Novels by S.M. Starkey

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Author's Notes and more...



Author's Note:

Sometimes, when you look closely, you can see the falcon in the snow. Wings cupped for the strike and talons braced for the kill. The scream is a warning to freeze the prey that echoes through the valleys and beyond.  In 1963, my husband discovered the remnants of a town above Williams Creek Lake near Pagosa Springs, Colorado.  There, he saw a huge brass bell on the floor of an old structure.  It was inscribed, '1864’.  After researching, I learned that the bells were from Salt Lake City, and sent out with each expedition to settle a new area. 

If you ever have occasion to walk the Rocky Mountains along the Great Divide, stop and listen - You, too, may find yourself, Beyond The Falcon.




Knowledge is power only in the segments of society that are in command.  For the average citizen, today, knowledge is about survival.  Educated citizenries can enrich societies and stabilize governments, or breed their destruction if selectively limited.  For without the recognition and preservation of liberty through the reasonable exercise of it, we become the mass progeny of the latter stated above.  A deluge of ignorance and apathy will extinguish the flames of freedom and justice for all.  Save our souls, this shall be the greatest sacrifice ever made by mankind.  The audacity of hope should be the catalyst to preserve freedom - not a veiled excuse to eradicate it.  As Thomas Jefferson wrote -


Honesty is the first chapter in the book of wisdom.


I have been immersed in three intensely paranoid worlds – global manufacturing, politics, and law.  However, I choose to believe that good can come out of those worlds, at times, in spite of being steeped in greed or drowning in a deluge of corruption.  Sometimes, heroes emerge to champion for the weak, vulnerable or ignorant.  I look for those opportunities when developing a plot.


OPERATION: CLOUDED JUDGMENT is rooted in that philosophy.  Set in what some would call modern times, the experiences for this author actually began in 1987 and continue to this day.  The novel, itself, initially outlined in 1990, came to final rendition in late 2011.  It remains timely with themes and events appearing commonplace in the headlines of the day. 






Colonel Gene Vaughn was a retired military intelligence officer who had managed the security system for a major global manufacturing interest for over twenty years, but everything he had sworn to protect was betraying him.  Everyone knows that B&E would engage stealth units to exact advantage by targeting employees as incentive to remain loyal.  When initiated to target Vaughn, his loyalty focused exclusively on his country.


The company system began to unravel when Rita Wesley’s small engineering database at a B&E facility exposed global shadow fixed asset distribution, and the D.O.J. pursued tax fraud.  Vaughn's team revealed the corrupt network of players and uncovered diverted funding for international covert activities using tax incentive collections.  They discovered links alleging White House involvement designed to bring a lame duck president to ruin, assassination, or both, respectively.  While incinerating resources, General Vandenberg attempts to divert Vaughn and his team while focusing on the agenda and targeting a sitting President.


Vaughn knew that obscene injections of invisible money were flowing through the veins of this monster, but even he did not yet fully understand the magnitude of the insanity.  All he truly knew was that someone had manipulated his team for surveillance to gain favor and tactical position, and they had Rita.  They thought the latter would limit him.


They were dead wrong.

  Disclaimer:  This book is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This novel contains material that is not suited for children.

 Rated: R  (LVNS)




He had been a national political contender, but his performance in this campaign was off.  It wasn't like last time. Something was lurking, and it showed.   It was deep, far-reaching, and lured the kind of cumulative targeting that evoked cutthroat tactics.  It was all about to unravel, and he knew it.

When he opened the back passenger door of his friend's minivan and stepped out onto the curb of the west LA street, he looked back to survey the area like a man being chased.  The crisp, salt-laced, evening summer air was not foreign to him, though of the West Coast, he was an Eastern Seaboard lifer with salt in his veins.   The humidity was natural for him, but his anxiety was not.   He reached up to jam the bead of sweat trickling toward his ear as the minivan sped off into the traffic then he quickly made way to the side entrance of the majestic hotel.  Still watching all around him for any obvious pursuits, he got on the elevator and punched the button for the sixth floor.  Watching the numbers light as he passed each floor on ascent, his focus became the seam of the steel doors when the muffled bell announced his arrival. 

