Is it possible in this day of enlightened justice for a man to be punished twice for the same crime? Double Jeopardy answers this question, at the same time uncovering the greatest of many loopholes in our modern jurisprudence. In this very human but striking novel are portrayed the calamities that can be visited upon any ordinary citizen by the cold dispassionate judgement of our courts and our unimaginative and often stupid juries. Through the eyes of the victim, Peter Thatcher, this tense revelation unfolds, growing to ugly and utterly ridiculous proportions. "Peter Thatcher has murdered his wife," people said. "I heard them quarreling," announced one. "And I," added another, "saw the blood." To make matters worse, Thatcher himself could not be quite sure of his own innocence Not a problem novel, not a mystery novel, but rather a cross between the two, this thrilling story will always be appreciated by those who read "The Postman Always Rings Twice."
This one started to remind me of The Stranger by Albert Camus, and by the end, had a similar, powerful impact on me. It's absurdism, American style, and written in 1938, four years before Camus' work, so who knows what ideas fed other ideas? I've learned not to underestimate the French, and their love of all things American, especially its pulp fiction, pop music, and cinema. The period possibly gave rise to spontaneous, similar visions of dismal reality, or maybe there was more direct communication--I don't know. I really liked this book. It's a first-person narrator, and he's a very limited individual, so he can be frustrating at times, because we're WAY ahead of him at every turn, but it's short, and sweet, and for me--though I knew what was coming--a punch in the gut.
A note on this edition--lots of typos, and no intro, nor any indication when this was written. (says copyright 2013 Black Curtain Press! ??) The back cover copy is also ridiculous--please skip it.
Martin M. Goldsmith’s second novel is unapologetically plot-driven, but Double Jeopardy offers surprisingly little drama. As narrator Peter Thatcher describes how Anita, his femme fatale, played him for a fool and framed him into prison, readers will never have a doubt what is going on, even while Peter is too thick to see it. Sometimes when noir fiction is dramatically weak, our empathy for the protagonist compensates with cathartic pleasure as we bear witness to inevitable doom. Not so here, as Peter Thatcher’s narrative becomes increasingly overwrought. Nobody knows the trouble Peter has seen, which he keeps reminding us in his ongoing attempt to wear out our goodwill.