ABOUT THE BOOK
In American Red, as the Great American Century begins, and the modern world roars to life, Capitalists flaunt greed and seize power, Socialists and labor unions flex their violent will, and an extraordinary true story of love and sacrifice unfolds.
In his critically acclaimed debut novel, Fortunate Son, David Marlett introduced readers to a fresh take on historical fiction–the historical legal thriller—bringing alive the people and events leading to and surrounding some of the most momentous, dramatic legal trials in history. Now he returns with American Red, the story of one of the greatest domestic terrorists in American history, and the detectives, lawyers, spies, and lovers who brought him down.
The men and women of American Red are among the most fascinating in American history. When, at the dawn of the 20th century, the Idaho governor is assassinated, blame falls on “Big Bill” Haywood, the all-powerful, one-eyed boss of the Western Federation of Miners in Denver. Close by, his polio-crippled wife, Neva, struggles with her wavering faith, her love for another man, and her sister’s affair with her husband. New technologies accelerate American life, but justice lags behind. Private detectives, battling socialists and unions on behalf of wealthy capitalists, will do whatever it takes to see Haywood hanged. The scene is set for bloodshed, from Denver to Boise to San Francisco. America’s most famous attorney, Clarence Darrow, leads the defense—a philandering U.S. senator leads the prosecution—while the press, gunhands, and spies pour in. Among them are two idealists, Jack Garrett and Carla Capone—he a spy for the prosecution, she for the defense. Risking all, they discover truths about their employers, about themselves and each other, and what they’ll sacrifice for justice and honor—and for love.
In his critically acclaimed debut novel, Fortunate Son, David Marlett introduced readers to a fresh take on historical fiction–the historical legal thriller—bringing alive the people and events leading to and surrounding some of the most momentous, dramatic legal trials in history. Now he returns with American Red, the story of one of the greatest domestic terrorists in American history, and the detectives, lawyers, spies, and lovers who brought him down.
The men and women of American Red are among the most fascinating in American history. When, at the dawn of the 20th century, the Idaho governor is assassinated, blame falls on “Big Bill” Haywood, the all-powerful, one-eyed boss of the Western Federation of Miners in Denver. Close by, his polio-crippled wife, Neva, struggles with her wavering faith, her love for another man, and her sister’s affair with her husband. New technologies accelerate American life, but justice lags behind. Private detectives, battling socialists and unions on behalf of wealthy capitalists, will do whatever it takes to see Haywood hanged. The scene is set for bloodshed, from Denver to Boise to San Francisco. America’s most famous attorney, Clarence Darrow, leads the defense—a philandering U.S. senator leads the prosecution—while the press, gunhands, and spies pour in. Among them are two idealists, Jack Garrett and Carla Capone—he a spy for the prosecution, she for the defense. Risking all, they discover truths about their employers, about themselves and each other, and what they’ll sacrifice for justice and honor—and for love.
Book Details:
Title: American Red
Author: David
Marlett
Genre: Historical Fiction
Publisher: StoryPlant (July 2,
2019)
Print length: 528 pages
On tour with: Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours
LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT WITH DAVID MARLETT
Things you need in order to write: at least a two-hour block of time. My computer. Relative quiet.
Things that hamper your writing: stress about other things. Narrow time windows.
Things you love about writing: depends on the type of writing, but as a novelist, I love the ability to bring characters alive, to explore their humanity, to play with language and experiment, and to connect directly to readers . . . from the keyboard to their minds is truly amazing.
Things you hate about writing: nothing that I hate, per se, but I certainly don’t like the overall decline in reading and the financial instability of the profession.
Easiest thing about being a writer: again, as a novelist writer, it is the ability to do it anywhere, anytime. To not have to chase partners, buy-in from others, etc. as one often must with screenwriting.
Hardest thing about being a writer: assuming you mean as a novelist writer, then the hardest things are the isolation . . . the lack of exercise . . . the lack of collaboration.
Things you never want to run out of: tea bags.
Things you wish you’d never bought: nothing particularly. I’m careful about what I buy.
Favorite music or song: modern folk, Celtic, U2, some jazz.
