A Not-So-Complete Guide to Crime Fiction

   

 Crime fiction is an art best left to criminals. Or reformed criminals, at least. If one has never roamed the mean streets in the panics of heroin withdrawal, looking for their next quick score, then the writing may suffer. Something about being slammed down in a dirty cell, full of a dozen other dangerous reprobates, seems to get those creative juices flowing. There is nothing like a high-speed chase followed by a shootout with police to act as a muse. 

   I have tried reading crime fiction written by those who had never lived it. Authors such as James Ellroy or Elmore Leonard, to me, have all the flavor of boiled cauliflower. They know how to turn a phrase but not the dials on a peeled safe. It’s hard to grip this reader in the jaws of impending death when your fangs have never grown sharp enough. There are exceptions, of course. Jim Thompson comes to mind, but for the most part, this is a genre best left to those whose classroom was a cell block rather than a lecture hall.

   Each of the writers below left behind a documented criminal career along with literary trails that are, at the very least, worth a look. I will be sticking to contemporary American authors (sorry, Chopper Read), as crime fiction can be traced back as early as the sixth century. 

Iceberg Slim

   The Godfather of Ghetto Lit, the man may be solely responsible for hip hop’s romanticism of the trafficking of women. As with many of the writers on this list, Slim (born Robert Lee Maupin, later known as Robert Beck) began his literary career with a non-fiction memoir before delving into fiction. Possessing a genius IQ, he delivered a lettered bitch slap with his release of Pimp: The Story of My Life, written after leaving prison and the pimp game behind.

  He continued to write until he died in 1992, with seven novels, two non-fiction autobiographical works, and a short story collection. Painting an unabashedly brutal portrait of street life, Trick Baby and Long White Con are highly recommended. Slim was the guy who opened the floodgates and started it all. 

Donald Goines

   A disciple of Iceberg Slim, Goines’ short and prolific writing career began while incarcerated in a Michigan state prison. After developing what would be a lifelong addiction to heroin during a stint in the Korean War, he turned to pimping, drug dealing, and armed robbery to support his habit. Goines knocked out an astonishing 16 novels in four years, all of them dealing with the ugly face of street life and the criminal underworld. 

   Donald’s newfound career would be cut short when he was murdered in 1974, along with his wife, in his own home. The shootings remain unsolved and theories for the motive range from a drug deal gone wrong to street justice meted out by criminals who were none too pleased with having their likenesses fictionalized for all to read. 

   Goines gets shoutouts in way too many rap songs to even attempt to count. He was, for a time, the most read author in United States prisons, and his works are cited as the first book that many incarcerated individuals had ever read. My favorites and most recommended titles of his are: Dopefiend, White Man’s Justice, Black Man’s Grief, and Black Gangster. Most of his novels have, surprisingly, never been adapted into movies. One of the two which have, Never Die Alone, produced by rapper DMX, was an odd choice, as it is Goines’ only novel with a white protagonist. 

Edward Bunker

   My favorite writer on this list, Bunker’s early life was a textbook example of what could go wrong in a child’s upbringing to lead them into a life of crime. Born in 1933 to absentee and alcoholic parents, he began running away and committing petty crimes at the age of five. This set him permanently down the path of being “state-raised,”  with his crimes becoming more serious, resulting in longer and longer sentences. The long road of boys’ homes, juvenile hall and reformatories, to county jails and notorious California state prisons, San Quentin and Folsom, Bunker rubbed elbows with a who’s who of California outlaws— from Billy Cook and Caryl Chessman to members of the Manson Family and Mexican Mafia heavyweight Joe Morgan. 

   Inspired by other prison writers, Bunker authored his first novel, No Beast So Fierce, while still locked down. Its unapologetic realism blew readers’ minds and also caught the attention of Hollywood. It was adapted into a phenomenal film by Dustin Hoffman and ensured Bunker’s place in the movie industry after his parole in 1975. Unlike other notorious shitbags, like Jack Henry Abbott, he never again returned to crime and worked as an author, screenwriter, actor, and technical advisor until his death in 2005. 

   Recommendations of essential reading for Bunker’s works are simple: All of his novels are fantastic, so pick any one of them. Little Boy Blue and Animal Factory both the the story of a youngster’s descent into the penal system and their commitment to a life of crime when no other options are apparent. No Beast So Fierce tells the tale of a career criminal’s futile attempt at going straight. My personal favorite, Dog Eat Dog (adapted into a horrendous movie; do not waste your time watching it), tells the tale of three career goons working as a robbery crew against the backdrop of the changing 1990s criminal landscape and the looming Three Strikes Law. All of these books read like a cold shank to the ribs. 