The room locations were noted by the signs on the adjacent wall, glaringly visible as he stepped in the hallway.  He scanned them.  Room 652.  The arrow pointed to the right.  His gait was intense as he walked the length of the corridor, reaching the door of the room just as it opened.  The two of them stood there for a moment and just looked at each other.  It seemed like an eternity since they had been together, and even longer before she spoke.

"What is it?"

"They know.  We need to talk."

She just stood there.  No change in her expression or emotions, at all, and duly noted.  It was not at all what he expected.  She pulled the door open.  He balked, just for a moment then stepped into the suite.  He had this gut feeling that this was another mistake, but he needed to know what she was going to do, and they needed to coordinate their stories.

Just a few steps in, the door closed behind him.  When it clicked, the world stopped.  He was breathless, frozen in place, and staring at the infant sleeping on the bed just an arm's length away.  His whole body exhaled.  It was as if his soul escaped a desperate grip, just for a moment, to catch a breath of reality and salvation.  His faith was drowning, to be sure, in the lies, sins, and fears. 

Tears welled in his eyes as his entire being grappled with the surge of emotions.  There she was.  As peaceful as an angel, she was the one life that was proof of everything he had done wrong in his immediate past, a conclusive representation of his own vulnerability, and the very reason it all had to be made right.  He thought - being honest, coming clean, and repenting.  Until that moment, he had no idea how ugly it really was.

Disclaimer:  This book is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This novel contains material that is not suited for children.  Rated: R  (LVNS)



Author's Note:

A governor once named an area of Texas "Little Mafia".  With a toxic reach that permeates state politics in a seductive play for the offices of governor and beyond, some lose their way, others vanish, and some experience epiphany just short of salvation.  Consumed by the addictive desire for power, they cheat for victory and envy among their peers.  Knowing, full well, the last reward is their own final judgment as the pinnacle of individual conviction – good or evil - they walk golden paths or through the fires of hell without regret or remorse, respectively.  We call them politicians – representatives of

we, the people.


In memory of a former, five-term Texas State Representative, in salute of our thirty-two years of friendship before his passing and owed inestimable gratitude for the earthly restoration of my civility and spirit that allowed my soul the opportunity to survive, I penned a novel –




He was an ethical litigator practicing law within a world of partisan interpretation, manipulated justice, and terminal immorality.  He was an exemplary mentor, exceptional storyteller, and he always wanted to write this novel.


The title for it was part of the whispered indiscretions shared that he told to this author of a tangled web following the murder of a beautiful, young, Deputy District Clerk in a northern county of Texas, decades ago.  The truth may never come to judgment, he would say, and there are those still breathing who know what happened or participated in executing it.  Maybe someday, he said with a sigh, "…someone will exhume the truth."


I never knew if it was – the truth – but, it made a great tale, indeed, and he never lied to me.  Not once.


This version filled with my own ideals and characters is simply an experimental, purely fictional interpretation of that disturbing tale of dangerous secrets, shocking scandal, vicious murder, engulfing corruption, and unavoidable conspiracy that I heard many years ago in the seclusion of a tiny country law office in North Texas.  I think he would be pleased with my fictional rendition of his tale.  This I know - if it is true, somebody knows.


If I had to guess - The shadow knows.


THE PATSIES explodes into a fast-paced series of events that reveal a riveting tale of stealth corruption, murder and the misguided exploits of those who have chosen to rule a tiny, secluded community by any means necessary.  They still do.


Knowing who, what, where, when and how as I do, a question lingers:

A beautiful young deputy district clerk was found dead in her apartment - strangled.  It was allegedly the result of a burglary with no suspects, but her powerful father believed it to be murder for hire and vowed to find the truth.  A killer walked among them. 

Who would be next?