Music that make your ears bleed: I don’t prefer most rap and hip-hop.
Favorite beverage: single malt scotch.
Something that gives you a pickle face: coconut water.
Favorite smell: gardenias, petrichor, my kids.
Something that makes you hold your nose: Trump.
Something you’re really good at: graphic design.
Something you’re really bad at: cooking.
Something you wish you could do: live on a beautiful, mountain lake with all my adult kids living nearby.
Something you wish you’d never learned to do: nothing particularly. I enjoy learning new things.
Something you like to do: woodwork.
Something you wish you’d never done: we all have regrets.
Things you’d walk a mile for: only one mile? Then many things. But if you mean 500 miles, then my family.
Things that make you want to run screaming from the room: Trump.
Things you always put in your books: someone pointed out that I always include someone being seriously injured or killed by being run over by a vehicle (coach-and-six, train, automobile). Not sure why that is, but I guess I’ll have to keep it up.
Things you never put in your books: gratuitous sex, and hopefully no anachronisms.
Things to say to an author: I recommended your book to five other people.
Things to say to an author if you want to be fictionally killed off in their next book: what’s it about? . . . I don’t like to read.
Favorite places you’ve been: Edinburgh, Puget Sound, the delivery rooms for my four kids.
Places you never want to go to again: Beijing, Buenos Aires.
People you’d like to invite to dinner: a whole assortment of people . . . I love being invited to dinner parties where there will be interesting people.
People you’d cancel dinner on: Trump and his cronies.
Most daring thing you’ve ever done: a number of things . . . but one that comes to mind is (many years ago) sneaking my car onto the at-that-time empty Indianapolis 500 track and driving it all the way around, just avoiding security.
Something you chickened out from doing: I can’t think of anything . . . as I’ll try most things. That said, there certainly are things that I wouldn’t do, were they presented as options.
EXCERPT FROM AMERICAN RED
The lawyer lobbed a verbal spear across the courtroom, piercing the young man, pinning him to the creaky witness chair and tilting the twelve jurymen forward. Their brows rose in anticipation of a gore-laden response from the witness as he clutched his bowler, his face vacant toward the wood floor beyond his shoddy boots. When the judge cleared his throat, the plaintiff's attorney, Clarence Darrow, repeated the question. "Mr. Bullock, I know this is a strain upon you to recount that tragic day when fifteen of your brothers perished at the hands of the Stratton-"
"Your Honor! Point in question," barked the flint-faced defense attorney representing the Stratton Independence Mine, a non-union gold operation near Cripple Creek, Colorado. On this warm summer afternoon in Denver, he and Darrow were the best dressed there, each wearing a three-button, vested suit over a white shirt and dull tie.
The robed judge gave a long blink, then peered at Darrow. With a chin waggle, his ruling on the objection was clear.
"Yes, certainly. My apologies, Your Honor," feigned Darrow, glancing toward the plaintiff's table where two widows sat in somber regard. Though his wheat-blonde hair and sharp, pale eyes defied his age of forty-nine, his reputation for cunning brilliance and oratory sorcery mitigated the power of his youthful appearance: it was no longer the disarming weapon it had once been. No attorney in the United States would ever presume nascence upon Clarence Darrow. Certainly not in this, his twenty-sixth trial. He continued at the witness. "Though as just a mere man, one among all …" He turned to the jury. "The emotion of this event strains even the most resolute of procedural decorum. I am, as are we all, hard-pressed to-"
"Whole strides, shall we, Mr. Darrow?" grumbled the judge.
"Yes," Darrow said, turning once again to James Bullock who seemed locked in the block ice of tragedy, having not moved a fraction since first taking the witness seat. "Mr. Bullock, we must rally ourselves, muster our strength, and for the memory of your brothers, share with these jurymen the events of that dark day. You said the ride up from the stope, the mine floor, was a swift one, and there were the sixteen of you in the cage made to hold no more than nine-is that correct?"
"Yes, Sir," Bullock replied, his voice a faint warble.
"Please continue," Darrow urged.
Bullock looked up. "We kept going, right along, but it kept slipping. We'd go a ways and slip again."
"Slipping? It was dropping?"
