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Another thing that never occurred to me was how I would write about sloth. Most of us think of sloth, if we think of it at all, as laziness. A novel where everybody laid around not doing anything didn’t sound suspenseful.

Time to research. I learned that although laziness is part of the definition, sloth is linked to the sin of omission. You know the expression, evil thrives when good people do nothing? That’s also sloth, and it seemed a better possibility for a crime novel than laziness did.

But what would the crime be?

A number of years ago I got involved with an anti-human trafficking organization. The stories I heard rocked my world. I had no idea it was as big a problem as it is right here in the good ole’ US of A.

One story in particular, about a young girl from Egypt, broke my heart. This child was ‘sold’ by her parents to a wealthy couple who brought her to America with them. They worked her to the bone, ignored her basic needs, and made her sleep on the garage floor. Since she spoke no English they were able to convince her that the American police would beat her, toss her in jail, and throw away the key if they found her. Thankfully, a neighbor noticed what was happening and tipped off Social Services.

This girl was the inspiration for Hannah in The Sanctity of Sloth, but she had a happier end than Hannah’s. (I am a murder and suspense writer, after all.) Shyima Hall became a U.S. citizen and got an education with the goal of becoming a police officer.

My Lesson

I often say I have to grapple with my own B.S. (besetting sins) when I embark on a novel. To write well about sloth, for instance, I had to dredge my life for misdeeds. This is my method for creating character emotions and responses that feel real.

I’ve never enslaved anyone (no matter what my hubby says when the honey-do list comes out). But, I’ve seen injustice and shut my mouth rather than ruffle feathers.

What Shyima’s story teaches, and what I learned from the anti-trafficking organizations, is exposure is the traffickers’ kryptonite. The more good people understand the scope and nature of the problem, the less criminals like the couple who enslaved Shyima will be able to get away with their crimes.

Why not kill two birds with one stone?

Hence the plot for The Sanctity of Sloth was born. It seemed perfect–an action-packed crime married to a message of social awareness. I could be entertaining and assuage my own conscience at the same time.

With all that has been going on in our troubled world, I decided I needed to push through the politics and hear from a couple of people who’ve lived what everyone is talking about. I sent out two sets of author interview questions.

One went to my buddy Lamb Lambert, the first black police officer hired in the city of Santa Ana. (The second set went to another wonderful career law enforcement friend and author, Joe DeLauderante, who is white. That interview is coming soon.) I had the privilege of reading Lamb’s book before it was published. It wasn’t an easy read, but so worth the discomfort.

And, on a bright note, I didn’t realize Lamb also trained K9 dogs! I always knew he was a man after my own heart. As all of you who’ve read my stories know, I’m a big fan of the pooch and have many doggy characters.

Here’s the interview

• Lots of people ask authors where they get their ideas. Here’s my more “writerly” version of that question: What inspired you to devote the months or years needed to write your story?

The short answer, initially, was the need for acceptance, both from my brothers- in-blue and from members of the community I served. However, as life happened it was “aha years” before – with the prompting of my wife and historians who had taken an interest in me – I understood that I needed to be acknowledged for my humanity and to document police and ongoing race-related issues as I experienced them.

• What was the most difficult thing about the writing process?

To relate my story as I lived it, without embellishment or explanation. As I wrote about my early years growing up in the troubled South through playing basketball in the Army, and eventually being hired onto the police force, I began learning more about myself and what it meant to fit in a world made by others.

It’s hard to understand a crisis when you’re living through it. I thought I’d have a shot at understanding if I stepped back and looked at enduring the indignation of racism, intimidation, harassment, and the pain associated with being a black officer in an all-white police department through a historical lens.

• What message do you hope readers take away after they close the cover of your book?

The way history continues to play out between police (racism and brutality) and the African American and other minority communities, leaves me hopeful my book will lead people to question themselves or each other or to have a conversation about cultural differences that no longer serve us by allowing the past to inform the future.

• Some writers’ primary goal is to entertain, some to educate, some to motivate. Which best describes you?

Education is key, and although education is the road-map, it does not trump racism. There are enormous opportunities to compare similar previous challenges and to hold meaningful conversations as a means for change.

• Writers generally have a lot to say. How did you tease out the most pertinent storylines and discipline yourself to toss the rest?

With the help of my creative writing class, we edited out events that were similar or that did not add value to the overall theme of my book.  

• What has changed in your life now that you are a published author?

Dr. Seuss said it best: “Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.” I’m an extraordinarily blessed man in countless ways.

• If you could go back in time and encourage your unpublished self, what would you say?

< laughing> Observe posted speed while listening to the whooshing sound of the deadline as it races by.

• What are you working on now?

A second memoir that briefly outlines what I did after leaving the police department, and ultimately focuses on my career working with and training dogs. I was acknowledged with another “first” when I trained the first U.S. cell-phone detection K9 teams for the Virginia Department of Corrections.

The greatest pleasure and success in my life has come from these amazing, wonderful four-legged canines, who love and accept their humans without reservation.

• Where can people find out more about you and your work?

Go to my website at https://lamblambertauthor.com/ . There are videos, articles, and photos available for review, as well as excerpts from my two published free verse poetry books (Affairs of the Heart, Vols. 1 and 2) and from my memoir.

Our second website (www.lambzauthorsandbeyond.com) is in work and will focus on my K9 training and other endeavors.

Another resource is at https://www.youtube.com/user/k9lamb/videos.