Deanna Cruz was a gorgeous young woman.  She could have any man she wanted, and several had let her.  She was tall, bronze-skinned, with raven hair and peridot green eyes.  A real looker, some of the attorneys around town had said.  That did not happen in their sleepy little county seat in North Texas.  They do not hire pretty girls - Too much temptation and too many prying eyes.  This one was the daughter of the most generous ruling Party political contributor in the county, and the number one employer of the constituents.  When she came knocking, they had no choice.  Though they were all certain that she would break hearts, they never considered hers, or the explosive impact her life and demise would have on their quiet little brand of justice in this Norman Rockwell picturesque community.


Disclaimer:  This book is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This novel contains material that is not suited for children.  Rated: R  (LVNS)

THE PATSIES is now available for purchase on AMAZON and through Kindle Select, the Kindle Lending Library.         ____________________________________________________________________________

The Robicheaux Legacy:  A Two-Part Novella Series featuring Setting Precedent, a modern day thriller about a crime family and bigamy in Texas, and Pennies in a Box, a case involving animal hoarding that turns violent.

Now available on Amazon.  A kindle ebook.

All Rise!  will be available in 2015.

 Disclaimer:  These books are works of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, excepting those of historical origins, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental with the exception of the historical persons, places, events detailed.





            The last time someone kicked in the door and fired a couple of rounds into the ceiling was 1991.  That ended up being a woman from Texas that had quit her job in engineering at the offices across the street.  She had started drinking Jack Daniels straight out of a fifth about 2:30.   By eight o’clock, she was so excited that all of her friends had gathered at the old Déjà Vu Lounge to bid her farewell, I guess she thought she was Annie Oakley.  The owner didn’t press charges, but she still got a drunk and disorderly.

            I was sitting in the same booth, listening to the house band play that same Eagles song, and waiting for my turn to shoot pool.  Something just felt a little eerie.  I had forgotten about 1991. 

            A few minutes later, a woman kicked in the door and screamed, ‘You rotten son of a bitch!’, and I hit the deck.  She pulled down a 12-gauge pump she toted in on one shoulder and started blasting.  She got the son of a bitch, his mistress, the bartender and a retired cop before someone tackled her from behind.  The last round took out the jukebox as she went down.  I was a figurative deer in the headlights.

           I said, “That’s all I remember, Officer.”

          “Did you say retired cop?”


          “Yeah.  I think if you’ll check that guy,” and I pointed at him, “you’ll find that he was a cop.”


“Ok, thanks, ah,...”, he said as he poked his pencil at the notebook trying to find my name in the dark.


Walker.  Cat Walker.”


“Yes, well,” the officer looked up along the wavering line of grumbling witnesses then back, “we’ll call you if there are any other questions.”


         “Thanks,” I concluded, walked across the parking lot, got into my car, and drove home - to Texas.  It was six days and three fifths before I came back to reality. 


They sent the retired cop home.  Since he was my former partner, a licensed private investigator, and my sidekick on the aforementioned excursion, Internal Affairs is looking into the incident and other alleged exercises I may have committed outside procedural and policy limits.  I was no longer a deer in the headlights.  I was officially a bug under glass.


Ohio was not being very cooperative, but that had always been the modus operandi.  I, on the other hand, had not been very forthcoming, either.  I am currently, suspended without pay pending investigation.  My former partner got a pine box and a marinated eulogist.  Personally, I think he got a better deal, and frankly, all this memory review is giving me a headache.


That, the sound of the water hitting the tile floor, the realization of fading heat, and the pounding in my temples brought me back to near reality.  I raised my hands and stared at the raisin effect that had invaded my waterlogged skin.  There's no telling how long I had been leaning there.  If it was January, I would have had hypothermia, but it was August, and the subtle change in the water temperature did not make the stunning impact intended.  At any rate, I was thankful for August, even though it took raisin effect to get me semi-coherent.


I turned off the water and pushed open the shower door.  A hand jutted into the small cubical, extending a towel.  I was not expecting it, but I was not surprised.


