出版社周刊评论
A reporter has 18 hours to save a death-row convict. (Sept.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
《书目》(Booklist)书评
Under his own name at last, two-time pseudonymous Edgar-winner Klavan gives us a thriller that quickly builds in intensity. A young St. Louis reporter is to interview Frank Beachum--sentenced to death for murdering a pregnant grocery store clerk--on his last day alive. Then a freak automobile accident sidelines the rookie, and renegade journalist Steve Everett gets the assignment. Everett begins researching the case and, as the hours wind down toward Beachum's midnight execution, becomes convinced the man is innocent. Is there enough time to save the convict, especially since Everett's prime suspect is now dead? Even if Everett can prove Beachum's innocence, does he have enough clout to stop the execution? By the time Everett ties all the pieces together, he's drunk (the result of a subplot concerning his troubled marriage) but must take a madcap auto trip to beat the clock. Klavan pulls together what may sound like a formulaic effort so tautly that he produces an exciting, breakneck entertainment. Wonderful, hard-boiled phrases ("Tension made my skin feel one size too small" ) and sympathetic portrayals of the convict and his family add other dimensions to this slick page-turner that, perhaps unintentionally, winds up raising questions about the morality of capital punishment. (Reviewed Apr. 15, 1995)0517702134Sue-Ellen Beauregard
Kirkus评论
Often laugh-out-loud suspense about a low-life, adulterous, sexist reporter who attempts to save what he thinks is an innocent man from a lethal injection in a Missouri state prison. Klavan (Corruption, 1994, etc.) prefaces this fourth novel under his own name with a quote from supercynic Ben Hecht about the notorious depravity of reporters, then hangs the thought on a ne'er-do-well newspaperman already cast out of New York for sins of the zipper. Even in St. Louis, Steve Everett is invaginating his city editor's wife when the cuckolded editor phones his own bedroom to tell his thunderstruck wife, Patricia, that Steve is needed at the office: He's to interview Frank Beachum, a murderer condemned to die that evening, and write a human-interest sidebar to go with the paper's straight news story. Everett, however, comes across information that points to lying witnesses and Beachum's innocence- -and he has but 18 hours to prove anything before the midnight needle. Meanwhile, in a cruelly funny scene, to appease his wife, Barbara, he must take his two-year-old son to the zoo, and of course the kid gets stiffed left and right by his obsessed daddy, who is no fairer a father than he is a husband. As in Hecht- MacArthur's The Front Page, the story focuses as well on Death Row and Beachum's visits by Everett, the warden, a minister, Beachum's wife and daughter, and the physical arrangements and protocol for the execution--all of which, though well written, are filler for Everett's sleuthing. When the radio falsely reports Beachum's confession, Everett's job evaporates, and following a phone confession to Patricia, Barbara hands her wedding ring back to the beaten newshound. As the night winds down, fired, dewifed, dechilded Everett gets drunk but then recalls some crucial information. At 11:40 p.m. or so, can a drunken driver get all the evidence together and get to the prison before midnight? Klavan's venture into humor pays off terrifically and quite equals the suspense, but his fiddle-playing for Beachum tires. (First printing of 250,000; film rights to Twentieth Century-Fox)
《图书馆杂志》(Library Journal )书评
Six years ago Frank Beachum, at his wife's request, was sent to buy steak sauce and ended up being accused of shooting a pregnant convenience store clerk. Although he swears his innocence, the only person to believe him is his wife. On the day he is scheduled to be executed by lethal injection, he agrees to an interview from a reporter for a local newspaper. As jaded reporter Steve Everett gathers background material for the interview, he discovers some alarming inconsistencies in the evidence used to convict Beachum. This novel is so well written that it is difficult to read. All the horror and panic of an impending execution are convincingly portrayed; particularly terrifying and nauseating are the descriptions of the minute details the prison staff attends to in preparation for the execution. The tension is at times unbearable. Highly recommended, but not for the faint of heart. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 2/1/95.]-Dawn L. Anderson, North Richland Hills P.L., Tex. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
摘录
Frank Beachum awoke from a dream of Independence Day. His last dream before the hour, a cruel dream, really, in a sleep that had been strangely sound, considering. He had been in his backyard again,before his trip to the grocery, before the picnic, before the police had arrived to take him away. The heat of the summer's morning had come back to him. He had heard the sound of the lawn mower again. He had felt the mower's handle pressed against his palms and even smelled the mown grass. He had heard her voice too, Bonnie's voice,as she called to him from the screen door. He had seen her face, her face the way it had been, pert and compact under short, tawny hair, pale--not pretty, she was never pretty--but given luster by her large, tender and encouraging blue eyes. He saw her holding the bottle up, the bottle of A-1 Sauce. She had been waggling it back and forth to show that it was empty. He had stood in his backyard under the hot sun, and his little girl, Gail, had been a baby again. Sitting in her sandbox again, the plastic one shaped like a turtle. Whacking the sand with her shovel and laughing to herself, to