Eddie Little

  Drawing from his life as a thief, con-man, and lifelong junkie, Eddie Little left behind two outstanding novels. Similar to Bunker, both works are autobiographical fiction, framing his avatar with a cast of far-out and frightening underworld hoods. Another Day in Paradise and its sequel, Steel Toes are both essential reads in this genre. Both tell tales of Bobbie, a teenage speed tweaker who is taken under the wing of an accomplished professional thief and schooled in the ways of burglary, drug pushing, and maintaining a functional heroin habit. Little’s prose, dialogue, and assortment of characters make his works stand out. 

   Little served several prison sentences for fraud, robbery, and drug offenses and, like the others, began to write while incarcerated. He spent virtually his entire life in the system: incarcerated, on parole, or probation. In addition to his two novels, he penned a semi-regular column, “LA Outlaw,” which ran in the L.A. Weekly. He enjoyed some success and notoriety after being published and worked for We Care, a charitable organization that delivered meals to AIDS patients. His first novel was adapted into a film, directed by Larry Clark. Never able to fully free himself from the claws of heroin addiction, Eddie died alone, at the age of 48, in a Los Angeles motel room. I have read different accounts of the cause of death, including both a heart attack and an overdose. 

Dannie Martin

   Shipped to Lomboc Federal Penitentiary for bank robbery, Dannie “Red Hog” Martin began to write dispatches about prison life for the tabloid-turned-newspaper San Francisco Chronicle. His articles captured the public’s attention with tales of knife fights, cruel guards, racial strife, and the havoc wreaked by AIDS behind bars. His byline earned him disciplinary action from the authorities, and Martin’s long battle for a prisoner’s right to commit journalism.

   Paroled in 1992 after serving 12 of a 30-year sentence, he penned two novels, The Dishwasher and In The Hat. The former tells the story of an ex-con forced back into criminal streets to avenge a rape. The latter is a bizzare story about a white pimp and cock-fighter who runs afoul of the powers-that-be. Both are solid, in my opinion. 

   Martin was able to remain drug-free and out of trouble for the rest of his life. He continued writing, not always for publication, until his passing in 2013 from heart failure at the age of 74. 

Ralph “Sonny” Barger

   Often erroneously credited as the founder, Barger was, without a doubt, the most visible member of the notorious Hells Angels Motorcycle Club. A native of Oakland, California, he ran amok on the highways from his late teens on, freewheeling and raising hell, after a short stint in the army. His criminal record stretched back to at least 1957, and he served several stints in both the state and federal systems. 

   Enjoying a dual life as both an outlaw and pop-culture celebrity, Sonny’s writing career began with the release of his autobiography in 2001. Additional non-fiction works and two novels would follow. Dead in 5 Heartbeats and 6 Chambers, 1 Bullet both deal with— you guessed it— outlaw motorcycle clubs and the chaotic world that can envelope its members. The books are fun reads where the bikers are the good guys and the dirty, stinking rats are the villains. At times, both novels can fall into intrigue and action that starts to seem cheesy until you remember that the author is a man who clearly knows the subject matter at hand. Far be it from me to criticize his credibility. I ain’t gonna go there and get myself rat-packed. No, sir! 

Sanyika Shakur, aka “Monster” Kody Scott

   Shakur’s Monster: The Autobiography of an L.A. Gang Member absolutely rocked my world upon first reading it as a teenager. My suburban sensibilities were in awe of the ghetto horror show that was his memoir. Joining the Eight Tray Gangster Crips at age 11, Scott committed murder and mayhem with such disregard that the stories would certainly seem exaggerated, had they not mostly been verified by sources both in law enforcement and on the streets. His matter-of-fact prose bites your head right off, despite his annoying habit of misusing words like “overstand.” From his days as a young banger, to achieving OG status as Monster, to finding Black Nationalism in prison and rechristening himself as Sanyika Shakur. Obviously inspired by The Autobiography of Malcolm X, this book is a must-read for all aficionados of crime lit. 

