In the interest of full disclosure, it should be noted that I love The Wire.  I love it.  It is certainly the greatest drama ever to appear on television (sorry The Sopranos but you were torn in too many directions by the end, many away from the Sopranos), probably the greatest TV show ever (sorry Mystery Science Theatre 3000 but I needed the name of another incredible show after blowing my Sopranos load on the previous parenthetical), and will stand forever as the most realistic portrayal of the decay of the back alleys that are Urban America at the dawn of the century (sorry Sesame Street).

It didn’t win the Academy Award for Best Show Ever Made for three reasons: (1) It was slow developing and required the audience’s full attention, (2) The accuracy of the inner-city slang was so spot on that subtitles only further confuse an already pigmentation-ally challenged HBO audience, and (3) The majority of the cast was black.  While the last statement was a loaded one, hopefully we will be able to get into discussions of The Wire during the offseason.  For now, let’s talk about the show’s creator: David Simon.

I’m not going to go into a biography of the man and his history as a Baltimore Sun reporter because Wikipedia is only a click away.  Literally this click.  The current Sun crime reporter spent a week abroad on a reporter swap with The Independent (a national newspaper in the United Kingdom).  Simon, on the other, much more manly hand, put on his big boy pocket protector and decided to spend a year following the homicide detectives from the Baltimore City Police Department.  (Author’s Note: As Alex just informed me, the aforementioned exchange was initiated on the other side of the pond, coincidentally because the British want to know if Baltimore is really like the way it’s depicted in The Wire.  I told you, it’s the greatest television show ever.)

The result of his 365 days of continuous journalism is Homicide, one of the more fascinating books I have ever read.  I have mentioned before that I am a big fan of documentaries; Simon’s writing style is the closest one could possibly get in literary form.  Compositionally, the book is divided up into chapters that are further partitioned by dates.  While much of the text is an account of what happens, Simon intersperses what amounts to research supported diatribes that describe what the characters are going through on a grander scale.

I use the term characters because that is how the book reads.  Unless you knew the story behind the book, you would have no idea you weren’t reading a work of fiction until you reached the Author’s Note close to six hundred pages later.  Simon, and by extension the reader, are privileged to be flies on the wall (be it of the office, the interrogation room, the cruiser, the crime scene, etc.) with a level of access that could only have been available in a time before spin control and contracted PR firms (the year in question was 1988), as the result comes across as anything but police department propaganda.

As a quick example of what I am talking about, there is a passage where two larger detectives are leaving a crime scene where a Jane Doe was run over repeatedly by a car with no witnesses.  You quickly come to find out that in the world of murder police there are two types of cases: dunkers, those with a clear suspect, a confession, multiple reliable witnesses, etc., and whodunits, those crimes that are going to rely on good police work which, even if done impeccably, result in a less than 50% prosecution rate nationally.  This case was from the latter category.

Having just exchanged cigars and lighters as a peace offering, and gained the unspoken understanding that they were in for a tough solve, the two begin their trip back to the station:

They are both large men, both squeezed beyond all dignity into the cramped interior of a two-door economy sedan.  They are flush under pressure in that car, a vision of cluttered humanity that somehow increases the comedic possibilities.

“They say it takes a big man to carry a pink lighter,” says Brown. “A big man or a man familiar with alternative lifestyles.”

“You know why I need the bigger size, “ says Worden, lighting a cigar.

“Because you can’t get them fat stubby fingers around one of the little ones.”

“That’s right,” says Worden.

…

“Thanks for the cigars,” he (Worden) says after a block or two.

“You’re welcome.”

“And the lighter.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m still not helping you with this one.”

“I know, Donald.”

“And your driving still sucks.”

“Yes, Donald.”

“And you’re still a piece of shit.”

“Thank you, Donald”

I WANT THAT! That camaraderie that comes through from the pages, that pungent aroma of frustration that wafts forth as you thumb through the various trials and tribulations of the BPD; it’s all so real.  The grittiness in this book will have you fishing pieces of departmental politics out of your teeth for weeks.

For some reason what comes across to others as an unenviable Gordian Knot reads to me like a hell of a cause to devote ones life to.  Maybe it’s the same honor in the fight mentality that drew me to be a social worker in the inner city.  Simon balances the equation very simply: the book is full of the frustration and inequity that serve as the invisible hand for the entire department, but the detectives are the best at what they do.  No one else could make an arrest out of some nameless dead yo in an alley; it’s not clear that anyone else would want to.  These men suit up every day because it is the good fight and they are the only shield Baltimore’s got.

As I mentioned before, these vignettes read like a novel (note how we aren’t aware of Simon’s presence at all) and are satisfying in their own right.  The real intellectual payoff however, comes from the author’s researched observations that give the lives of his characters the perspective they deserve.

