Publisher Description

First published by St. Martin's in 1958, Robert Traver's Anatomy of a Murder immediately became the number-one bestseller in America, and was subsequently turned into the now classic Otto Preminger film of the same name, starring Jimmy Stewart and Duke Ellington.

It's not only the most popular courtroom drama in American fiction, but one of the most popular novels of our time. A gripping tale of deceit, murder, and a sensational trial, Anatomy of a Murder is unmatched in the authenticity of its settings, events, and characters. This new edition should delight both loyal fans of the past and an entire new generation of readers. "The characters are as fresh as when they were first created, the tension high, and the cross- examinations and legal chicanery full of suspense. The novel is simply what it says on the cover. A classic." - Tangled Web

Author Biography

Robert Traver is the pseudonym of the former Michigan Supreme Court justice John D. Voelker (1903-1991). His bestselling novel, Anatomy of a Murder (1958), was turned into the award-winning film of the same name. He is also the author of Trout Madness, People Versus Kirk, and Laughing Whitefish, among other works. He lived in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

Review

"For the lay reader, the entertainment lies in the action ... but for the lawyer, undoubtedly the greatest pleasure stems from the author's obvious competence in, and love for, the law." - University of Miami Law Review

Review Quote

"For the lay reader, the entertainment lies in the action ... but for the lawyer, undoubtedly the greatest pleasure stems from the author's obvious competence in, and love for, the law." - University of Miami Law Review

Excerpt from Book

Anatomy of a Murder PART ONE Before the Trial chapter 1 The mine whistles were tooting midnight as I drove down Main Street hill. It was a warm moonlit Sunday night in mid-August and I was arriving home from a long weekend of trout fishing in the Oxbow Lake district with my old hermit friend Danny McGinnis, who lives there all year round. I swung over on Hematite Street to look at my mother''s house--the same gaunt white frame house on the corner where I was born. As my car turned the corner the headlights swept the rows of tall drooping elms planted by my father when he was a young man--much younger than I--and gleamed bluely on the darkened windows. My mother Belle was still away visiting my married sister and she had enjoined me to keep an eye on the place. Well, I had looked and lo! like the flag, the old house was still there. I swung around downtown and slowed down to miss a solitary drunk emerging blindly from the Tripoli Bar and out upon the street, in a sort of gangling somnambulistic trot, pursued on his way by the hollow roar of a juke box from the garishly lit and empty bar. "Sunstroke," I murmured absently. "Simply a crazed victim of the midnight sun." As I parked my mud-spattered coupe alongside the Miners'' State Bank, across from my office over the dime store, I reflected that there were few more forlorn and lonely sounds in the world than the midnight wail of a juke box in a deserted small town, those raucous proclamations of joy and fun where, instead, there dwelt only fatigue and hangover and boredom. To me the wavering hoot of an owl sounds utterly gay by comparison. I unlocked the car trunk and took out my packsack and two aluminum-cased fly rods and a handbag and rested them on the curb. I shouldered the packsack and grabbed up the other stuff and started across the echoing empty street. "How was fishing, Polly?" someone said, emerging from the darkened alley alongside the dime store. It was old Jack Tregembo, tall and lean and weather-beaten as a beardless Uncle Sam. Jack had been a night cop on the Chippewa police force as long as I could remember. "Fine, fine, Jack," I said, rubbing my unshaven neck. "I ate so many trout the past few days I suspect I''m developing gill slits." "S''pose you heard about the big murder?" Jack said, moving closer, plainly hoping that I hadn''t. "We even made the city papers." "No, Jack," I said, pricking up my ears. "Just got in--as you see. No newspapers, radios or phones, thank God, up in the big Oxbowbush. Talkative Old Danny could never stand the competition. Trust you caught the villain and got him all hogtied, purged, and confessed for Mitch." . Jack shrugged. "Tain''t our headache, Polly. Happened ''way up in Thunder Bay. Friday night. Some soldier stationed up there blew his top and drilled Barney Quill five times with a .38. This Barney ran the hotel and bar there. Claims Barney''d raped his wife. The state police have this baby, thank goodness." "He ... ." I said, the legal gears beginning involuntarily to turn. Just then a car wheeled around the corner on two wheels, dog tails flying fore and aft, the car awash with shouting juveniles, brakes and tires squealing like neighing stallions. It narrowly missed piling into the rear of my parked car and then roared away down the street. Seconds later two police cars followed in hot pursuit, sirens away, the last one pausing long enough to pick up Jack, who leapt in like a boy. The scene was invested with a curious quality of Keystone comedy and I thought wistfully of the brooding calm that must prevail at this moment over my favorite trout waters up in the Oxbow bush. Creeping mist, a coyote wailing on the ridge, the cackle of a loon, the plash of a rising trout. I stood looking up over the Miners'' State Bank as the big waning yellow moon swam out from behind a jagged dark cliff of cloud. "My heart will always ble-e-e-e-e-d for you," the juke box wailed, "out of my crying ne-e-e-,e-d for you ... ." "Crime," I reflected tritely, as I trudged up the creaking wooden stairs, "crime marches on." I heard the monotonously insistent robot ringing of a telephone before I reached the top of the stairs. The waspish buzzing continued. I did not hurry; after all, it could be for the chiropractor, the beauty operator, the dentist, or even the young newlyweds down the hall. It could have been, but I was certain it wasn''t. For with one of those swift premonitions one cannot define I knew it was for me; it would be, I was sure, my invitation to the waltz--my bid to accept the retainer in Iron Cliffs County''s latest murder. I lowered my duffel and fumbled for the key to my private office. My phone had ceased ringing.

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