Name of fiction work? And were there other names you considered that you would like to share with us? Hostile Witness, A Josie Bates Thriller. No other titles were considered for this book or any book I have written. For me a title drives the plot, the story, and the overarching theme of a work. I cannot begin without a settled title. To me the word hostile is strong and immediately conjures up a struggle, right and wrong, good and evil. Struggle is the crux of compelling fiction.
Rebecca Forster: “I originally set the story in another beach city, Venice, but it was the wrong location. I walked the miles from Venice Beach through Manhattan Beach, Torrance, Redondo, and when I ended up in Hermosa I knew it was perfect for Josie Bates. It plays a huge part in all of the Witness Books.”
Credit and Copyright by Rebecca Forster
In Hostile Witness the heroine struggles to contain her emotional hostility toward a mother who abandoned her. She believes her redemption lies in championing a girl whose own mother, the justice system, and her stepfather are willing to abandon simply because she is a child. The crime in the plot was brutal and hostile, but the true story is the strength of character and the courage it takes to do battle with the forces that threaten the emotional, spiritual, and psychological well being of the characters.
What is the date you began writing this piece of fiction and the date when you completely finished the piece of fiction?Hostile Witness has an interesting history. It is the beginning of an eight book series. Book eight was published in 2020; Hostile Witness in 2009. I started writing it in 2007. Over 3 million readers have downloaded the series.
This book has been translated into French, Italian, and German. Originally, Hostile Witness was meant to be a stand-alone book. The publisher suggested a three book series; readers demanded more. This is quite humbling and a testament to the characters that struggled to be born and to remain alive despite publishing changes and challenges.
Where did you do most of your writing for this fiction work? And please describe in detail. And can you please include a photo? Every day for twenty years I have gone to my local coffee shop, Coffee Cartel, to write. The baristas and the owner have become my friends and the regulars are my buddies. Unlike coffee shop chains, this shop has personality. In the mornings the joggers and stroller-pushing moms come in. In the afternoon I share the space with business people who stop in for a sandwich. At night the Goth kids, musicians, and students take over. There is endless inspiration for characters at Coffee Cartel by virtue of the eclectic clientele. The space is big and filled with mismatched furniture. Bookshelves line the interior walls. The books are donated and I’ve found some of the most interesting things on these shelves. My favorite was a children’s book on how things decay. It was quite gruesome. I bought it because one day it will come in handy for something I’m writing.
The table I prefer is the only fairly large one (it’s easier to lay out my paper when I’m inputting edits). It is tucked into a corner. I can see every one who comes and goes, but people often pass me by without noticing. I especially like to watch ‘first dates’ when it is obvious that people from online sites are meeting in person for the first time. I am completely aware of and inspired by the activity around me, but also blissfully lost in the world I’m writing about.
There is a strange menagerie of things hung above the huge glass windows that look out onto our village: fake antique pistols, a clock that doesn’t work, two tiny porcelain lutes, a giant wooden fork and spoon, and even a framed article about me writing in the coffee shop that the local paper ran. Work by local artists adorn the other walls. Poetry night is Tuesday, local bands come in to play sporadically. There are outdoor tables where people sit with their dogs, or flocks of cyclists come to rest. I can see out the big windows, but people can’t see in. A huge poster of Nicholas Cage cuts the sunlight coming through the big window near the fake suit of armor. There used to be a giant fish tank (Below) near my table, but it’s gone. I miss the fish.
What were your writing habits while writing this work- did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write in pen and paper, directly on laptop; specific time of day? Because I came to writing in my thirties, I had established my work habits during a previous, corporate career. Those habits haven’t changed. I get up every morning by 5:30 or 6:00, do a few chores, and dress for work. I am a bit more casual than my corporate days, but still good jeans, perhaps a blazer, my make-up and hair done are always in order. I’m not a stay-at-home-in-pajamas girl. I’m at my Coffee Cartel table by 7:30 or 8:00 on full writing days. My favored drink is a large green ice tea.
Each book I write has a different music genre that seems to energize me. Sometimes I listen to opera, other times a book calls for country western. I write directly on the computer, but I print out my work five or six times and edit in hardcopy. It is a tedious process, but I’m old school. I need paper in hand to truly read my work properly.