“I brought you some nice clothes to wear this afternoon.  Get yourself dry and let me see if I can make you presentable.  I have to catch a plane to New York in two hours,” said the hand owner while walking back into the bedroom.  Poking her head back into the bathroom she pleaded, “Cat, please come on.  I have a week of electrical audits and nasty senior engineering staff to navigate.  I start depositions on this case next week.”


I rolled my eyes and slung the towel over my head then let it drape across my shoulders, stepping out of the shower stall.


“Why are you here, exactly?”  I asked, genuinely wondering what she was doing.  On a scale of one to ten, an inebriated short-term memory should rank somewhere above a zero and just below a three.  I figured I was about a one point five at that time.  I had at least remembered who she was, and in the last three steps, that she was there.


           “I wanted to get you set up for the funeral.”

 “Bullshit.  You wanted to see if I was face down in the toilet or had allegedly blown my brains out all over the balcony.”

 “Yes.  Either way, I figure I was going to have to get you ready for a funeral.”

  I smiled at that one.  She was absolutely right.  I was a target.  The smile faded as I remembered that minor detail.

 “Hey?  You got the coffee going?”  I hollered back over my shoulder.

 “Just plugged it in.  Have you heard anything from Internal Affairs?”

 I looked up into the mirror and stared into my own eyes, knowing that I probably had not heard the phone ring the last couple of days, which is no doubt the red flag that brought this inquiring mind to my apartment. “No.  I don’t think I will for a couple of weeks.” 

 “Ok.  Look, I have to get going.  I left the clothes on your bed.  Call me this evening when you get in.”

 “You are assuming I will be back this evening.”

 I heard the door close and lock.  She was gone.  I stood there for a moment.  I pitched the towel in the hamper and stumbled toward the kitchen.  The aroma wafting into the hallway promised to be the best part of waking up.  The first few gulps never hit bottom, but when I took the first slug out of the second cup, every vile manner of uppermost inner fluid came forth to spew into the garbage pail.  These were the alcohol-soaked, half-digested remnants of the night before, no doubt.  I reached into the overhead cabinet and took out the Maalox after leaning over to pull the plug on the coffeemaker.  This definitely was not the best part of waking up.

 Even though I felt better at that moment, I knew it was going to be a long day.  Getting dressed was laborious, even tedious.  The solution to helping me keep it together was to think about the case.  I stepped over in front of the mirror to review the new threads.  Sweet Marilyn, I thought.  If she had not been my guardian angel all these years, I would probably be dead already.  Nice suit, I noted.

 I knew that if I were in that casket, Jake would finish the service and head straight for his basement office to start working the pieces of this puzzle into place.  Since I was never as disciplined as Jake, and I had time to spare, I thought I would just mosey on back to Ohio, free of the encumbrance of a badge and toting a personal .45.  A half-smirk curled my lips as I thought, Hounds to the hunted, so to speak.  Only one problem - I was the fox, but most of the players cannot distinguish a beagle from a fox, just a diamond from a zircon.  Perfect, I thought.

 Besides, no one would miss me, except maybe my shrink, and by then it would probably be too late.  I stuffed my eulogy into my pocket, picked up my keys, and pulled the front door closed on my way out.  It was time to bury my friend.

Six hours later, I was sitting in a bar on the wrong side of Texarkana Never one of my favorite places, but it was wet and I was parched.  I dropped a quarter in the jukebox and hit E16.  As ‘Desparado’ started to play, I turned back to face the bar and survey the room.  Every dinky little bar was different, but they were always the same, in a way.  With dimmed lights, a few patrons hanging on to their drinks as if they were a buoy, and a cranky old juke with worn out platters, they became social sanctuaries for the lost.  This one had a twist.  Some of them do, you know. 

  I had watched the burgundy sedan following me since I crossed the city limits boundary east of Dallas. The man in the booth at the back was the driver of that vehicle.  I had already called in the plate.  I stood there and stared at him for a while.  He was smiling at me and indicating that he wanted me to come join him.  I turned to the side, where only he could take a look-see under my denim vest.  I figured he wanted to put his hand down my pants, so I gave him and eye full.  My .45 was just peaking out from the waistband at the small of my back.

