No Good Deeds

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Readers often ask where writers get their ideas, and in the case of No Good Deeds it seems more important than usual to anticipate and address that question. In December 2003, I heard a radio report that a federal prosecutor in Baltimore had been killed on the eve of closing arguments in a big case. Jonathan Luna’s death remains unsolved, and my knowledge of it goes only as far as what was reported in the media. It was someone else’s casual observation about the coverage of the case that sparked my imagination and led to this story, which has been built on what-if upon what-if upon what-if.

Yet Baltimore really is Smalltimore, and when I turned to a neighbor to help me research a day-in-the-life of an assistant U.S. attorney, I found out I was talking to one of the two coworkers who delivered eulogies at Luna’s funeral. I am extremely grateful to AUSA Bonnie Greenberg and keen that this be understood: Nothing in this book is meant to reflect on the life of Luna, a man about whom I know almost nothing. The same is true of Luna’s family, friends, and coworkers.

To continue the Smalltimore theme, I am indebted to Julian “Jack” Lapides, a longtime family friend, for some crucial background on probate and safe-deposit boxes.

Randy Curry, part of the multigenerational family that has run Rehoboth’s Playland since 1962, gave me some insight into how a seaside amusement park readies itself for summer. There is no Frank’s FunWorld, alas, but if you’re looking for a good time on the Delaware seashore, Skeeball at Playland is still twenty-five cents for nine balls. Curry also confirmed my long-held belief that you must bank your shots to get the highest possible score.

Books, articles, the Frontline documentary The Man Who Knew, and other sources provided insight into the day-to-day life of an FBI agent. John O’Neill was killed on September 11, 2001, in his new capacity as director of security for the World Trade Towers-a job that he took, in part, because he felt he had been unfairly scapegoated by the FBI. A source that must remain anonymous was extremely helpful in detailing the ins and outs of the federal justice system.

I learned about the Baltimore Four, a precursor to the better-known Catonsville Nine, from Brendan Walsh of Viva House. Brendan and his wife, Willa Bickham, hate it when they’re singled out for credit-and here I am, doing it twice in one book. Dave White provided another esoteric bit of knowledge for Crow, while Mike Ollove deserves credit for the best headline that the Sun never used. Thanks to David Simon, whose chance remark inspired this novel. Like Tess, I’m listening even when you think I’m not.

Finally, it’s worth pointing out that there were 269 homicides in Baltimore last year-a slight decrease from 2004, but far from the large-scale reduction promised by Mayor Martin O’Malley when he ran for office in 1999. As I write this, the city has just paid five hundred thousand dollars to a consultant to help remake its image in the eyes of tourists and convention planners. But visitors to our city enjoy remarkable safety in an increasingly vibrant downtown. It’s our own citizens, in neighborhoods where executives would never want to tamper, to paraphrase a favorite poet, who are most at risk. I’m just saying.

LAURA LIPPMAN

Baltimore, Maryland

December 2005