   Too bad it was all downhill from there. The lack of quality in everything else of his that I have read leads me to suspect that the autobiography was, at least partially, ghostwritten. Case in point, T.H.U.G L.I.F.E, his solo attempt at street fiction. I don’t want to delve too deep into the negative. This is supposed to be about recommended reading, after all. And I do recommend it, solely based on the author himself and his undeniable talent for storytelling. I did find it disappointing and lacking in the knowledge that Shakur seemed so fond of flexing. Remove his name from the cover, and it’s just another attempted Donald Goines clone, only with name-dropped rappers.  

   His final act was much sadder. In spite of his homage to Black Nationalism, Shakur remained active in gang politics and was rumored to be addicted to crack cocaine. He was found dead in a homeless encampment in San Diego in 2021. The cause of death is listed as a stroke. He was 57 years old. I can’t be alone when I say that I feel an enormous amount of talent was wasted. 

Honorable Mention: Iain Levison

   He wasn’t a criminal; he was just a working stiff. Either way, he belongs on this list. A transplant to the US from Scotland, Levison writes not of certifiable bad guys, but more of Class A fuck ups. His three novels, Since the Layoffs, How to Rob an Armored Car, and Dog Eats Dog, are a more lighthearted romp on the wrong side of the law. All of them deal with down-on-their-luck worker bees getting in way over their heads when they decide to break bad. This is top-notch stuff.  

Better Call Paul: Life as a Serial Crank Caller

 

 

 For as long as I had been physically able to pick up a telephone and dial a number, I had been making crank phone calls. I can still remember my first ones. I would have been around 5 or 6 years old. Shakey’s Pizza Parlor was a large family fun establishment that resembled a tavern. It was dark and loud inside. In between the front door and another door to the restaurant was a small lobby containing a pay phone. I would sneak away from my family’s table and dial “0” for the operator. I would tell her to fuck herself when she answered then hang up. I would then go stand by the door, laughing maniacally, while the phone rang and rang with the operator attempting to report me to my parents

   This kind of cerebral behavior continued all through my childhood, teens, and well into adulthood. My older brothers were both crank call virtuosos, especially the one closest to me in age, Michael. We would regularly spend entire evenings making crank calls. Gathering up a phone book and locking his door, we would go to work. A typical call would have been calling people as pizza delivery places and stubbornly asking them to clarify their orders. 

   “Hi we got the orders mixed up. What was on your pizza?”

   “I didn’t order a pizza.”

   “Okay, pepperoni…”

   “No, I never ordered a pizza.”

    “Great! And extra cheese and mushrooms…”

    I didn’t order a pizza! You have the wrong number!!”

   “…and sausage and poop.” Hilarity ensued.

   Something else my brother would do would be to dial a number for a crank then hand the phone off to me. The hijinx came to a halt when my grandmother answered on the other end. I would either hang up or play it off like I was just calling to say ‘hi.’

   Our older brother, Dan, would occasionally get in on the action. He’d have full-on hysteric meltdowns while directing Michael to make more and more calls. Everything was funnier when Dan was involved. 

   One time, the pranks went beyond the telephone. Dan was babysitting my brother and I while Mom was out. He had invited his friend, Steve, over and they got a brilliant idea. We were already ordering pizza for dinner, so why not tie Joey up and leave him in the background when we answer the door? They strapped me to a chair with ropes and belts then blacked and blued my eyes with some of my mother’s makeup. A gag in my mouth was the final touch. 

   The pizza dude came to the door and I acted my part in the background—struggling with my bonds, flopping around, and letting go a few muffled yelps for help. We all had a good laugh until the cops showed up a few minutes later. We were lucky it was only one, who was kind enough to knock, and not a whole battalion kicking down the fucking door. Michael wanted no part of it and locked himself in the bathroom. Dan and I were able to diffuse the whole situation and explain that it was just a stupid prank and show the officer the makeup we had used. We all breathed a collective ‘holy shit’ and agreed that we wouldn’t breathe a word of this to Mom. 

   The next day my grandpa was picking me up from school. As we walked to his car he nonchalantly said, “So, Joe, how about we tie you up and order a pizza?”

   I gave him the most wide-eyed, how-in-the-world-can-you-possibly-know-that look and stuttered in my non-response. He just smiled and seemed to get a serious kick out of it all. Apparently, the neighbors had inquired to my mother the next day about why the police were at our apartment. She confronted Dan and he spilled the beans. None of us got into any trouble for that. Such was life with us. 

 

   I continued to regularly make crank calls. I would do it alone or with friends. I would call from home and pay phones. I liked calling 411 and asking for stupid numbers. 

   “Information, can I help you?”

   “Yes. Hell, please. The number for Satan?”

