Some will remember James Comey as the Obama-appointed Director of the FBI. Some will recall Hillary's e-mails, the Mueller investigation, the Trump firing, more leaked e-mails, and on and on. Mr. Comey, in the private sector, has come to experiment with the writing of crime novels. Because, you know, why not? If I wanted to, I'm sure I could experiment with being a lawyer and just show up one day in court imagining I could make up the law as I went along, whatever fit and sounded right in any particular moment, since that's the way we seem to be doing things these days. Of course, people would start calling me a sovereign citizen and judges would start ordering mental health evaluations, there's that.
Around here we simply write reviews.
So let's get on with this, shall we?
First lines:
The doorman barely glanced up as she breezed past, bright blonde hair spilling from under her navy blue Hermes scarf, fancy Jackie O sunglasses on even at night, black Prada gabardine raincoat...
And there will be ladder-backed chairs in butcher block kitchens, "not-on-sale" Brooks Brothers 100 percent cotton white shirts, cast-ivory bowl-pendant lights, grey-on-black marble wainscotting, Persian rugs that perfectly tie the oxblood couch and armchairs to the royal blue carpet. (All this while Jackie Collins is barely gone and barely missed and that's just sort of amusing.) And this is how we start because this is what Mr. Comey is under the impression is meant by the instruction to "set a scene." Thumb through a catalog or two, rifle through the labels in a closet on your way back from the bathroom; get some names on paper, some architectural bling. The crime is just, my gosh, this ancillary thing.
Mr. Comey, you are fictionally taking the life of a (very) thinly-disguised Andrew Cuomo. Eye on the ball, dude.
Introduced we are in very short order to lawyers, and lawyers, and more lawyers - and this is fine (I liked The Firm), only someone told our author these attorneys should be relatable, which he has translated to mean dopey, so they're all dopey, so dopey in fact that I'm taking offense on behalf of the many lawyers I know whom, I must confess, are private practice sharks, so I might be talking out of my hat here. Still, this is present-day Manhattan and when your whiplash-inducing mob-defendant-turned-informant-turned-star-witness shows up, in less than a minute, with a bullet in his head and a dead canary in his mouth, well, I just think we're stretching this out of all recognizable proportion.
To be fair, Mr. Comey does manage to drive a story through this mess. There are twists and turns and, if you can ignore everyone's personal lives, and personalities, and what they're wearing and how they're living, secrets are uncovered in the dopeyness that are solid secrets upon which can be built solid prosecutions - because we do finally arrive at Mr. Comey's bailiwick in terms of law.
I suppose one could say you have to start somewhere.
Mr. Comey's career as a crime novelist starts with this.