The mine whistles were tooting midnight as I drove down Main Street hill. It was a warm moonlit Sunday night in mid-August and I was arriving home from a long weekend of trout fishing in the Oxbow Lake district with my old hermit friend Danny McGinnis, who lives there all year round. I swung over on Hematite Street to look at my mother’s house- the same guant white frame house on the corner where I was born. As my car turned the corner the headlights swept the rows of tall drooping elms planted by my father when he was a young man-much younger than i-and gleamed bluely on the darkened windows. My mother Belle was still away visiting my married sister and she had enjoined me to keep an eye on the place. Well, I had looked and lo! Like the flag, the old house was still there.
I swung around downtown and slowed down to miss a solitary drunk emerging blindly from the Tripoli Bar and out upon the street, in a sort of gangling somnambulistic trot, pursued on his way by the hollow roar of a juke box from the garishly lit and empty bar. “Sunstroke,” I murmured absently. “Simply a crazed victim of the midnight sun.” as I parked my mud-spattered coupe alongside the Miners’ State bank, across from my office over the dime store, I reflected that there were few more forlorn and lonely sounds in the world than the midnight wait of a juke box in a deserted small town, those raucous proclamations of joy and fun where, instead, there dwelt only fatigue and hangover and boredom. To me the wavering hoot of an owl sounds utterly gay by comparison.
I unlocked the car trunk and took out my packsack and two aluminum-cased fly rods and a handbag and rested them on the curb. I shouldered the packsack and grabbed up the other stuff and started across the echoing empty street.
“How was fishing, Polly?” someone said, emerging from the darkened alley alongside the dime store. It was old Jack Tregembo, tall and lean and weather-beaten as a beardless Uncle Sam. Jack had been a night cop on the Chippewa police force as long as I could remember.
“Fine, fine, Jack,” I said, rubbing my unshaven neck. “I ate so many trout the past few days I suspect I’m developing gill slits.”
“S’pose you heard about the big murder?” Jack said, moving closer, plainly hoping that I hadn’t. “We even made the city papers.”
“No, Jack,” I said, pricking up my ears. “Just got in- as you see. No newspapers, radios or phones, thank God, up in the big Oxbow bush. Talkative Old Danny could never stand the competition. Trust you caught the villain and got him all hogtied, purged, and confessed for Mitch.”
ANATOMY OF A MURDER. Copyright 1958 by Robert Traver
A gripping tale of deceit, murder and a sensational trial, Anatomy of a Murder by Robert Traver is widely considered a classic, and for good reason. First published in 1958 and eventually adapted into the acclaimed Otto Preminger film, this tale about a small-town lawyer who takes on the case of an army officer charged with murder remains unmatched in the authenticity of its settings, events and characters, and in the way it brings to vivid life the machinations and methods used by both the prosecutor and the defense.
Now featuring a new introduction by the author, this special anniversary edition is a delight—a rare opportunity to read the bestselling classic and rediscover why it set the standard for all courtroom dramas to come.
Hardcover : pages
Publisher: St. Martins Press, LLC ( July 30, 2011 )
Item #: 13-383956
ISBN: 9781611296891
Product Dimensions: 5.5 x 8.25 x 1.12inches
Product Weight: 17.0 ounces (View shipping rates and policies)

This is a true novel, extremely well written with full development of the main characters. I recommend it for people who enjoy lengthier descriptions and really good writing. There is plenty of wit and the courtroom scenes really grab one's attention--so enjoyable. However, the action is slow. It is a psychological thriller of an earlier generation without guts and gore. A sophisticated read. A classic.
Reviewer: Sara
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