   I would crank call churches and ask if they delivered. I need an order of forgiveness ASAP. There was a teenaged former babysitter from Fairfield whom I hated. I made so many crank calls and left so many obscene messages to her that she began threatening to find out who I was, track me down, and “break my little butt in half.”

  I learned how to phreak free calls from pay phones by calling the operator and not disconnecting. When the dial tone came back on you could call anywhere in the world, at no charge. 

   After my mom was given a pager for her job, I discovered that the prefix along with any four numbers would dial up other pagers. I called hundreds of them, leaving the numbers of friends and enemies alike, all with a ‘911’ message attached. When pagers became a trendy accessory in junior high, I would dial those that belonged to friends and enter random numbers of other friends, often their ex-girlfriends, but sometimes people who had no connection to them at all. I was a non-stop terror on the telephone and there was no end in sight. 

   Around 1994 I was given a number to prank by some friends from out of state. It was a toll-free number that was extremely easy to memorize. They told me that they had called it so much that the guy on the other end had blocked all calls from their area. I should give it a try. You don’t have to twist my fucking arm. 

    The number belonged to an older chap named Paul. I began calling him regularly. If there was a pay phone in sight, I was on the horn to Paul. I would put on a ridiculous old man voice and have conversations with him for as long as possible before delving into homosexual passes. This went on for YEARS and he always—always— took the bait. 

   “Hiya, Paul. How’s it hangin’?”

    “Hey George, how you doing?”

   “Oh man, my back has been killing me, that old arthritis acting up. It would feel a whole lot better if you rubbed it for me.”

   “Huh?”

   “You can run my back, Paul. Then slide your hands down my pants. Grab my wrinkled old pole.”

   “This isn’t George. Who is this?”

   “Come on, Paul, I want your meat in my mouth…” 

   And on it went. Sophisticated, intelligent stuff, I know. I used the old man voice, an Arab accent, a Mexican accent, all horribly, and he answered and stayed on the line every single time. He would threaten that he had reported me and the cops were going to track me down and I would get into big trouble. I called him as “Detective GG Allin” of the Obscene Phone Call Unit of the SFPD. He was happy to give a statement until I told him that I wanted to lick his butthole. I am seriously starting to hate the idea of writing this down because I sound like a total psychopath. 

   Poor Paul had had enough. Eventually he began blocking the numbers from every area code that I was calling from. Any time I was out of state or on vacation, I made a point of always locating a pay phone and calling Paul. I have no idea how the call blocking worked, but the ban would always be lifted after a short while and it was back to calling Paul. 

   Don’t get me wrong, I made other calls, too. Into adulthood and what was supposed to be responsibility, I began buying prepaid calling cards, all for the purpose of bypassing newer innovations such as caller ID and *69. I was a huge fan of all things prank calls: The Tube Bar Tapes, The Jerky Boys, Crank Yankers, Howard Stern, The Touch-Tone Terrorist, The Phone Losers of America…it was all gold to me. 

   I had begun recording my calls with equipment purchased from Radio Shack. They never turned out quite as side-splitting as I had hoped, but a few I was proud of. When I called an adoption agency and acted like a member of NAMBLA, a friend told me he wanted to take a shower after listening to it. I got the number for a biker bar in rural Georgia and demanded that they keep everyone else from smoking while my boyfriend and I came in for a cocktail on our vacation from California. I was 30 going on 11. All of those tapes were lost when I had to abandon my car on the side of a road in Texas. That’s another story, though. 

   Little by little my interest in making calls waned and pay phones slowly disappeared. Cell phones started popping up literally everywhere and every new telephone had a caller ID built right in. I made my last call to Paul sometime in 2011, while waiting for a friend at a bus station. For the first time ever, he wasn’t home. Some recent sleuthing revealed that he had died that same year at the age of 94. Rest easy, old friend. 

   Whatever the psychological profile is for the habitual crank caller, I don’t know nor care. I still often revel in my past and I listen to other people’s prank calls on an almost daily basis. I am very happy that there is an available trove of these online. Art should never be lost, and that’s what I consider crank calling to be. Greats like Re-Pete or Sal & Richard took their craft to the big time. I was like a garage band who never played any real gigs, only small, private parties. 

    

Cowtown Crime: A Murder at Rico's Pizza

   Mark Bower needed fast money. He was $1,509 in debt to a Sacramento bail bondsman and the 25-year-old ex-con had no desire to return to jail that week. Mark was a thief and he didn’t desire to be anything but. He had four felony convictions dating back to 1976. Once, when asked where he pictured himself in 10 years time, he answered with “San Quentin.”

