Christal
Cooper
Chris Rice Cooper’s
Scripted Interview with
Jere Krakoff
Something Is Rotten in Fettig
A short biography
I was raised in an eccentric Jewish household in
a colorful Jewish enclave of Pittsburgh, all of which is loosely portrayed in Something Is Rotten in Fettig.
When I came of age, I
enrolled in law school and graduated from the University of Pittsburgh. (http://www.law.pitt.edu)
My legal career, which
spanned four decades, was primarily spent as a civil rights attorney with
several public interest law programs.
Much of the work involved representing inmates in civil rights cases
challenging the conditions of their confinement such as profound overcrowding,
poor medical care and the total absence of psychiatric treatment for
emotionally ill prisoners.
In addition, I had
litigated a class action suit to reform the abysmally superficial legal
services provided by a county public defender agency to indigent people accused
of crimes. As a result of these and
other activities, I came to understand how our criminal justice system fell far
short of the aspiration of equal justice for all.
As noted, most of my writing experiences prior to the novel
involved crafting legal briefs and other court submissions in cases I was
litigating.
This, of course, was a much different kind of writing than
creating a work of fiction, although they more often than not involve
fictionalized versions of the underlying facts or relevant case law.
In my pre-law life, I worked a few months as a reporter for a
newspaper located outside Washington, D.C., and wrote a few freelance
non-fiction pieces for the Washington
Evening Star’s weekend magazine. Unfortunately, the Star stopped publishing soon after the articles appeared—a demise I
trust I did not precipitate.
What is the summary of Something Is Rotten in Fettig?
Something Is Rotten in Fettig is a humorous satirical novel about endemic injustices
in the criminal justice system. Rooted
in the prosecution of kosher butcher Leopold Plotkin for crimes against his unnamed
Republic, the book lampoons judges, juries, district attorneys, public
defenders, witnesses and other components of the criminal justice apparatus.
Plotkin was a meek man
with a pathological aversion to conflict.
One evening, while most Republic citizens were sleeping, he did something
that unwittingly propelled him into conflict with every branch of
government. Soon, he was pursued by an
ethically-challenged prosecutor, indicted by a feckless Blind Jury, imprisoned
in the notorious Purgatory House of Detention, tried under the auspices of a congenitally
pro-prosecution judge, and represented by a lawyer who had never been inside a
courtroom. His only witness was an
ostensibly delusional resident of the Warehouse for the Purportedly Insane, a
man with a questionable past. Nobody, including Plotkin, believed an acquittal
was possible.
What writers or books influenced you in writing Something Is Rotten In Fettig?
Among the writers/ works
influenced me as I wrote the novel are
Nikolai Gogol’s Dead
Souls, Anton Chekhov’s The Seagull, Franz Kafka’s The Trial, Joseph Heller’s Catch-22, Günter Grass’ The Tin Drum, Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five, and Eugène Ionesco’s The Lesson.
Can you give me the step-by-step process of Something Is Rotten In Fettig – from the moment it was first
conceived in your brain until final book form?
The gestation period was unusually long. It took me more than
twenty years to complete the book. My first vague thoughts about writing a
novel came in the mid-1990s while I was working on yet another legal brief on
behalf of inmates confined in a state prison.
I was a civil rights attorney at the time, and crafting briefs in the heat
of litigation was a recurring task that was vitally important but no longer
particularly exciting.
It occurred to me that writing a novel related to the law might be
an interesting diversion from practicing law; something to do when time allowed
but not necessarily something to do with any rational expectation of having the
material actually published. If nothing
else, I was realistic about the unlikelihood of a novice “author” having his
first stab at a novel admitted into the hyper-competitive literary world.
Over the next several weeks, I asked myself what I should write
about or, more particularly, what I knew well enough that was sufficiently
important to warrant writing about.
Eventually, I decided to write a satirical novel about systemic
problems in our criminal justice system, something I knew a fair amount about
as a result of representing inmates in class action conditions of confinement
suits as a legal aid attorney and, later, as a lawyer with the ACLU National
Prison Project. (https://www.aclu.org/aclu-national-prison-project)
In the summer of 1994, while traveling by train to a deposition in
Washington, D.C., I scribbled the first lines on a legal pad of what would become Something
Is Rotten in Fettig. Not yet having
more than a vague notion that the trial of someone named Leopold Plotkin would
be the centerpiece of the plot and that the trial would be a Kafkaesque
spectacle, I placed the petrified kosher
butcher at the Accused’s Table in the Low Court of Criminal Transgressions,
waiting for his trial to begin.