"Yes, Sir. Dropping down sudden like, then stopping. Cappy was yelling at us to get to the center, but there was no room. We was in tight."
"By Cappy you mean Mr. Capone, the foreman?"
"Yes, Sir. Our shift boss that day." The witness sucked his bottom lip. "He was in the cage 'long with us." He sniffed in a breath then added, "And his boy, Tony. Friend of mine. No better fella."
"My condolences," said Darrow. "What do you think was the aid in getting the men to the middle of the cage?"
"Keep it centered in the shaft, I reckon. We was all yelling." Bullock took a slow breath before continuing, "Cappy was trying to keep the men quiet, but it wasn't making much a difference. Had his arms around Tony."
A muscle in Darrow's cheek shuddered. "Please continue."
"So we was slipping, going up. Then the operator, he took us up about six feet above the collar of the shaft, then back down again."
"Which is not the usual-"
"Not rightly. No, Sir. We should've stopped at the collar and no more. But later they said the brakes failed on the control wheel."
"Mr. Bullock, let's return to what you experienced. You were near the top of the shaft, the vertical shaft that we've established was 1,631 feet deep, containing, at that time, about twenty feet of water in its base, below the lowest stope, correct?"
"Yes, Sir. Before they pumped that water to get to em."
"By ‘them' you mean the bodies of your dead companions?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Ok, you were being hoisted at over 900 feet per minute by an operator working alone on the surface—near the top of the shaft, when the platform began to slip and jump. Is that your testimony?"
"Yes, Sir."
"That must have been terrifying."
"Yes, Sir, it was. We'd come off a tenner too."
"A ten-hour shift?"
"Yes, Sir."
Darrow rounded on the jury, throwing the next question over his shoulder. "Oh, but Sir, how could it have been a ten-hour work day when the eight-hour day is now the law of this state?"
The defense lawyer's chair squeaked as he stood. "Objection, Your Honor."
"I'll allow it," barked the judge, adding, "But gentlemen ..."
The witness shook his head. "The Stratton is a non-union, gold ore mine. Supposed to be non-union anyway. Superintendent said owners weren't obliged to that socialist law."
"Hearsay, Your-"
"Keep your seat, Counsel. You're going to wear this jury thin."
Darrow stepped closer to the witness. "Mr. Bullock, as I said, let's steer clear from what you heard others say. The facts speak for themselves: you and your friends were compelled to work an illegal ten-hour shift. Let's continue. You were near the top, but unable to get off the contraption, and it began to-"
"Yes. We'd gone shooting up, then he stopped it for a second."
"By ‘he,' you mean the lift operator?"
"Yes, Sir. He stopped it but then it must have gotten beyond his control, cause we dropped sixty, seventy feet all the sudden. We were going quick. We said to each other we're all gone. Then he raised us about ten feet and stopped us. But then, it started again, and this time it was going fast up and we went into the sheave wheel as fast as we could go."
"To be sure we all follow, Mr. Bullock, the lift is the sole apparatus that hoisted you from the Stratton Mine, where you work?"
"Yes, Sir."
"And the sheave wheel is the giant wheel above the surface, driven by a large, thirty-year-old steam engine, run by an operator. That sheave wheel coils in the cable" he pantomimed the motion—"pulling up the 1,500-pound-load platform, or lift, carrying its limit of nine men. And it coils out the cable when the lift is lowered. But that day the lift carried sixteen men-you and fifteen others. Probably over 3,000 pounds. Twice its load limit. Correct?"
"Yes, Sir. But, to be clear, I ain't at the Stratton no more."
"No?" asked Darrow, pleased the man had bit the lure. "No. Seeing how I was one of Cappy's men. Federation. And, now 'cause this." His voice faded.
Darrow frowned, walked a few paces toward the jury, clapped once and rubbed his hands together. "The mine owners, a thousand miles away, won't let you work because you're here-a member of the Western Federation of Miners, a union man giving his honest testimony. Is that right?"
"Yes, Sir."
Again, the defense counsel came to his feet. "Your Honor, Mr. Darrow knows Mr. Bullock's discharge wasn't—"
The judge raised a hand, took a deep breath and cocked his head toward the seasoned attorney before him. "Swift to your point, Mr. Darrow."