He was out on bail for a burglary charge. He had convinced his young girlfriend, Tania, to write a check for $600 to the bondsman with an agreement that they would not cash it, so long as the remaining balance was paid in cash, in two installments,  beginning on February 1st. It was January 30, 1983. 

   Sometime after 10 AM, Mark left the Vacaville apartment he was crashing at with Tania and her roommate Jodie. He took Tania’s orange Datsun 240z and told her that he was, “going into town.” He wore blue jeans, a gray jacket, and brown suede shoes. He wouldn’t return for several hours. 

   At the Supercuts in the Mission Village Shopping Center on the northside of Fairfield, California, hairdresser Cynthia Jackson was just beginning her shift. She was familiar with both Mark and the orange Datsun. She noticed Mark driving by her salon, slowly towards Rico’s Pizza Parlor. 

   Inside of Rico’s, Patrick Dean Mixell, 22-years-old, was preparing to open for what would likely have been a busy day. It was Super Bowl Sunday. The Washington Redskins were playing the Miami Dolphins and pizza orders by hungry sports fans would soon be rolling in when they opened at noon. Patrick was the interim manager of the Fairfield Rico’s and this was his third day on the job. Two of his first daily duties were to turn off the alarm and to relock the front door. He may have only performed one of those actions by the time Bower arrived. Patrick was 5’ 8” and weighed 135 pounds. Mark was 6’ 3” and over 200 lbs. of prison yard muscle. 

   Fifteen minutes later, Cynthia, from at her desk inside of Supercuts, would again witness Mark leaving in the opposite direction. Kenneth, a friend of Mark’s, lived a block away from Rico’s. At around 11:45 Mark would pull up to the curb in front of his house and briefly visit with him, never exiting his car. Kenneth found this odd, as Mark hadn’t stopped by in quite some time. Mark left after a few minutes, leaving in the direction opposite of Rico’s Pizza. 

   At 11:55, cook Michael Lewis arrived for his shift at Rico’s. Coincidentally, he had also been visiting with Kenneth that morning. His normal routine of knocking on the door for entry was not necessary, as the front door was already unlocked. He was at the time clock, near the kitchen, when he heard what he described as a “gurgling sound.” His new boss, Patrick, was lying face down in a pool of blood near the pizza ovens. Michael panicked and left for the clothing store next door to have them call for help. 

   Fairfield PD responded with the ambulance and Michael directed two officers to the scene in the kitchen. One of Mixell’s arms was tucked under his body, the other clutched the keys to the restaurant and alarm system. The two officers quickly assessed that a robbery had taken place. The drawer to the cash register was left open and empty. The safe below the counter was also opened and was emptied of all monies of any kind. A piece of paper was found near the register with the combination to the safe written on it. 

   Word spread swiftly throughout the shopping center that there had been a robbery at Rico’s. Cynthia observed medics removing Patrick Mixell’s body from her window at Supercuts. She immediately phoned the police to tell them of Mark’s coming and going that morning. 

   Mark arrived back at Tania’s apartment sometime around 1 PM. He seemed to be in good spirits. Two days prior, he had told her to call the bondsman and let them know that it was safe for them to cash the check. Tania had been dealing with repeated phone calls from their office demanding to know when sufficient funds would be in her account. Mark had assured her not to worry and that he was working on it. That day she observed him pulling a two-inch-thick roll of cash from his jacket pocket. When she asked him where he had gotten the money, he jokingly replied that he had “robbed a bank.” That night they went on a date together to dinner and a movie. 

   Responding officers, Timm and Hinman, scoured the crime scene at the pizza parlor. They were looking for some kind of object that might have caused the extensive injuries to Mixell’s face and the back of his head. Officer Timm discovered a commercial can opener lying in a sink behind a counter. The can opener was a heavy tool, resembling a pipe-wrench. It was stained red and a scouring pad was on top of the handle. 

    Patrick Mixell would die from his injuries two days later, on February 1. His skull had been fractured in two places: The orbital bone surrounding his left eye and in the back of his head, behind his right ear. The coroner would state that these wounds were not possible to have been caused by a fist and that the industrial can opener could be a likely weapon. Patrick’s family—his mother, father, and three sisters—would lay him to rest that Friday at the Sierra Hills Memorial Park in Sacramento. Rico’s Pizza would offer a $5000 reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the person responsible. 