When the train pulled into Union Station, I had managed to
complete the first few paragraphs.
Over the course of the next several months, a more detailed plot emerged
as I thought more about the book and added paragraphs, here and there, as
inspirations arose and time permitted.
As the years passed, I continued to write in small increments. Hewing
to the proposition that one should write about things one knows, I created a
cast of characters who resembled people I knew from my law practice,
exaggerating their idiosyncrasies and behavior to make points.
As I came to better understand Plotkin, the story arc eventually came into high relief with
characters such as Umberto Malatesta (the bombastic
Prosecutor General who brought the meat merchant to trial), Felix I. Bleifus
(the feckless lawyer with the Society for the Apparent Representation of
Indigent Criminal-Types who was originally supposed to defend Plotkin), and
Wolfgang Stifel (the Lilliputian judge who longed to facilitate Plotkin’s
conviction) populating the novel.
The characters led me in various directions,
sometimes down blind alleys, more often along avenues that enriched the
narrative. During the next twenty years, I wrote whenever and wherever the opportunity
presented itself.
After retiring a few years ago, the opportunity presented itself much
more often. When a draft of the entire
manuscript was finally completed in 2014, I asked my wife, along with a friend, for honest critiques. Abjuring false praise, they
pointed out that the alleged novel was
verbose, riddled with too many adjectives and adverbs, lacked credible dialogue
and in other ways woefully inadequate. Though my feelings were pricked by these
frank assessments, I vowed to carry on and, in the ensuing months, edited
dozens of versions until at last, in the summer of 2015, I naively concluded that there was nothing more to
be done.
Believing that the book was ripe for publication, I submitted the
manuscript to scores of publishers, hoping that one of them would agree with
that conclusion. After receiving a raft of
rejections, I was about to give up.
However, with the encouragement of my wife, I submitted to a few other
places, despite believing that nothing would come of it. A month or so later, Anaphora Literary Press,
a small publisher located in Georgia, offered to publish it.
Naively thinking that the twenty year gestation period was finally
over and that Something Is Rotten in
Fettig would soon be an actual physical book, my wife and I
celebrated.
Unfortunately, the celebration proved to be premature. The end was
not even remotely in sight. During the ensuing
several months, in an exhausting editing process encouraged by Anaphora, I
excised pounds of superfluous verbal fat and needless digressions from the
manuscript. The 120,000 word tome was ultimately
reduced to a much tighter and more enjoyable 80,000 words.
In February of this year, the book was published. My wife and I celebrated again. This time, the celebration was not premature.
Where did you do most of the writing for SOMETHING IS ROTTEN IN
FETTIG? Can you describe the place using the five senses?
The early writing (i.e. the first decade and a half) occurred in
coffee shops, bookstores, libraries, motel rooms, courthouses (while awaiting
jury verdicts), and railroad cars (traveling to depositions and other
law-related activities).
The later writing (five years or so) took place in a small writing
room of the converted farmhouse I share with my wife. Coffee shops were among my favorite places to
write because background chatter and aromas stimulated my imagination. The writing room, however, afforded me the
necessary solitude to focus on the final stages of the writing and editing processes.
The
sparse writing room is furnished with only a deeply distressed library table with
indentations and indecipherable scribbles to use as a desk; a tattered,
second-hand computer with two letters worn away (both frequently used vowels);
two lamps; an easy chair and a stash of jellybeans in a table drawer. As the dappled sunlight from the surrounding
trees brightens the room, I am essentially alone with
my thoughts and able to fully concentrate.
When you wrote it did you use pen and paper or
laptop? Did you write at a certain time of day? Did you have to have
music playing, or a certain drink or snack?
Until the last few years, I wrote with pen and paper because I
didn’t know how to use a computer. Every
few weeks, I would have my secretary transcribe the handwritten drafts on a
computer. At some point, my wife managed
to convince me that writing with a computer was not as intimidating as it
seemed, would be more efficient and could enhance my creative powers. With her
assistance, I learned the necessary skills of computing and abandoned the
practice of writing in longhand. My wife
turned out to be prescient. Writing on a
computer was more efficient. And I believe that composing on a computer
greatly improved the work product.
