My quirky obsession with criminal justice has me watching on live TV a high-profile murder trial with such keen interest that you’d think my own wattled neck, and not just the fate of the accused, lies on the line.
Like my shameful lust for candy corn or kitschy Mardi Gras beads, this legal drama fixation seems, well, unseemly for a 62-year-old grandmother. At my age, the nightstand should hold loftier works than slash-and-gash fiction, say the “Koran,” as one of my son’s 30-something friends recently told me he was reading. I ought to be enjoying more edifying television than “Law & Order” reruns.
But I eat up forensic evidence with a spoon, relish lawyers’ courtroom jousting far more than sports contests and rank expert- witness opinions right up there with such solar-system truths as the Earth’s regular rotation.
My husband, Fred, is responsible for taping old “Cold Case” shows on weekdays for my later viewing pleasure while I iron clothes. He views about 10 seconds of the televised trial that currently engrosses me and declares the young defendant to be toast.
Ever seeing dollar signs, he says, “You read enough whodunits and watch enough of these crime-and-punishment programs to write your own novels or screenplays. The real mystery you should solve is how to make money out of being a justice junkie.”