I work until about one in the afternoon and then head home to make dinner, see to the mail, etc. In the evening I answer fan mail (I’ve made wonderful friends around the globe because of the written word), do my administrative tasks, and begin all over again the next day.
I do play tennis a few mornings a week. On those days I work at my home office in the afternoons. I think exercise is extremely important to the creative process.
The other thing I do is hands-on research. For Hostile Witness I was often in court watching trials, interviewing attorneys about their attitude toward trying children as adults, and I spent time at the women’s prison. All my novels are based on personal experiences of one sort or another.
Please include just one excerpt and include page numbers as reference. This one excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer.
HOSTILE WITNESS
Book #1, The Witness Series
A Josie Bates Thriller
Chapter 1
“Strip.”
“No.”
Hannah kept her eyes forward, trained on two rows of rusted shower heads stuck in facing walls. Sixteen in all. The room was paved with white tile, chipped and discolored by age and use. Ceiling. Floor. Walls. All sluiced with disinfectant. Soiled twice a day by filth and fear. The fluorescent lights cast a yellow shadow over everything. The air was wet. The shower room smelled of mold and misery. It echoed with the cries of lost souls.
Hannah had come in on a bus full of women. She had a name then, now she was a number. The others were taking off their clothes. Their bodies were ugly, their faces worn. They flaunted their ugliness as if it were a cruel joke, not on them but on those who watched.
Hannah was everything they were not. Beautiful. Young. She wouldn’t stand naked in this room with these women. She blinked and wrapped her arms around herself. Her breath came short. A step back and she fooled herself that it was possible to turn and leave. Behind her Hannah thought she heard the guard laugh.
“Take it off, Sheraton, or I’ll do it for you.”
Hannah tensed, hating to be ordered. She kept her eyes forward. She had already learned to do that.
“There’s a man back there. I saw him,” she said.
“We’re an equal opportunity employer, sweetie,” the woman drawled. “If women can guard male prisoners then men can guard the women. Now, who’s it going to be? Me or him?”
The guard touched her. Hannah shrank away. Her head went up and down, the slightest movement, the only way she could control her dread. She counted the number of times her chin went up. Ten counts. Her shirt was off. Her chin went down. Ten more counts and she dropped the jeans that had cost a fortune.
“All of it, baby cakes,” the guard prodded.
Hannah closed her eyes. The thong. White lace. That was the last. Quickly she stepped under a shower and closed her eyes. A tear seeped from beneath her lashes only to be washed away by a sudden, hard, stinging spray of water. Her head jerked back as if she’d been slapped then Hannah lost herself in the wet and warm. She turned her face up, kept her arms crossed over her breasts, pretended the sheet of water hid her like a cloak.
As suddenly as it had been turned on the water went off. She had hidden from nothing. The ugly women were looking back, looking her over. Hannah went from focus to fade, drying off with the small towel, pulling on the too-big jumpsuit. She was drowning in it, tripping over it. Her clothes – her beautiful clothes – were gone. She didn’t ask where.
The other women talked and moved as if they had been in this place so often it felt like home. Hannah was cut from the pack and herded down the hall, hurried past big rooms with glass walls and cots lined up military style. She slid her eyes toward them. Each was occupied. Some women slept under blankets, oblivious to their surroundings. Others were shadows that rose up like specters, propping themselves on an elbow, silently watching Hannah pass.
Clutching her bedding, Hannah put one foot in front of the other, eyes down, counting her steps so she wouldn’t be tempted to look at all those women. There were too many steps. Hannah lost track and began again. One. Two. . .
“Here.”
A word stopped her. The guard rounded wide to the right as if Hannah was dangerous. That was a joke. She couldn’t hurt anyone – not really. The woman pushed open a door. The cock of her head said this was Hannah’s place. A room, six by eight. A metal-framed bed and stained mattress. A metal toilet without a lid. A metal sink. No mirror. Hannah hugged her bedding tighter and twirled around just as the woman put her hands on the door to close it.
“Wait! You have to let me call my mom. Take me to a phone right now so I can check on her.”
Hannah talked in staccato. A water droplet fell from her hair and hit her chest. It coursed down her bare skin and made her shiver. It was so cold. This was all so cold and so awful. The guard was unmoved.