"Yes, Your Honor." Darrow's blue eyes returned to the witness. "Mr. Bullock, you were telling us about the sheave wheel."
"Yes. It's a big thing up there, out over the top of the shaft. You see it on your way up. We all think on it—if we was to not stop and slam right up into it—which we did that day. We all knew it'd happen. I crouched to save myself from the hard blow I knew was coming. I seen a piece of timber about one foot wide there underside the sheave, and soon as we rammed, I grabbed hold and held myself up there, and pretty soon the cage dropped from below me, and I began to holler for a ladder to get down."
"Must have been distressing, up there, holding fast to a timber, dangling 1,631 feet over an open shaft, watching your fifteen brothers fall."
Bullock choked back tears. "Yes, Sir. That's what I saw." He paused. When he resumed, his tone was empty, as if the voice of his shadow. "I heard em. Heard em go. They was screaming. They knew their end had come. I heard em till I heard em no more."
--- Excerpt from American Red by David Marlett. Copyright 2019 by David Marlett. Reproduced with permission from The Story Plant. All rights reserved.
"Your Honor! Point in question," barked the flint-faced defense attorney representing the Stratton Independence Mine, a non-union gold operation near Cripple Creek, Colorado. On this warm summer afternoon in Denver, he and Darrow were the best dressed there, each wearing a three-button, vested suit over a white shirt and dull tie.
The robed judge gave a long blink, then peered at Darrow. With a chin waggle, his ruling on the objection was clear.
"Yes, certainly. My apologies, Your Honor," feigned Darrow, glancing toward the plaintiff's table where two widows sat in somber regard. Though his wheat-blonde hair and sharp, pale eyes defied his age of forty-nine, his reputation for cunning brilliance and oratory sorcery mitigated the power of his youthful appearance: it was no longer the disarming weapon it had once been. No attorney in the United States would ever presume nascence upon Clarence Darrow. Certainly not in this, his twenty-sixth trial. He continued at the witness. "Though as just a mere man, one among all …" He turned to the jury. "The emotion of this event strains even the most resolute of procedural decorum. I am, as are we all, hard-pressed to-"
"Whole strides, shall we, Mr. Darrow?" grumbled the judge.
"Yes," Darrow said, turning once again to James Bullock who seemed locked in the block ice of tragedy, having not moved a fraction since first taking the witness seat. "Mr. Bullock, we must rally ourselves, muster our strength, and for the memory of your brothers, share with these jurymen the events of that dark day. You said the ride up from the stope, the mine floor, was a swift one, and there were the sixteen of you in the cage made to hold no more than nine-is that correct?"
"Yes, Sir," Bullock replied, his voice a faint warble.
"Please continue," Darrow urged.
Bullock looked up. "We kept going, right along, but it kept slipping. We'd go a ways and slip again."
"Slipping? It was dropping?"
"Yes, Sir. Dropping down sudden like, then stopping. Cappy was yelling at us to get to the center, but there was no room. We was in tight."
"By Cappy you mean Mr. Capone, the foreman?"
"Yes, Sir. Our shift boss that day." The witness sucked his bottom lip. "He was in the cage 'long with us." He sniffed in a breath then added, "And his boy, Tony. Friend of mine. No better fella."
"My condolences," said Darrow. "What do you think was the aid in getting the men to the middle of the cage?"
"Keep it centered in the shaft, I reckon. We was all yelling." Bullock took a slow breath before continuing, "Cappy was trying to keep the men quiet, but it wasn't making much a difference. Had his arms around Tony."
A muscle in Darrow's cheek shuddered. "Please continue."
"So we was slipping, going up. Then the operator, he took us up about six feet above the collar of the shaft, then back down again."
"Which is not the usual-"
"Not rightly. No, Sir. We should've stopped at the collar and no more. But later they said the brakes failed on the control wheel."
"Mr. Bullock, let's return to what you experienced. You were near the top of the shaft, the vertical shaft that we've established was 1,631 feet deep, containing, at that time, about twenty feet of water in its base, below the lowest stope, correct?"