   The old man grumbled something about stinking pigs, got up, pitched a couple of bucks on the table, and marched out.  After that, I was sure that I was figuratively alone for the moment, but there was hardly anywhere that did not occur.  It did not matter if I was walking down 5th Avenue in New York Something about my genetics, I suppose.  I never let anyone into my world.

 "Barkeep?  Another Jack and Water, please,” I summoned.

 Within minutes, I was alternating booze and Maalox.  My elixir, I call it.  Just as I took a hit of Jack and the song ended, the door opened.  The top side of dusk was a backdrop to a statuesque form that held the door with his foot, crossed his arm over his chest and reached under his jacket in a motion that was all too familiar.  I tensed and slid my hand to my back without disturbing my position.  When the .45 slipped from my waistband, I pulled it back onto my lap with the business end pointed at the door. 

  The big silhouette pulled a smoke then a large lighter from his shirt pocket and struck a flame.  He took a long drag allowing the orange glow to beam against the darkness then removed his foot from the door and stepped back.  When the image retreated to black, I slipped my weapon back into position and tossed my drink back.  I placed a twenty under the empty glass and peeled myself from the barstool.  Probably just a local bounty hunter, I thought, or an I.A. tail.  I must be getting old, because I did not give him another thought.  All I wanted to do was hit the head and let everyone think I wanted to find a cheap bed for the night.

 The bartender nodded as I headed for the door, still wiping my hands dry on the rough, brown paper towels from the restroom.  I stopped and asked as I got even with her position at the end of the bar.

  “You know a decent place I could crash for the night?”

  She never stopped polishing the glass in her hand.

  “Wally’s.  It’s small, ancient and off the beaten path, but it’s clean and reasonable.  Two blocks south. Take a right.  One block over Stateline on the left.”


 “Good night.”

 I nodded to her, walked out the door, and hit the road.  If anyone was looking for me, chances are I would be half way to Nashville before they even realized I left town, or Texas for that matter.  They would be stuck at Wally’s.  I have always been just a little bit invisible, anyway.

 Being fairly nondescript in appearance, I can cross dress without a hint of questionable disguise.  Some people do not actually know whether I am male or female.  Others think I am one or the other and never really know anything else.  I have been undercover for so long, in so many different disguises, that I can walk up to fellow officers while I am in a character and they never recognize me. 

 I am five feet nine inches, with orange blonde hair and dull green eyes.  I look old, but I am only thirty-eight.  Thin and angular, I am homely.  ‘Cat’ is a nickname from childhood, because of the orange hair and green eyes.  Marilyn called me Cat the very first time she saw me.  We were seven.  Orphans stuck in the same revolving door of foster care and institutions, but we always managed to stay together.

 In 1991, I legally changed my name to Cat Walker.  I spent three years getting a Bachelor’s in Criminal Justice and another year finishing LEO training before I got my first badge.  Four years later, I made detective and was approached to work a special undercover assignment for the Justice Department.  That ended with an on-call assignment to the Special Investigations Unit of the Federal Marshall’s Office.  Not bad for an orphan kid from nowhere.  Seems I have the coldest personal history trail in the business.  I was not only a shape shifter - I was invisible, too.  It was handy as a pocket on a shirt.  Somehow, I always managed to keep Marilyn out of the line of fire.  Maybe they just let me keep her on the edge.  No matter.  I.A. being obsessed and by the book was good for me.  My shadow could commingle with theirs and they would never know I stood next to them.  As for the rest of my training and experience, I am certain none of them wanted any part of it.  Nobody ever did.  I am female, though most would never know it.  My college transcript even reads ‘male’, and possibly half my FBI file.

After a cup of bad drive-thru coffee, I hit the interstate and called Marilyn.  There was no sense letting her worry.  Besides, she was all I had in this world.  Everything else was gone - slaughtered in Ohio, years ago.