Click Here to get your copy.

Gluttony is an emotional escape, a sign something is eating us. – Peter De Vries

CHAPTER ONE

Honey marched forward into the maw of the mountains despite the growing gloom of the canyon. Despite the persistent feeling she was being swallowed alive. Despite the fact her feet were killing her.

So was her back, her knees, and her lungs. Honey was out of shape. She could stand in a kitchen for hours at a stretch, but hiking up steep inclines wasn’t a normal part of her day. She trailed behind Booker, her husband, who was as fit as she wasn’t.

Booker was a firefighter, but she bet she put out more fires than he did. If she had his schedule, she’d exercise all the time too. Honey tripped over a rock, put a hand on his shoulder, and righted herself. Okay, she probably wouldn’t, but she would exercise more than she did.

“You okay?” He gazed at her with concern. The look in his eyes made her ashamed of her attitude.

“Yeah. Thanks,” she added.

“The cut off for the falls is right around the bend.”

“But how far to the falls?” She couldn’t seem to get the adolescent whine out of her voice.

“We’ll take a break when we get to the boulders.” Unlike her, Booker sounded energized. He was enjoying his new role as her personal trainer, and anything that made Booker happy these days was something she’d go along with. Which wasn’t to say she didn’t wish it was something else. Something else like a good movie, dinner out, or wine tasting. Most of the time, she was grateful her husband was a hunk. Not today. Today it was downright irritating.

At the end of last year, Honey’s doctor had announced she was insulin resistant, which could turn into type two diabetes if she didn’t make changes. Dr. Hillary also said Honey’s cholesterol was high. If it got any higher she’d have to go on medication. The doctor recommended regular exercise and cutting back on animal fats, simple carbs, and sugar.

Of course, Honey didn’t do anything about the proclamation before Christmas. How could you bake cookies without butter and sugar and white flour? Booker wasn’t happy about it but agreed they could start Honey’s lifestyle makeover in the new year. It was now January, the month of resolution hell, hence the hike in Black Star Canyon.

Before they reached the path to the falls, Honey noticed the entrance to another trail branching off the fire road they were on. A barricade decorated with several pockmarked signs stretched across it. The signs read, “Keep Out,” “Beware of Dogs,” and “No Trespassing.” Were those pockmarks made by bullets? Guns were also outside Honey’s comfort zone. Guns were one of the reasons she and Booker had left Kentucky fifteen years ago. There were too many of them in Kentucky. Hunters shot up the hills every fall. They aimed for deer but took farmers’ cows and even large dogs. It didn’t seem like a safe place to raise a family even if she and Booker had made it out of childhood alive. Thinking about Kentucky reminded her of Joe and their lost money. Her mood soured more if that was possible.

“Friendly around here, aren’t they?” Honey said.

“Well, you can’t blame them. They’ve had their share of troubles.”

“Like what?” She wasn’t especially curious, but a story might take her mind off her feet.

“You know everyone thinks this canyon is haunted, right?”

“I heard it was something to do with Native American burial grounds.”

“Sort of. Back in the eighteen hundreds, the natives were stealing horses from the Mexicans. Some fur trappers rolled into town and offered to take care of things. They found the natives eating horse meat over there.” Booker pointed up the mountain. “They slaughtered everyone who couldn’t outrun the bullets, and returned the live horses to the señors.”

“On your right.” A voice behind Honey made her jump. She turned to see five women in full riding gear pedaling up the hill. She moved to one side and watched them pass, admiring the definition of their thighs. It would be wonderful to have muscles like that. If only you didn’t have to exercise to get them.

“Trail angels,” Booker said.

Honey glanced around, looking for wildlife. “Where?”

Her husband jutted his chin at the cyclists. “Them. It’s a group of mountain bikers. They call themselves Trail Angels. You should look into it. It’d be good for you.”

She didn’t respond. He couldn’t be serious.

Booker made a right onto a dirt trail overhung with branches. The pungent odor of sage and wet leaves pinched Honey’s nose, but the shade was pleasant. She was sweating despite the cool weather.

Booker said if you perspired, it meant you were healthy. She strongly suspected Dr. Hillary had exaggerated her condition. Her thoughts wandered to the frittata she’d make when they got home.

“The dead are said to haunt the old mines and trails of Black Star. The story attracts a certain element.” Booker’s words interrupted the bacon or turkey sausage debate running through her mind.

“Who bothers the locals up here, teens or crazies?” she said, pulling herself out of the kitchen.

“Both.” Booker pushed a branch that crossed the trail aside and held it while she passed. “There are the usual ghost hunters, but there’s also a fair amount of crime. Two girls were gang-raped and their boyfriends beaten to a pulp.”

 Honey’s foot slid forward. She grabbed a tree branch to stop herself from falling. The past week it had rained for several days in a row, which was great for the environment, but the ground was slick. Honey’s tennis shoes didn’t have much traction.

Booker stepped around her and resumed his position as leader of the pack. “There are also Satanist wannabes who’ve been known to steal goats and sheep off local properties and sacrifice them on the rocks.”

Why did he sound so cheerful? He’d been as somber as a turkey on Thanksgiving since Joe had disappeared. Honey shook her head. If she’d known all it would take to perk him up was rape and animal sacrifice, she’d have dragged him to a horror movie.

“The Sheriff’s Department has cracked down on things,” he continued. “But sometimes the locals get a wild hair and take matters into their own hands.”