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Turow's life at the moment is hectic. As a lawyer, he is representing clients in what he delicately describes as "three grand-jury matters" that will occupy some of his attention as he sets off on a coast-to-coast publicity tour for his new novel. Why not simply stay at home and take care of business? "Since I've taken money for this project, I owe all the people who have an investment in it."
Can this guy be for real? Writers, especially the rich and famous ones, are not supposed to be self-effacing and cooperative, nor to heap praise and gratitude on their editors and publishers. Turow regularly does: "Jonathan Galassi ((editor in chief at Farrar, Straus & Giroux)) made recommendations that substantially improved both Presumed Innocent and The Burden of Proof. After the way I've been treated by my publisher, I'd be a schmuck to think about going somewhere else." That is a distinct departure in an age when publishing-world loyalties have been swept away by bidding wars and the lure of big advances.
Yet Turow's straight-arrow character may explain, better than anything else, why his books have struck a responsive public chord. His plots and characters revolve around a nexus of old-fashioned values: honesty, loyalty, trust. When these values are violated -- sometimes salaciously, always entertainingly -- lawyers and the legal system rush in to try to set things right again. But the central quest in Turow's fiction is not for favorable verdicts but for the redemption of souls, the healing of society. Best sellers seldom get more serious than that.