As time passed, I evolved into a coffee addict. This enhanced my stamina, if not the
writing.
After retirement, I wrote from six in the morning until about noon when my creative
energy tended to wane. However, I thought about the
book throughout the day. Occasionally,
my best ideas came at night, while lying in bed, waiting to descend into
sleep. More
often, I was inspired when reading other satirical books in the afternoon, or
while weeding my wife’s gardens.
It
would be an understatement to characterize my
post-retirement way of life with the writing process as obsessive-compulsive.
What was the most compelling part of the book for you to write and
why? May I include it as an excerpt?
I
believe that the most compelling parts of the book are the chapters (chapters
18 and 19) that detail the inadequacies of public defender services to
indigents accused of crimes. This is
because, rather spectacular shortcomings continue to exist in the criminal
justice system, despite the landmark Supreme Court ruling a half century ago (Gideon v. Wainwright) that established
the constitutional right of indigent criminal defendants to free legal representation
in cases that can result in imprisonment.
With the nominal services often
provided by public defender offices in mind, I satirized their token
representation in a scene where Plotkin is introduced to Felix I. Bleifus, a
marginal employee of the “Society for the Apparent Representation of Indigent
Criminal-Types” and the public defender appointed to represent Plotkin. Although Bleifus is exaggerated, his
apathetic attitude and the inferior service he is prepared to offer/invest in
Plotkin, are all too representative of public defender offices in our
country.
In these chapters, I found an
opportunity to raise awareness of the injustices that are all too often put
into practice by the very office designed to mitigate inequalities of
representation in the criminal justice system.
Can you go into detail about the publishing process?
The process has been, among other things, extremely time-consuming,
frustrating, and ego-deflating. Despite these negatives, in the main it has
been gratifying to successfully work through the
publication process.
Although I knew, going in, that it would be difficult if not impossible
to find a publisher, my rather thin skin was easily pricked by the raft of form
rejection letters. The disappointment
evaporated when the book was accepted by a publisher. While I realized that
there would have to be a round of editing before the manuscript would arguably warrant
publication, I was stunned by how much editing was needed to enhance the
writing. On the other hand, I was proud
and elated when I read the published version.
I was disappointed by how many of the fifty newspapers and other professional
review sites declined to review my novel, but thrilled when Kirkus and several other reviewers
published positive critiques.
(https://www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/jere-krakoff/something-is-rotten-in-fettig/)
(https://www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/jere-krakoff/something-is-rotten-in-fettig/)
More important, I was gratified by letters from readers telling me
that they enjoyed the novel and encouraging me to write another book (which unbeknownst to them, I had
already begun drafting on the trusty old computer in my Spartan writing
room).
Excerpt
Chapter 19
Felix I. Bleifus tottered into the Legal
Consultation Room, clutching a briefcase with one hand, a handkerchief with the
other. Ashen and stoop-shouldered, he personified chronic
illness.
The lawyer eased into a chair without
acknowledging Plotkin. It was not his
custom to look at potential clients during initial intake sessions. When
meeting prospective clients for the first time, he ordinarily fixed his eyes on
the Society’s intake sheet or his watch.
“I am Bleifus, a permanent probationary attorney
with the Society for the Apparent Representation of Indigent Criminal-Types,”
he said as he removed a set of papers from his briefcase. “And you are Nussbaum?”
“No, I’m Plotkin,” the butcher corrected.
“Where’s Nussbaum?” Bleifus asked before emitting
a fusillade of raucous coughs.
“I have no idea,” said Plotkin.” Alarmed by his
visitor’s coughing, he backed away from the screen that separated him from the
lawyer as a precautionary measure.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Bleifus exclaimed.
“Plotkin is sixteenth on the list. Nussbaum is first.”
“I can leave,” Plotkin offered deferentially.
“No, I might as well get rid of you now;
Nussbaum can wait,” said Bleifus.
The lawyer placed a single piece of paper on a
table.
“Repeat your name to ensure that it isn’t placed
in Nussbaum’s le by mistake. If that happens, you’ll never hear from the agency
again. You’ll be left out in the cold.”