Someone had to pay for that.  When I found them, and I knew I would this time, I was going to cancel the debt with some of that training and experience no one else wanted.  Once I crossed into Ohio, there was no going back.

With Marilyn pacified, me virtually vanishing, and you knowing the leading events of this adventure, it's time for me to stop meandering through getting here or considering anything but this case.  It's time for you to live this story with me.  It's time, long past time, to end it all. 

"You ready?"

"Sure, Cat.  The video is still running.  You want a smoke or something?"

"No, Detective, not at the moment, but leave them on the table.  It probably wouldn't hurt to get the coffee going, either.  We are going to be here for a while."



Author’s Introduction

I was eight months old the first time my mother left my father for his cousin, who was his best friend up until it happened.   It was just before my first birthday in July when she went back.   My father’s parents bankrolled a custody battle for me and blackmailed my mother into returning.  She relented.   They dropped the case.  She returned, pregnant with my little brother.  I was twenty-one before I found out that he was my half brother. 

He died at thirty-five of complications from a brain tumor.   He never knew his heritage, but his fate sealed at conception along with his relationship with my parents.  He was my mother’s clinging hope of love lost, and he represented all of my father’s anger.  I, on the other hand, was Daddy’s little girl, and the only biological progeny of an only son.  To my mother, I was the reason that she would never have her perceived happiness.  It was her mission in life to assure that I would never have it, either.

My brother and I were fitted with figurative dust jackets that outlined our relativity to existence before we had the opportunity to attempt identities of our own.  Cast in the shadow of lies and secrecy, we were the representatives of a bad relationship that became a compound dysfunction within the 1950’s view of keeping the family together. 

This was my foundation for life, and that from which all my perspectives and considerations were drawn.   I did not understand it until I was fifty-seven years of age.   Blinded by the dust jacket fitted to my existence, I became the very things they wanted to feed their own existences.  I was never the perfect fulfillment of any expectation.  Just a living novel written as they went along with only one agenda.  To make me what they needed me to be.  It is the only thing they ever did in unison and with any degree of harmony.  I now, have to begin, again, to know myself.  

            A successful paralegal for several state and local political figures, a magazine and newspaper columnist and a graphic artist, my life is full of experiences and teachings that intensify my focus.  My work has been my life for many years, though I think it was my escape, as well.   I am not a psychologist or a social worker, though working in the legal field for many years has offered me the opportunity to witness human relationships and family dynamics from several perspectives.  It is one of the elements that drove me from the business, along with the deception and manipulation in the legal field,  but it sharpened my introspection, as well. 

The first in this series of discoveries was the day I took issue with disrespect.  I was just fourteen days shy of fifty-eight.   That was the day that my self-respect – self worth – became a primary facet of living.  It is like water.  We cannot function without it.  In fact, we may not survive at all until we understand the power of this one vital need.   

Self-respect goes hand in glove with dignity, character, integrity, values, and approach to everything and everyone around you.  Living the past through this writing has helped me discover what happened to me and to understand the lapses that depleted the fulfillment of those qualities in my life.  Knowing the how, what, why, where and who brings the pieces of the puzzle together in the big picture of self.  It is not about assigning blame, it is about understanding the dynamics, mechanics, and kinetics of human existence.  The Bible says knowledge, wisdom and understanding.  Thomas Jefferson said, “Honesty is the first chapter in the book of wisdom.”   My first chapter is about becoming honest with myself.

My life memories revisited in reverse, grouping some from different times and similar relevance, define the flashpoints of epiphany that began to happen to me in the last few years.  They were like lightning bolts driving me from the confines of what I had come to know as my fate.  With each chapter of this book, I visit the events and teachings that led me to break away from my third person existence.  These things define this time in my life, but with new understanding, perspective and meaning.   For me it all began and returns to the moment I became a tool to force a relationship that was broken before it started, like so many others.

