Lawyer Lit

I’m willing to bet a not insubstantial sum (or would if I had it) that the vast majority of the reading public not only not make a distinction between literary and genre fiction, but couldn’t care less that some people do.

Mostly the people who make such distinctions are critics, academics, writers, agents, and editors—in other words “insiders” or “industry” people—and I hear them do it all the time.

In general—and these are gross generalizations— they say genre fiction is more about plot and entertainment, literary about character and the writing itself. Genre fiction is more mass market driven, popular, transient; literary fiction, more serious, sophisticated, elite, enduring.

But these are false distinctions.

To say that all genre books are poorly written or that all literary books are well written is akin to racism—a dangerous prejudice. Lazy. Easy. Thoughtless. Careless. Ignorant.

Certain genre fiction is as literary as anything being written and published. What matters most is if a book is well written, if it’s worth the investment of our precious reading moments, not where it is shelved.

Graham Greene, a great novelist and one of my mentors, made the distinction in his own work between what he called “entertainments” and his more serious novels, but both were well written.

In my own work, I attempt to develop character and use language in ways that are considered literary, but plot for suspense and to entertain in such a way so that readers rapidly turn pages and stay up late reading the way they do genre books.

Scott Turow does the same thing.

Over two decades ago, Turow virtually invented an entirely new subgenre of crime fiction—the legal thriller. Sure, there had been other novels about the law and lawyers before his, but none that so reveled in the practices and procedures of our culture’s most reviled profession. And no one had ever written about it quite so eloquently—or with such mystery and suspense.

The novel was “Presumed Innocent,” and though many legal thrillers by Grisham and company have followed, none—including Turow’s other efforts—have ever equaled it.

Now, Turow is back with “Innocent,” the sequel to that genre-defining, landmark bestseller that inspired the hit movie starring Harrison Ford, and it continues the story of Rusty Sabich and Tommy Molto.

More than twenty years after Rusty and Tommy went head-to-head in the shattering murder trial of “Presumed Innocent,” the men are pitted against each other once again in a riveting psychological match. When Sabich, now over sixty years old and the chief judge of an appellate court, finds his wife, Barbara, dead under mysterious circumstances, Molto accuses him of murder for the second time, setting into motion a trial that is vintage Turow—the courtroom at its most taut and explosive.

Implicit in “Innocent” is the question: Are people capable of true change? I know we like to think so. I honestly think I’m growing and evolving, but maybe this, like so much, is merely an illusion. I believe change is possible, but know how very difficult it is to achieve. In the two decades since we’ve seen him, Rusty has changed very little. Maybe I’m not nearly as different from my twenty-year-ago self as I think I am. Maybe I’m not meant to be. I do believe that the most valid, worthy, and possible change is that which brings us back to our original selves, to our essential core—which might be far less about change and far more about restoration. Removing the layers of dust and rust, of karmic particles, until we can once again see the face we had before we were born.

Interestingly, the person who had changed the most from “Presumed Innocent” to “Innocent” is not the protagonist but the antagonist. Throughout the book Tommy Molto marvels at the ways in which he has changed. And it’s true. He has. And yet, he gets pulled right back into the situations and scenarios that mirror those of twenty years ago. Not only is change not easy. It’s not permanent. Like an addict working a twelve steps program, we have to walk the walk of our change, realizing it’s a process, a journey, not predetermined, not a destination.

With his characteristic insight into both the dark truths of the human psyche and the dense intricacies of the criminal justice system, Scott Turow proves once again he knows how to write a book that compels us to read late into the night, desperate to know who dunnit. But he does this with graceful good writing, with a style that has substance.

A worthy follow-up to “Presumed Innocent,” “Innocent” is a well written character study, an exploration of a family and its secrets, a marriage and its mysteries, a look at how little has changed in the lives of the characters we found so compelling two decades ago.

Unlike most attorneys turned novelists, Turow excels as a writer first—worth reading even without the mystery, the suspenseful plotting, the intricacies of the law, the inside view and insight into the criminal justice system his books offer.

Is “Innocent” literary fiction or a genre book? Ultimately, it doesn’t matter—and the fact that it is a hybrid, part literary novel, part mystery/thriller, proves just how much. The best books are both. The most enduring books are well written, with multi-faceted characters, and a compelling story with plenty of drama and conflict. “Innocent” is just such a book.