“Bed down, Sheraton,” she said.
Hannah took another step. “I told you I just want to check on her. Just let me check on her. I won’t talk long.”
“And I told you to bed down.”
The guard stepped out. The door was closing. Hannah was about to call again when the woman in blue with the thick wooden club on her belt decided to give her a piece of advice.
“I wouldn’t count on any favors, Sheraton. Judge Rayburn was one of us, if you get my meaning. It won’t matter if you’re here or anywhere else. Everyone will know who you are. Now make your bed up.”
The door closed. Hannah hiccoughed a sob as she spread her sheet on the thin mattress. She tucked it under only to pull it out over and over again. Finally satisfied she put the blanket on, lay down and listened. The sound of slow footsteps echoed through the complex. Someone was crying. Another woman shouted. She shouted again and then she screamed. Hannah stayed quiet, barely breathing. They had taken away her clothes. They had touched her where no one had ever touched her before. They had moved her, stopped her, pointed and ordered her, but at this point Hannah couldn’t remember who had done any of those things. Everyone who wasn’t dressed in orange was dressed in blue. The blue people had guns and belts filled with bullets and clubs that they caressed as if they were treasured pets. These people seemed at once bored with their duty and thrilled with their power. They hated Hannah and she didn’t even know their names.
Hannah wanted her mother. She wanted to be in her room. She wanted to be anywhere but here. Hannah even wished Fritz wouldn’t be dead if that would get her home. She was going crazy. Maybe she was there already.
Hannah got up. She looked at the floor and made a plan. She would ask to call her mother again. She would ask politely because the way she said it before didn’t get her anything. Hannah went to the door of her – cell. A hard enough word to think, she doubted she could ever say it.
She went to the door and put her hands against it. It was cold, too. Metal. There was a window in the center. Flat white light slid through it. Hannah raised her fist and tapped the glass. Once, twice, three, ten times. Someone would hear. Fifteen. Twenty. Someone would come and she would tell them she didn’t just want to check on her mother; she would tell them she needed to do that. This time she would say please.
Suddenly something hit up against the glass. Hannah fell back. Stumbling over the cot, she landed near the toilet in the corner. This wasn’t her room in the Palisades. This was a small, cramped place. Hannah clutched at the rough blanket and pulled it off the bed as she sank to the floor. Her heart beat wildly. Huddled in the dark corner, she could almost feel her eyes glowing like some nocturnal animal. She was transfixed by what she saw.
A man was looking in, staring at her as if she were nothing. Oh God, he could see her even in the dark. Hannah pulled her knees up to her chest and peeked from behind them at the man who watched.
His skin was pasty, his eyes plain. A red birthmark spilled across his right temple and half his eyelid until it seeped into the corner of his nose. He raised his stick, black and blunt, and tapped on the glass. He pointed toward the bed.
Hannah opened her mouth to scream at him. Instead, she crawled up on to the cot. Her feet were still on the floor. The blanket was pulled over her chest and up into her chin.
The guard looked at her – all of her. He didn’t see many like this. So young. So pretty. He stared at Hannah as if he owned her. Voices were raised somewhere else. The man didn’t seem to notice. He just looked at Hannah until she yelled ‘go away’ and threw the small, hard pillow at him.
He didn’t even laugh at that ridiculous gesture. He just disappeared.
When Hannah was sure he was gone she began to pace. Holding her right hand in her left she walked up and down her cell and counted the minutes until her mother would come to get her.
Counting. Counting. Counting again.
Why is this excerpt so emotional for you as a writer to write? And can you describe your own emotional experience of writing this specific excerpt? I can’t talk about this excerpt without sharing why the book is emotionally important to me. My husband is a judge. He has handled some very high profile cases here in Los Angeles, but it was the case of a sixteen year-old being tried as an adult for murder that stayed with him. He knew that sentencing a teenager to the men’s prison was akin to a death sentence, but he had to follow the law. It touched me deeply that I was married to a man sensitive enough to be bothered by what must be done, but brave enough to carry out his duties. It was this case that inspired Hostile Witness. I thought it upped the emotional meter to make the accused a young girl.