the world in general. It had all been to Frank as if he were really there. It hadn't seemed like a dream at all. For several moments after he awoke, he lay as he was, on his side, his eyes closed, facing the wall. His mind gripped at the dream, held on to it with terrible longing. But the dream dissolved mercilessly and, bit by bit, the Deathwatch cell came back to him. He became aware of the cot beneath his shoulder, the white cinderblock wall just in front of his face. He turned over--half-hoping. . . . But there were the bars ofthe cage door. There was the guard on the other side, sitting at his long desk, typing up the chronological: 6:21--prisonerawakes. The clock hung high on the wall above the guard's bowed head. Seventeen hours and forty minutes were left before they strapped Frank down on the gurney, before they wheeled him into the execution chamber for the injection. Frank lay back on the cot and blinked up at the ceiling. The wise Chinaman says that when a man seems to dream of being a butterfly, he may truly be a butterfly dreaming he's a man. But the wise Chinaman is wrong. Frank knew the difference, all right; he always knew. This leaden weight that encased him like his skin, this inner tonnage of sadness and terror: this was the real stuff; he knew it was the living stuff. He closed his eyes and for another aching second or two, he could still smell the mown grass. But not like he could feel the movement of the clock's hands, not like his nerve-ends picked up the passing of time. He clenched his fists at his sides. If only Bonnie wouldn't come, he thought. It would be all right, if Bonnie wouldn't come to say good-bye. And Gail. She was no baby anymore; she was seven now. She drew him pictures of trees and houses with her Crayolas. "Hey," he'd say, "that's really good, sweetheart." That was going to be the worst of it, he thought. Sitting with her, with them, the time passing. That, he was afraid, would be more than he could bear. Slowly, he sat up on the edge of his cot. He put his hands over his face as if to rub his eyes, and then kept them there a longmoment. That damned dream had made him heart sore with longing for the old days. He had to steady himself or the longing would weaken him. That was his greatest fear. That he would go weak now. If Bonnie saw him break at the end--or, God help him, if Gail did. . . . It would be with them their whole lives. It would be their memory of him forever. He sat up and drew breath. He was a six-foot man, slim and muscular in his loose green prison pants and his baseball shirt stenciled CP-133. He had shaggy brown hair that fell on his brow in a jagged shock. His face was lean and furrowed and he had close-set eyes that were brown, deep and sad. He dragged his thumb across his lips, wiping them dry. He felt the guard's gaze on him and glanced over. The guard had raised his eyes from the typewriter and was looking Frank's way. Reedy was the guard's name. A wiry boy with a severe white face. Frank remembered hearing that he had worked at the local drugstore before coming to Osage. He seemed nervous and embarrassed today. "Morning, Frank," he said. Frank nodded at him. "Can I get you anything? Some breakfast?" Frank's stomach felt bad, but he was hungry all the same. He cleared his throat to keep from sounding hoarse. "If you got a roll and some coffee, I'll take that," he said. His voice trembled just a little at the end. The guard paused to type the request into his chronological report. Then he stood up and talked to the other guard stationed outside the cell door. The other guard poked his head in through the door. He looked nervous, too, and pale. He seemed to receive Frank'sbreakfast order with great respect and gravity. There was an air of ceremony to the whole procedure. It made Frank nauseous: one step following the next in an inevitable ritual. As the minutes followed each other. "We'll have that for you right away," Reedy told him solemnly. He returned to his desk and sat down. He typed the transaction into his report: 6:24--Breakfast order relayed to CO Drummer. Seated on the edge of his cot, Frank looked down at his feet now. He tried to put poor nervous Reedy out of his mind. He tried to focus his thoughts, block out everything, until he felt as if he were alone. He put his hands between his knees and clasped them. He closed his eyes and concentrated. He began to pray: his morning prayer. It steadied him. He was always aware, every moment, that the eye of God was on him, but when he prayed, he could feel the eye, there, above him, very clearly. The eye was motionless, unblinking and dark, like those cameras in the ceilings of elevators that watch you just when you feel most secluded and alone. When he prayed, Frank remembered that he was not alone and he felt that eye watching him. Behind that eye, he told himself, there was a whole other world, a whole other system of justice, better than the state of Missouri's. To that system, and to its judge, he appealed as he prayed. He prayed for strength. It wasn't for himself he was asking, he said, it was for his wife, for Bonnie, and for their little girl. He asked Jesus to take them into consideration now, on this final day. He prayed that he'd be given the strength to tell them good-bye. After a while, he did feel stronger. The dream was half forgotten. He raised his gaze to the clock on the wall. And he felt the eye of God was ever on him. Excerpted from True Crime by Andrew Klavan. Copyright (c) 1995 by Amalgamated Metaphor, Inc. Excerpted by permission of Crown Books, a member of the Crown Publishing Group. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. From the Paperback edition. Excerpted from True Crime: The Novel by Andrew Klavan All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.