper issued by a Jewish organization, to which he must subscribe, the number of books on cassette versus the smaller number of hardcover books, the many cables and wires for technological devices, and the many likenesses of himself in the room. A man’s study, Watson, is the best place to determine his true character."

All of which would be true, except for the fact that Sherlock just got it all wrong. Except for the dog. I do have a dog.

I keep a guitar and many music books in my office, because I’ll often grab it and start to play something as a way to put off writing. I am anything but a professional musician. I have works about history and neurological disorders in my office because I have had to look up details about history for an article recently, and because my son was born with a neurological disorder, a subject on which I write quite a bit. It ain’t pleasure reading, believe me.

My shelves are, indeed, lined with a good number of books on business affairs by one author. They’re in hardcover, too. That’s because I wrote them. I do some ghostwriting to pay the bills, and the author (you wouldn’t recognize the name) is a frequent client. Best to keep those handy.

The "entertainment award" was given to me in college, when I directed (if you want to call it that) a student film. It was a joke (as was the film). The Grinnell College t-shirt? I wear it because it was too big on my wife, who is a graduate. I went to Rutgers, and although I have a shirt with the logo on it, I never wear it. It’s too clingy.

Young adult mysteries are, in fact, taking over my office. I have at least 50 of them there. I have to read them all, because a friend asked me to. It’s a long story (and an exceedingly dull one, which is why I’m not telling it here). My kids are, indeed, between the ages of 13 and 17, but there are only two of them. They’re 13 and 17. And while they love to read, YA mysteries are their 15th preference after many, many other choices. Some genes aren’t passed along.

The exercise equipment? A promise to myself that I’ve been ignoring for quite some time. If Holmes were looking closely at me, and not my t-shirt (the man is a bit perverse), he’d quickly see that I’m clearly not a frequent exerciser. More’s the pity.

An exercise ball does sit in my office; it’s presence, and many of his other observations, can be attributed to one personality trait that Holmes didn’t mention: I’m a slob. I can’t sew; my wife left the sewing kit out weeks ago and I never put it away where it belongs. The bottle opener? My brother gave it to me last December. (When you use it to open a bottle, it actually plays a recording of John Sterling, the radio voice of the Yankees, just to remind fans what an embarrassment John Sterling is.) Ought to get to putting that away any time now. The books on Rome? We went to Italy (and came back) in June. Yeah, need to find a place for those, okay.

Jewish newspaper? They keep sending it. I don’t remember asking. I never read it. (One can only assume Holmes was kidding with that "observant Hebrew" crack.) Really should put that on the recycling pile, now, shouldn’t I? Books on cassette? Those belong to my wife. We have some subscription; it’s like Netflix, but for books on tape. Cables and wires? I often look at those, wondering what they’re supposed to be attached to, and why.

There are photographs in the room, and I’m in some of them. Mostly by accident. They’re of my wife and children, for the most part. There is one pen-and-ink drawing of me, done by a friend a few lifetimes ago when I worked in a real office. I keep it because, well, I think if someone goes to the trouble to do a drawing of you, the least you can do is keep it. It used to sit next to a framed certificate declaring me a member of the crew of the Starship Enterprise, signed by Gene Roddenberry (whom I had interviewed for a video trade magazine) and James T. Kirk. I meant to keep that forever, too–you should always hang onto a certificate signed by a fictional character–but dropped the frame it was in, and it broke. I’m sure the certificate is around here somewhere. Got to wonder what Holmes would have made of that.

So, it’s possible to observe, and immediately deduce inaccurate information. This is to be kept in mind while writing mysteries–proof has to be more than a guess–sorry, Holmes–based on an observation. Indeed, looking around a person’s home/office and making judgments about them is best left as a playful exercise meant not to come to meaningful conclusions, but merely to kill some time.

Like I just did. You don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes.

While we were in New York last year, Julie told me about night court. I remembered the sitcom from the 80’s, but that was about it. Well, NYC has a night court. Under state law, anyone arrested has to be arraigned within 24 hours of an arrest and that has to be open to the public. Because the courts are so busy, they have to run a night court. So Julie and I went.

We took a trip down to 100 Center St and told the cops on duty we were there for night court. They looked at us the way you would expect, but waved us through. We found the little courtroom and took a seat. Not surprisingly, there weren’t many people in the public gallery, just a handful of loved ones and the accused having been released on their own recognizance waiting for their “Notice to appear" paperwork.

I was a little uncomfortable being there. I felt like a voyeur to somebody’s downfall. It made me wonder who the hell attends trials for fun, anyway.

The operation was very slick. A bevy of public defenders sat on one side of the courtroom, while the assistant DAs sat on the other. The accused sat in an L-shaped holding area in one corner. A glass-sided confession-style box was provided where the accused could meet with a public defender for a little privacy—and not so private when the public defender failed to close the door and everyone listened to a hooker revealing her arrest.

Things moved relatively quickly. Names were called. The accused stood with their lawyer while the people explained the case and the defense tried to explain it away. The judge considered the two sides of the story and decided on a course of action. The judge was a lot of fun. She liked to give both the defense and prosecution a slap now and again when they stepped out of line. Great sound bites included:

"Thank you for telling me how to do my job." This was said to a particularly annoying public defender.

"And next time bring me a case with an actual crime involved," which was said to an assistant DA.

The majority of arraignments weren’t much to write home about. Most fell into the realms of drug possession or DUI. But there were a couple of things to tickle the fancy. A very sorry looking white guy was brought in—definitely not the pothead type. He was doubly unusual as he was the only one with a hired lawyer. I was eager to know his crime. It turned out that he’d attacked his girlfriend with a couch.  Yes, a couch. Only in New York, right? His lawyer waxed lyrical about his family of good standing and the yacht club where he worked, etc. The prosecution wanted him held over, but the judge let him go without bail. On the way out, his father, a rather well to do guy, told his son to sort his shit out and there were other ways of solving his problems. The other interesting case involved a huge, scary-looking guy brought in on a warrant. Though handcuffed, he was very nice to the two officers who’d brought him in—apparently he’d forgotten to pay the second of two fines for letting his dogs off without a leash. This disappointed Julie and me, as we’d had a pool going as to what this guy had done. Was he a drug dealer? A killer? Reckless pet owner failed to make the top 50.

Sadly, respect for the law wasn’t always too forthcoming. On several occasions we listened to people leaving the courtroom saying something like, "Fuck this shit" or "Let’s get the fuck out of here." This came from both cops and the accused and they weren’t quiet about it either. You don’t even get that on Judge Judy!

After a while, night court got a little stale. Regardless of your point of view, it was depressing to see the people charged with the same thing and even more depressing that they were almost all minorities. The situation certainly screamed out for attention. Also, I didn’t see law or justice in action—just bartering. The prosecution would ask for bail to be set at a zillion dollars and the death penalty and the public defender would churn out a bunch of unrelated crap and ask for the charges to be dropped and a Happy Meal for everyone. The judge would wave the death penalty/Happy Meal scenario and pick something in the middle. Right and wrong seemed to have little to do with the proceedings.

The more I look at the law and order machine in motion, I know it’s not for me. Having had the opportunity to tour the inside of a prison, see a courtroom, and even testify in court, I never want to get myself on the wrong side of the law. It’s too depressing for words.

Yours unarraigned,
Simon Wood