The opening scene’s emotion was very real to me because I went to the women’s prison to experience what it would be like to be arrested, charged, and held after being accused of a capital crime. Hannah is sixteen, so I tried to see everything through her eyes. What I saw was terrifying. Being inside that facility made me feel hopeless and small, so imagine what it would feel like to a teenager. It was a very emotional experience that carried with it a personal question: would I be strong enough to face what Hannah was facing?
Were there any deletions from this excerpt that you can share with us? And can you please include a photo of your marked up rough drafts of this excerpt. This is a wonderful question. Sadly, for this particular book, I don’t have the hard copy revisions any longer. However, I will tell you that this was not the original opening of Hostile Witness. Originally there were twenty pages of scene setting and backstory that started the book. My New York editor wasn’t impressed and asked me to send her something else, but I kept coming back to this story. Months after her last rejection, I realized what the problem was. I began the story in the wrong place. The right place was chapter 3 (now chapter 1). Hannah, a sixteen year-old, walking into an adult women’s prison was dramatic and bold; the original chapters were timid. The moment I hit delete and accepted this as the opening, I had a book and the beginning a real life for this girl and Josie Bates, the woman who defends her. The editor liked it so much she asked for three books instead of one. There have now been over three million downloads and this book has been translated into German, French, and Italian, and recorded for audio.
All of the Inside The Emotion of Fiction LIVE LINKS can be found at the very end of the below feature:
http://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2021/03/stephenson-holts-arranged-marriage-is.html
REBECCA FORSTER’s Biography:
“Life is a journey and mine has been full of twists and turns, opportunities and adventures. As a kid growing up in Long Beach, California I never imagined that today I would be a USA Today and Amazon bestselling author, world traveler, wife and mom. My love of books is fairly evident, so I thought I’d share a few things you might not know about me.
The Professional Me: I earned my B.A. in English at Loyola, Chicago and my MBA at Loyola/Marymount in Los Angeles. For fourteen years, I was an account supervisor in advertising agencies. Then, on a crazy dare, I wrote my first book and found my passion. Today, instead of putting on a power suit in the morning, I set my computer up in a wonderful neighborhood coffee shop where I write for hours. When I’m not at my favorite table writing, I am speaking to bar associations, philanthropic groups and books clubs. I also volunteer at the local hospital as a patient/family advisor and work with The Young Writers Conference to bring the joy of writing back into the middle school classroom. I’ve also been an instructor at writing conferences in Hyannis Port, and Oklahoma, Southern California including the famed UCLA Writers Program.
The Travel Me: I started traveling in earnest over 30 years ago when the company I was working for sent me to China. I have traveled over 170,000 miles since then and visited over 110 cities in 21 countries. One of my favorite trips was close to home, when I spent two days on the USS Nimitz – landing on the aircraft carrier deck by tail hook. Today, I’m a Top Contributor on TripAdvisor.com because it gives me the opportunity to combine the two things I love: travel and writing. I am an advocate for creative travel. Whether it’s spending five weeks in Albania, a country spotlighted in Eyewitness, or walking to Hermosa Beach, the town that inspired the entire Witness Series, being open to new places and experiences is a must for a creative person. I believe that travel restores the creative spirit and freshens the eye for the important details that bring a book, a painting or a photograph to life.
The Family Me: I’m one of six kids and my brothers and sisters are split between Missouri (where I was born) and California (where I grew up and still live). I have been married for over 40 years to a man I met in high school, but don’t jump to any romantic conclusions. When Harry met Sally could have been our story. He is a superior court judge and helps me when I need to research crucial scenes for my legal thrillers. I’m the proud mom of two grown sons. Alex is a talent manager and producer and Eric is a novelist and playwright and who served in the Peace Corps in Albania. In our family, we don’t need an excuse to get together to see one another.
When I’m home I cook, quilt, sew, see movies (I love zombie movies), go to the theater and, of course, read. It will probably come as no surprise that mystery, suspense and thrillers are my favorite genre. A tomboy at heart, I have played in a local tennis league for the last 14 years. (My favorite shot? The backhand volley at the net.)
I don’t think the adventure is over yet – and I know that there are still a zillion books to be written – so I hope you’ll check back for updates. Better yet, drop me note. I would love to hear from you.”
https://www.rebeccaforster.com
iBOOKS
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