“I’m Leopold Plotkin,” the butcher repeated.
The notorious name meant nothing to Bleifus. The
lawyer was a man of limited curiosity who rarely read newspapers or discussed
current affairs. Although vaguely aware of the Mud Crisis, Bleifus knew nothing
about its origin or the person who ignited it.
“Age?”
“Forty-three.”
“Wife’s name?”
“I don’t have a wife.”
“Children, legitimate or otherwise?”
“None.”
“I assume you’re familiar with the Society?”
“Not at all.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Bleifus droned with
regret. “Due to your ignorance, I’m obliged to explain what the Society
is...does...does not do...will not do...cannot do...and has never done—unless
you’re willing to listen to a condensed version of our services that
glosses over most of the information I’m otherwise required to pro- vide. I
hope you’re willing to hear the short version. I have more than two dozen
criminals to see today.”
“The condensed version is ne,” said Plotkin, who
didn’t want to spend any more time with the sickly-looking lawyer than necessary.
“Thanks for being so flexible and
disinterested,” Bleifus said, still not looking at Plotkin. He removed the
condensed version from his briefcase and began to recite. “’Reduced to its
essence, the Society represents criminals who are too poor to purchase the actual
services of private lawmongers and provides them with the apparent services now
required by the Constitution.’”
“Did you say apparent services?” Plotkin
asked.
“I may have,” Bleifus replied.
“That bothers me a li le, if you did,” said
Plotkin. “Linguistically speaking, the word connotes something superficial,
ephemeral, ostensible, specious, or pretended.”
Glancing
at his watch, Bleifus saw that a minute of the eight minutes allotted to intake
sessions had already slipped by. Always concerned about time, he returned to
the condensed version with- out bothering to address Plotkin’s concern.
“’Why has a Society representative come to see
me? You are probably asking yourself,’ the lawyer read. “In a nutshell, there are
two reasons. The first is to determine if you are poor enough to qualify for
the Society’s array of apparent services. The second is to propose a strategy
that will bring about a speedy and just resolution of your legal nightmare and
remove the dark clouds of uncertainty hovering over you and possibly over a
loved one, if you have any.’”
“I have several,” Plotkin interjected, not
wishing to be seen as someone without loved ones.
“As we get to know each other intimately during
our brief time together today,” Bleifus said without enthusiasm as he reviewed
the remaining sections of the truncated sketch, “the Society hopes we will form
a strong enough bond so you will accept my advice without questioning its
wisdom. Do you understand?”
“I believe so,” Plotkin replied.
“Now we turn to the eligibility standard for our
broad range of services,” said Bleifus. “To be eligible, one must be indigent.
Do you consider yourself to be at or near the poverty level and, if so,
why?”
“I suppose so,” Plotkin replied. “My business
barely makes a pro t.”
“How meager are your typical earnings?”
“Extremely meager.”
“Do you have any dependents?”
“Yes.”
“How many and who?”
“Four. My elderly father, decrepit mother, and
two unhinged uncles.”
“Considering the number of mouths you have to
feed, the ages of the mouths, and other factors that need not be discussed, you
qualify under our sliding scale for the entire range of apparent services,
which in the Society’s estimation need not, should not, and, hopefully, will
not have to be delivered in this instance.”
After surviving another coughing fit, Bleifus
resumed reading from the shortened script. “’Now that we’ve forged an intimate
and trustful relationship, this is a good time to touch upon the Society’s
overarching policy. What is the policy? Simply stated, it is to encourage
clients the Society apparently represents to plead guilty and throw themselves
on the mercy of the Court rather than risk a trial, an event replete with
catastrophic possibilities for you and your loved ones, not to mention Society
lawmongers. A superficial in-depth study shows that, in most instances, clients
who insist on a trial and waste the Court’s time receive harsher punishments
when it comes time to sentencing.’”