I suppose it must be like this for many who are lost.  Many who find themselves in a sea of emotional turmoil.  I suppose it never even occurs to them that they were the handy work of denial, bad judgment, and dysfunction from birth by people and events that shaped their lives from the start.  That is what this autobiographical piece details.  It is about me, my brother, and those I found that have been fitted with the dust jackets of shattered beginnings and empty perspectives.   The selfishly sculptured ramblings of lives lost within the confines of a conceptual definition of moral responsibility. 

In recent years, as trusted relationships have faltered, dissolved and peeled away, I have discovered a depth in faith that I had not known.   If, as an American would believe, all men are created equal, I would think that most are, or have been, as fractured as I.  I have discovered that the only things one can truly trust are the Lord and His Word, and the only real companion is one’s faith.   As burdens have lifted, light has begun to trickle in.  Peace has become a favorite visitor.  Contentment is a growing reward.  Joy has even peeked through the storm clouds of my life that are dissipating.   Blessings have occurred as I travel along this path to renewal, and the signs of truth are telling.

 I am no longer a dust-jacketed novel written in third person.  I am on a journey to become a non-fiction work of art, and so it begins. 

I have changed the names in this book to protect all, but the stories are true.  If you can identify with anything I have written in this introduction, please join me on this written journey.    If you choose not to, at the very least, you know you are not alone – lost or not.

All the best –

Denae Rogers

            Within minutes of reviewing the Author’s Introduction to her next book, Denae flips open her cell phone and presses the speed dial for her agent.


            “Justin, I have started a new book.”

            “Good, it’s about time.  Part of a series, I trust?”

            There was a long pause before she told him.


            “Yes.  I am here.  It’s about trust, but it’s about me.”

            There was another long pause.  He was thinking.  She could almost hear the wheels grinding in his head.  He had been her agent for the last series of hard-hitting intrigue, but this was different.




            “Yes.  An exploration of a life.”

            “Denae, you know I am a fiction agent.  I don’t know if I can represent this.”

            “Just read the introduction, Justin, and get back to me.”

            “Ok.  I can do that.”

            “Good.  I’ll talk to you soon.”  Click.



A challenge posed to me a couple of years ago was to write a book about the three men that nailed Christ to the cross.  It would require a great deal of soul-searching, research, and honesty on my part regarding my own faith, or lack thereof.  My life has been immersed in Man's Law.  On the fringes was the Word of God, but as the monster that is man's misguided endeavor to govern and judge began to extricate my very soul, I reached out.  My faith became my buoy in a dangerous sea of inequity and injustice.


Since the challenge to write this novel, I have discovered that there is little to no recorded history of these men.  There is a great deal regarding the era, Judea, Rome, the Roman Empire, religions, wars, governance, and the many sects, tribes, and players of the times.  The most astonishing realization is the discourse among experts and historians regarding the history of Christ, Christianity, and the analytical estimations of the lives of others in that time.  It makes for grand philosophical considerations as well as presenting a multi-faceted array of selection for the creative mind.


FOR THEY KNOW NOT is a fictional rendition of those considerations and selections.  It is a culminated view of the environment – physical, cultural, societal, and spiritual – that rendered perspectives given the circumstances.  It is a fictional detail of a historical pivot in the evolution of Christianity and man within the dominate governance of the oppressive Roman Empire and those who opposed it.  Sharpening the view on the insecurities bred of deception, competition, arrogance, and paranoia through exposures heralded by a few of the time, Rome had become, and in fact had always been, desperate in its attempts to retain control. 


The intimate depiction of the lives of the three men responsible for the physical execution of the Crucifixion reveals the true nature of man in the struggle between the two governing forms of existence prevalent from the beginning of time to the present - The Law of God and the Law of Man.


Taking from the recordings of history and the philosophical renditions of the past and the present, FOR THEY KNOW NOT humanizes the pivotal moment of man and his faith.  Marinated in the history of the time, man questions the true origins of his being and the reality of his ending.  It is not only a defining of self for each of the main characters.  It is a portrayal of the defining of man, and the ultimate eternal journey for knowledge, wisdom, and understanding.


FOR THEY KNOW NOT is a fictional work based on a true story –  from a perspective never before told.




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