Florida – specifically southern Florida – is my heart. That love affair started when I was 9. I don’t know why, but it’s a fact despite the reality that I never visited there until January 1988. During that first visit, my fate was sealed.

Without going into detailed reasons, or dynamics of all things MiM (the Music is Murder saga, for those who don’t know), suffice to say my story takes place largely in south Florida. Of course it does, right? Over three decades, I’ve conducted exhaustive research into the area. I’ve found my characters’ houses. I’ve driven the streets and timed out the distance between them. I’ve cold-called local businesses to interview cops, newspapers, recording studios, restaurants, junk yards, and Dr. Emma Lew of the Dade County Medical Examiner’s Office (IYKYK). Gracious and helpful, all – especially Dr. Lew, who upon my second visit to her in 2003 took me on a detailed tour of the morgue. Wow. These interactions helped fuel my lifelong enthusiasm for research.

So when it came to fleshing out book 5 in MiM, it was a no-brainer to seek out the assistance of another southern Floridian to help me navigate what will be extremely complicated legal strategies on behalf of my bad guys. I’ll not go into specifics or spoilers. Let’s just say things are pretty sticky. Crimes committed over decades. Victims who aren’t wholly innocent. Suspects who may not be completely guilty, “technically.” Plea deals. Federal crimes. State crimes. Mental health factors.

I created a spreadsheet with the various lists of offenses, who committed them, where they occurred, what the specific statutes were (along with their penalties), the various jurisdictions for each crime, any considerations regarding statutes of limitations, etc. I quickly realized I need someone knowledgeable to assist me in the various “this would happen,” “this would NOT happen” scenarios. Not only might things be a bit gray in some areas, it’s important to reflect how things would have gone at the time of the trials in MiM. Book 5 opens in August of 1999. Current laws may have been different twenty-five years ago. Finding a defense attorney to speak with an Indy writer about matters of rape, murder, kidnapping across state lines, murder for hire, conspiracy, and a host of other crimes is no small feat. Time is money, folks, and we all know this is true about lawyers.

Enter the text message.

I found this cool service online that pairs people with legal experts. It cost me nothing. I just signed upand they did all the work. A couple of days after signing up, I received a text message that said, simply, “Pick my brain?” Turns out, it was an attorney. And not just any attorney – an awesome attorney. We ended up on the phone for about two hours, discussing some basic stuff about the project. I offered to pay him for his time. He declined the money. So I told him I would name one of the defense attorneys after him (“Which one do you want to defend?” “Whichever one is the most difficult case to win!”). But after outlining book 5, the forthcoming Feels Like the End, I had a good seven pages of notes that I wanted to speak to him about. Needed to speak to him about. And it didn’t seem fair to expect him to

drop his life to get on the phone with me for two-three hours to hash it all out. And so, you guessed it: time to go to Miami.

We’d originally arranged to meet back in October, but my husband ended up in the hospital and I had to cancel. When all was said and done, I needed it to be June. He was all set. I was all set. Schedule was for dinner that Wednesday evening. And due to several considerations on my part – not the least of which was having to bring my small dog and someone to help care for her while I was in my interview – Idecided to drive.

Okay. You’re caught up.

The trip, despite best intentions and planning, was a bust folks. I’d love to spin it otherwise, but I’d belying. I was in a constant state of worry over my dog, paranoid about her getting the least bit heated. I realized that, despite my having made the same drive many times over the years, I’m probably too old to keep the pace I achieved in previous travels. That was depressing. I’d planned on picking up my
damsel-in-distress daughter to bring her back with me, but there was a change of heart I’ll not share publicly. So that didn’t happen. The Miami Beach condo I rented through AirBnB was both costly and sterile. A set of “the rules” was posted throughout the space, with its looming potential “charges” if anything didn’t look just like it did when we got there. I felt so uncomfortable there, we pretty much just
stayed gone.

Enter the text message.

“I have hearing in Fort Myers in Federal Court today at 4:30pm. I have to be in Tampa tomorrow morning for an 8:30am hearing on a murder case. I fly to New York Thursday morning at 6:30am on a federal case of the southern district of New York. I meet with a client Thursday at the Hudson County Jail with interpreter for about five hours. His sentencing will be at 11am Friday morning. I return to Fort
Lauderdale around 3pm Friday afternoon. Hopefully, you’re here for the weekend.” I wouldn’t be.

He was disappointed; I was disappointed. But I couldn’t stay any longer. In the end, it was an expensive miss on all fronts: personal and professional.

Due to the attorney’s hectic schedule, he can’t always predict where he needs to be. I get that. I have no bitterness toward him at all. I just feel frustrated about how best to get his much-needed input. At this point, I’ve decided to just write the darn book. Then, I will bit and part out the questions to him so I don’t become a burden to him, then change anything I need to. And, I’ll again try to pay him for his time. The upside? I did get to go to Lorelei’s in Islamorada (on the Keys) to watch the sunset and by chance was seated at the exact table where two of my characters sat while there in book 1 (Lockhardt Sound). That was nice.

I’m still a rabid researcher. I don’t regret my trip. I just regret the timing. Of course, things like this would be avoided if I were living in Florida, where I left my heart a long time ago. This is the goal of my life. I want to live there. Someday, perhaps after my husband retires, we can make the move. For now, I go when I can. And just maybe I’ll get down there again before book 5 is finished and ready for
publication. Perhaps that attorney will finally be available to let me buy him dinner.

Hope springs eternal, right?