Bleifus consulted his watch again. After
determining that several more precious minutes had elapsed, he resumed reading
at a slightly faster pace. “’This remarkable cause and effect phenomenon—a
slight reduction in sentence in exchange for foregoing trial—is most likely
due, if it exists, to judicial gratitude for having been spared the burden of
presiding over yet another trial. That said, I can assure you with sincere
disingenuousness that the Society cares deeply about its apparent clients and
will be at or near your side every step of the way to conviction, even if you
foolishly choose to hold-out for a trial. We are committed to a high level of
apparent representation whether you have sufficient intelligence to plead guilty or stubbornly
require our over-taxed lawyers to sit beside you for however long it takes to
convict you. Should you reject a mercy-throwing, an a attorney assigned to
apparently represent you will introduce himself minutes before trial and remain
in your general vicinity, a foot or two away, until you are led from the
courtroom in chains, a broken man, to serve your sentence.’”
Still staring at the intake manual, Bleifus
asked Plotkin if he had any questions, hoping that he didn’t.
“I have a three-part question,” Plotkin said.
“Oh,” said Bleifus with bitter disappointment.
“What do Society lawyers do to prepare for trial
when an inmate decides not to throw himself on the court’s mercy; how long,
before trial, does preparation begin; and how much time is usually spent
preparing for trial?” Plotkin asked.
Surprised by the uniqueness of the inquiry,
Bleifus needed a moment to compose a reply. “As far as I know, most of us don’t
prepare. However, if you’re hooked-up with an idealist, you might get one who
prepares a li le.”
When Plotkin said that he had no other
questions, Bleifus was delighted.
“Before I call for a guard to take you back to
your cell, I’d like to confirm that you will participate in a mercy-throwing,”
Bleifus said.
“Actually,” Plotkin replied, “I haven’t decided.
It’s something I have to discuss with my father. Can I tell you later?”
Shocked by his potential client’s obstinacy,
Bleifus looked at the butcher for the first time. Squinting through the mesh
screen that separated him from Plotkin, he struggled to make sense of the morose
man standing on the other side of the divide. When squinting, he saw the
bloodstains on Plotkin’s clothing.
The lawyer suspected that the stains were the
residues of a violent crime and asked with uncharacteristic curiosity, “What’s
that on your shirt?”
“Splattered blood,” Plotkin replied
nonchalantly.
“That’s a lot of splatter,” Bleifus noted with
disgust. Violent criminals were his
least favorite clients.
“Unfortunately,” Plotkin lamented, “the shirt is
ruined. I was standing too close to the jugular when I severed it.”
“You cut the throat?” Bleifus shrieked, his
stomach churning.
“Correct.”
“Did anybody see you do it?”
“This time?”
“There were other times?”
“Of course. It’s what I do for a living. Unlike
most of my competitors, I do my own slaughtering. I don’t like to delegate.
When I do it myself, I know it’s done right.”
“You say that...proudly.”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, though it isn’t
exactly fulfilling.”
“How many times have you done...this?”
“Sever jugulars or the other stuff?”
“What other stuff?”
“Disemboweling, removing brains, livers,
testicles, hearts, and so on.”
Stunned by the disclosures, Bleifus fell silent
before gagging. When able to speak, he
asked, “Did anybody witness you...cutting the jugular this time?”
“Probably. Is that important?”
“Isn’t its importance obvious?”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Who might have seen you?” Bleifus demanded.
“Not to seem ignorant, I think this line of
questioning is probably beside the point,” Plotkin said cordially. “If I were
you, I’d ask something like why I covered it with mud rather than boards or a
curtain.”
“You covered it with mud?”
“You seem surprised.”
“I’m not surprised! I’m appalled! Have
you no respect for the dead?”
“What has that to do with my case?”
“Don’t you recognize the heinousness of
your acts?” “Heinousness is a little extreme, don’t you think? You must
be
a vegetarian.”
“Heinousness
doesn’t begin to describe your depravity! Don’t
pretend
to be naïve!” Bleifus screamed.
The lawyer tugged at his beard anxiously. “Under
the circumstances,” he mumbled, “I don’t see how I or anybody associated with
the Society can possibly represent you!”
Unimpressed with the Society’s services, Plotkin
didn’t object.
Bleifus collected his belongings and pounded on
the door, demanding to be let out. When a guard arrived, the apoplectic lawyer
told the guard not to fetch Nussbaum or any other potential clients for
interviews; he was leaving for the day. As Bleifus fled to his office, Plotkin
was led to the basement. The butcher now understood why his father had such a
low opinion of lawyers.
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