The tone of these asides come across as casual, but they hit on topics whose relevancy only seems to increase with time.  For example, in a section describing the judicial process, Simon talks about the unreasonable expectations held by Baltimore juries based upon their experience watching legal shows on television.  After describing the jury’s search for motive despite motive not being a determining factor at all when deciding if someone has committed a crime, and their horror if the prosecution can’t produce fingerprints matching the suspect despite fingerprints being recovered in less than 10% of criminal cases, Simon discusses murder weapons:

A good defense attorney can blow ten minutes of smoke by glaring at a detective who tries to explain that weapons have a nasty habit of leaving the crime scene before police arrive.

You mean you never recovered the murder weapon?  This jury is supposed to convict my client without a murder weapon?  What do you mean, it could be anywhere?  Are you trying to tell us that after committing an act of murder, the defendant might have actually run away?  And taken the gun with him?  And then hidden it?  Or thrown it from the Curtis Bay Bridge?

On Columbo, the gun is always in the liquor cabinet behind the vermouth.  But you didn’t check behind the defendant’s vermouth, did you, detective? No, you don’t have the murder weapon.  Your honor, I move that we unshackle this poor innocent waif and send him back to his loving family.

These passages aren’t pieces of journalism like the ride-alongs with the detectives. They are unfiltered, though occasionally comical, takes on the various elements working to the decay of our city, as well as inner cities across the country.  Publishing this book in 1991, David Simon could have had no idea how much worse a situation like the one he detailed could become. 

Now we have so many Law and Order type shows that implant into the minds of the citizenry (who happen to also be the only pool from which to pick jurors) that a case is not solid unless the accused breaks down and confesses on the stand in a fit of grief or rage while their state provided attorney slowly shakes his head in the background and we zoom in on the Emmy-nominated closer who for some reason irks people enough that they are willing to spend twenty-five to life in prison as opposed to another episode in the interrogation room with her southern charm.  I just looked back over that chunk for capital letters and found none.  Can you believe I wrote a seven-line sentence and, even more amazing, that Microsoft Word doesn’t have a green squiggly line running underneath that leads to a pull-down menu simply saying “WTF”?

Speaking of the interrogation room, I have one more passage I want to quote from.  I understand that if you weren’t going to read the book before, adding a few hundred more words onto this review isn’t going to help, but I know some of you are interested so I want to keep your appetite whetted.  Simon does an incredible job of discussing the purpose and methodology of an interrogation in the real world, but offers a little bit of harsher sarcasm when trying to understand why, despite the way he detailed the desperation-born ingenuity utilized by detectives, suspect don’t just keep their mouths shut:

The detective offers a cigarette, not your brand, and begins an uninterrupted monologue that wanders back and forth for a half hour more, eventually coming to rest in a familiar place: “You have the absolute right to remain silent.”

Of course you do.  You’re a criminal.  Criminals always have the right to remain silent.  At least once in your miserable life you spent an hour in front of a television set, listening to this book-‘em-Danno routine. You think Joe Friday was lying to you?  You think Kojak was making horseshit up?  No way, bunk, we’re talking sacred freedoms here, notably your Fifth F***ing Amendment protection against self-incrimination, and hey, it was good enough for Ollie North, so who are you to go incriminating yourself at the first opportunity?  Get it straight: A police detective, a man who gets paid government money to put you in prison, is explaining your absolute right to shut up before you say something stupid.

“Anything you say or write may be used against you in a court of law.”

Yo, bunky, wake the f*** up.  You’re now being told that talking to a police detective in an interrogation room can only hurt you.  If it could help you, they would probably be pretty quick to say that, wouldn’t they?  They’d stand up and say you have the right not to worry because what you say or write in this god forsaken cubicle is gonna be used to your benefit in a court of law. No, your best bet is to shut up. Shut up now.

If you’ve made it this far into my perspective, you’re either interested or you’re my mother (Author’s Note: Hi Mom!), so let me take a moment to hit you with some real talk. This book is not by Dan Brown; it doesn’t pick up going 85 and keep hitting the gas while running point on a convoy of 5-0.  This isn’t an episode of SVU; police officers don’t draw their guns in real life, if they do something went terribly wrong.   Like any good documentary, Homicide rewards patience and open-mindedness with something much more meaningful than explosions and 360 degree pans (Author’s Note: Not that there’s anything wrong with that, Bad Boys II ranks slightly above Citizen Kane in my top movie list).

Also, and here’s the kicker, I believe that I got even more out of my experience because I have seen The Wire before (see how I bring it full circle?).  Not only are some of the plot points similar, but you spend the first half of the book figuring out which characters inspired which and basking in the familiarity of a great drama canceled too soon (anyone who got excited at the quotation that used the term “bunky”, this book is for you).  It’s not that Homicide doesn’t work as a standalone piece; I just think it helped make it one of the better books I’ve read over the past few years.

As I said at the opening, there will be opportunities to talk about The Wire next year after football is over, but for now check it out.  Give it at least four episodes, it’s only four scattered hours of your life and you owe it to yourself, especially if it means four less episodes of Grey’s Anatomy.  If you’ve already seen it, or if you just happen to be a “book person”, pick up Homicide.  I guarantee it will stimulate your bro-ner for all things David Simon enough to provide adequate overnight shelter for an entire Boy Scout troupe (Author’s Warning: It’ll last way longer than four hours).