FEBRUARY 25, 2023 – It’s okay: you can admit to your fascination over the made-for-Netflix “Murdaugh Murders” down in the “low country” of South Carolina. I won’t judge you. In fact, in the spirit of full disclosure, I’ll confess my own recent addiction to the case involving a scion of the Old South Old Boys Club who, despite—or “because”?—of every privilege bestowed upon his sorry life, got hooked on opioids, embezzled millions from his clients and law partners and . . . allegedly murdered his wife and one of two sons. For sample color, the murder scene was the family’s huntin’-dog kennels on their 1,700 hunting estate (!) in Islandton, South Carolina. Another example of local color is Granddaddy Murdaugh’s life-size portrait hanging inside the Colleton County courthouse. The picture of Murdah, I mean, Murdaugh, was removed during the trial.
(I’m betting that the family’s ancestors were slaveowners, but that’s neither here nor there.)
By way of background, I’m not a big fan of . . . crime shows, let alone actual crime. Although, again, in complete honesty, I must plead guilty to the charge of having been sucked into such shows as Ozark, Breaking Bad and Only Murders in the Building but only because my wife happens to watch them and . . . the writing, acting and directing are exceptional.
When it comes to actual, sensational crimes that grab the headlines, however, I’ve never been much interested. Except to the extent such matters bear a direct connection to much larger social, political or economic issues—Watergate, the Enron scandal, the George Floyd murder, the January 6 insurrection, weekly mass shootings—typical, isolated crimes, however heinous and appealing to the insatiable human appetite for the contemptible, carry little attraction; unless, of course, they’re packaged into a Netflix series with an outstanding script and high production values.
Until I found myself hooked on live televised coverage of the Alex Murdaugh murder trial this week, I’d paid little attention to the matter. Sure, over the past 18 months I’d scrolled past headlines about the case and thus knew about it, but I’d never read a single article about the crazy story. By accident, really, I became a person of interest . . . er, a person interested in . . . the sordid affair.
I was at our dining room table, working innocently at a jigsaw puzzle, while Beth happened to be in an adjoining room, listening to cable news. The trial came on, and after hearing a few minutes of the direct examination of Mr. Murdaugh, I decided to give myself a break from the puzzle. I wandered into the courtroom, as it were, as a man of weakness taking one tiny pill to ease the pain of having spent the past half hour at an extremely difficult, wood-cut Liberty puzzle with only two pieces to account for my struggles. Pretty soon I was sitting down—the beginning of my . . . addiction.
An hour later, I came to my senses. What was I doing? Forget the stupid trial. Forget even the puzzle. I had real, honest work to do. Just five minutes more, I told myself.
Half an hour later . . .
And that was only the beginning. Would you think less of me if I told you that in the afternoon I was again riveted to the TV screen? That on the next day I did 2,000 mg of Cross-Examination Scrutinization? That this morning I binged again, read three, full-length articles about the trial, all published by the national newspaper that contains “All the news that’s fit to print”?
If I don’t check out of the stupid trial soon, my family, I know, will need to check me into rehab. It won’t be cheap in time or money, but the cost will be far less than the price of continuing addiction.
Stay tuned for the next installment of “Murder, he wrote.”
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