   On the morning of January 31, Mark asked Tania to accompany him to the bail bondsman’s office instead of going to work. Together, they drove to Sacramento where Mark paid the bondsman $800, peeling the cash from the thick wad of bills in his pocket. Afterwards, they returned to Fairfield and she reported to work. 

   Tania was informed by co-workers at the auto dealership where she was employed that Fairfield police had stopped by looking for her. They wanted her to come to the station to answer some questions. She lied to officers at the station, telling them that Mark had been with her at her apartment all morning and had not left at all during the day. Knowledge of the robbery and assault, along with Mark’s newfound wealth had most likely put her on edge. Later that evening she asked him to move out of her apartment. Mark agreed, gathering his things and leaving to stay with a friend. 

   The next day, she received a call from Mark, asking her if she would meet him. She agreed and encouraged him to talk to the police. The couple supposedly drove to the police station together, but never entered. They instead drove to Pietro’s Restaurant to eat pizza together. Fairfield PD, already on Mark’s  trail, took him into custody there. The arresting officer noticed that the brown loafers the suspect was wearing appeared to be bloodstained. The shoes were bagged as evidence.

 

   Officers also responded to the friend’s house where Mark had spent the night. After obtaining permission to enter and search, they seized a gray jacket that also appeared to have blood stains on it. Found hidden behind an end table was a locked briefcase. Also found was a .357 Magnum, stolen in a home burglary committed on January 29, the day before the robbery. 

   After a search warrant was obtained, the briefcase was opened. It contained a personal photo album of Mark’s, $48 in cash, various trinkets including a pin that read “I Spell Relief: C-O-C-A-I-N-E”, and several rolls of coins. The coins were both machine-wrapped and hand-rolled and stamped with bank information and handwritten account numbers.  

    Bower was charged with possession of stolen property, relating to a burglary committed in Toledo, Ohio in December of 1982. It was enough to hold him in jail while detectives built their case against him. There was the blood evidence on his shoes and jacket. Blood that would eventually come back as Type O. This was a match to the victim, Mixell, and not the defendant. There were also the rolls of coins found in his briefcase. Coins that could be traced to the branch of the bank that Rico’s did business with. On top this were the eyewitness, all placing him at the scene of the robbery and murder.

   Further investigation revealed that Bower had spent ample time at Rico’s in the months prior to the robbery. Having both friends and family members who had worked there, he had, on numerous occasions, remained inside after closing time and knew where the safe was located. He was formally charged with first first-degree murder and pleaded innocent at his arraignment in August. 

   Bower might not have been sweating the trial. He had previously skated on a robbery and an attempted murder committed in Napa County in 1980. After nearly gutting a man, cutting his throat, and leaving him on the side of the road, Mark was able to plea bargain the case down to a misdemeanor and a six month sentence. 

   The People v. Mark Edwin Bower went to trial in May 1984. The case hinged on the blood evidence and the rolls of coins found in his briefcase. Forensic experts testified that the blood matched the victim, shooting down the defense’s explanation of Bower cutting his hand and bleeding onto his clothes days before the robbery. Testimony from various witnesses linked the coins found in the briefcase to the safe at Rico’s. 

   Tania had finally come clean and testified for the prosecution about Mark’s need for the money and his absence from her apartment on the morning of the robbery. She also testified to receiving phone calls from jail, with Bower asking her to locate and dispose of his hidden briefcase. 

   Bower did not take the stand in his own defense. One witness for the defense was Jodie, Tania’s roommate. She confirmed the times that Bower left and returned on the morning of January 30. She testified that nothing in his mood seemed out of the ordinary. I am not sure that this helped him in the eyes of the jury. 

   After a three week trial, the verdict came back guilty. This was after a bizarre, tearful outburst of a juror that almost resulted in a mistrial. While being polled by the judge, a whimpering woman— juror #10— answered, “no” when asked to affirm her guilty verdict. The jury was sent back to deliberation, and returned shortly with a unanimous decision. 

   On the day of sentencing, friends and family members of Patrick Mixell filled the courtroom. Also in attendance was Dennis Sample, the man Bower had stabbed nearly to death in Napa four years prior. The death penalty had been taken off of the table by the prosecution and Bower was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole. Mark was seen in court weeping tears at the permanent loss of his freedom. The Mixell family cried for the loss of their son and brother. A young man who was loved and taken from them while still in the dawn of his life. All over bail money for a habitual criminal.