"Yes, Sir. Before they pumped that water to get to em."
"By ‘them' you mean the bodies of your dead companions?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Ok, you were being hoisted at over 900 feet per minute by an operator working alone on the surface—near the top of the shaft, when the platform began to slip and jump. Is that your testimony?"
"Yes, Sir."
"That must have been terrifying."
"Yes, Sir, it was. We'd come off a tenner too."
"A ten-hour shift?"
"Yes, Sir."
Darrow rounded on the jury, throwing the next question over his shoulder. "Oh, but Sir, how could it have been a ten-hour work day when the eight-hour day is now the law of this state?"
The defense lawyer's chair squeaked as he stood. "Objection, Your Honor."
"I'll allow it," barked the judge, adding, "But gentlemen ..."
The witness shook his head. "The Stratton is a non-union, gold ore mine. Supposed to be non-union anyway. Superintendent said owners weren't obliged to that socialist law."
"Hearsay, Your-"
"Keep your seat, Counsel. You're going to wear this jury thin."
Darrow stepped closer to the witness. "Mr. Bullock, as I said, let's steer clear from what you heard others say. The facts speak for themselves: you and your friends were compelled to work an illegal ten-hour shift. Let's continue. You were near the top, but unable to get off the contraption, and it began to-"
"Yes. We'd gone shooting up, then he stopped it for a second."
"By ‘he,' you mean the lift operator?"
"Yes, Sir. He stopped it but then it must have gotten beyond his control, cause we dropped sixty, seventy feet all the sudden. We were going quick. We said to each other we're all gone. Then he raised us about ten feet and stopped us. But then, it started again, and this time it was going fast up and we went into the sheave wheel as fast as we could go."
"To be sure we all follow, Mr. Bullock, the lift is the sole apparatus that hoisted you from the Stratton Mine, where you work?"
"Yes, Sir."
"And the sheave wheel is the giant wheel above the surface, driven by a large, thirty-year-old steam engine, run by an operator. That sheave wheel coils in the cable" he pantomimed the motion—"pulling up the 1,500-pound-load platform, or lift, carrying its limit of nine men. And it coils out the cable when the lift is lowered. But that day the lift carried sixteen men-you and fifteen others. Probably over 3,000 pounds. Twice its load limit. Correct?"
"Yes, Sir. But, to be clear, I ain't at the Stratton no more."
"No?" asked Darrow, pleased the man had bit the lure. "No. Seeing how I was one of Cappy's men. Federation. And, now 'cause this." His voice faded.
Darrow frowned, walked a few paces toward the jury, clapped once and rubbed his hands together. "The mine owners, a thousand miles away, won't let you work because you're here-a member of the Western Federation of Miners, a union man giving his honest testimony. Is that right?"
"Yes, Sir."
Again, the defense counsel came to his feet. "Your Honor, Mr. Darrow knows Mr. Bullock's discharge wasn't—"
The judge raised a hand, took a deep breath and cocked his head toward the seasoned attorney before him. "Swift to your point, Mr. Darrow."
"Yes, Your Honor." Darrow's blue eyes returned to the witness. "Mr. Bullock, you were telling us about the sheave wheel."
"Yes. It's a big thing up there, out over the top of the shaft. You see it on your way up. We all think on it—if we was to not stop and slam right up into it—which we did that day. We all knew it'd happen. I crouched to save myself from the hard blow I knew was coming. I seen a piece of timber about one foot wide there underside the sheave, and soon as we rammed, I grabbed hold and held myself up there, and pretty soon the cage dropped from below me, and I began to holler for a ladder to get down."
"Must have been distressing, up there, holding fast to a timber, dangling 1,631 feet over an open shaft, watching your fifteen brothers fall."
Bullock choked back tears. "Yes, Sir. That's what I saw." He paused. When he resumed, his tone was empty, as if the voice of his shadow. "I heard em. Heard em go. They was screaming. They knew their end had come. I heard em till I heard em no more."
--- Excerpt from American Red by David Marlett. Copyright 2019 by David Marlett. Reproduced with permission from The Story Plant. All rights reserved.
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