Jonathan Williams

Chapter 3: What’s Your Point?

When walking, walk. When eating, eat. —Zen Proverb

Before you dig in and start to write, you need to decide one small thing first: what are you going to write about? In other words, what is the point of your book? Even if you already know your book’s main topic, you should read because this chapter can still help you as you explore your topic.

Have a theme

Just like fiction books, nonfiction books work best when they are written around a central theme. This theme is your book’s central idea or point. Better still, this theme can also be a call to action for your readers.

Not sure what I mean? Let me give you some examples.

In his famous book, How to Win Friends and Influence People, Dale Carnegie repeats two things throughout: his central idea and his calls to action. His main idea? You will win friends and influence people when you help them feel important. His calls to action are all the practical ways to make people feel important and get them to like you. He then uses the rest of his book to explain each point, but almost every tip he shares hearkens back to his central theme.

Even a biography or a history of an event (like the Gold Rush of 1849) can have a central theme. Again, readers can sense when you have a point to make, and even if they disagree with you, you will better engage them and keep them engaged when make your writing point back to your point.

Narrow your focus

More than one English teacher told me and my fellow students that we had to choose a subject that fit the term paper we were writing—not too narrow, but not too broad. Once you decide on your central theme or point, you next need to narrow your focus to stay in control of your topic.

In other words, if you’re writing a ten-page booklet, you can’t write in depth about the rise and fall of the Roman Empire. Conversely, if you’re writing a 300-page book, your subject must be broader than your favorite color and how it makes you feel.

Often, beginning writers and students choose a topic that is too broad rather than one that is too narrow. In my experience, fixing a topic that is too narrow is usually easier than fixing topic that is too broad. To fix a narrow topic, you merely need to broaden it by digging deeper and adding a few related subjects or expanding the timeframe that you’re discussing. However, to fix an overly broad topic, you must cut, cut, cut, and then try to focus on only one of your main points. And it’s hard to cut when everything you’ve written about feels equally important. Still, to keep your topic in focus sometimes means getting tough with your book, which isn’t always fun or easy.

But this work is all worth it because having a topic that has the appropriate scope is key to writing a coherent, relevant book. In other words, the right topic and scope are everything when you start writing.

For instance, if you want to write about sales, you might narrow your topic down to tips for people who are accidental salespeople (those who never planned on working in sales but must because they decided to buy a business or were otherwise thrust into working in a business). Or, you could write about how to sell to a particular industry, like heavy manufacturing, or sell to a particular position like CEOs (which has been done but may as well be done again, right?). You could also narrow a book on sales by focusing on just one aspect of the sales journey, like developing rapport, which some say is the most important aspect of the sales process.

In my humble opinion, one reason many books don’t sell is that they cover too many subjects—their topic is too broad. When this happens, the book’s message gets foggy and forgettable. The remedy? Narrow your book’s focus and watch the magic happen. If you want to write about a ton of sub topics under your main topic, you can always write another book, or two, or more. Problem solved.

Write about what interests you, not what you think others want to read

If you tell us something truthful, chances are it will also sound original even if it’s not. If everyone else is writing fiction about vampires or fairy princesses or space aliens and you hate all of those, then write about something else, something you care about. The same goes for popular nonfiction topics. Write what interests you first and foremost, and you stand a better chance of writing something that others also find interesting. If you work hard to always write about what you care most about, your writing can’t help be flow better.

The trial was finally over, and for the moment, the emotional burden I had been carrying for the past seven months lifted from my shoulders. Standing at the defense table, I watched the twelve jurors file out of the jury box. I took some comfort in knowing that I had done all I could to defend my client. The fate of Andrea Pia Yates, who had been charged with drowning all five of her children, now rested in the hands of eight women and four men.

I hoped that each juror had come to see Andrea, not as a cold-blooded killer, but as a loving mother, a victim of a tortured mind who was still tormented by her demons. I argued that her psychosis had been so severe that on June 20, 2001, it skewed her view of reality and drove her to do the unthinkable as the only way to rescue her children from Satan and save them from certain eternal damnation.

“Will everyone please rise.”

As we stood, Judge Belinda Hill announced that the 230th District Court would recess until a verdict had been reached. A quiet hum built behind me as people began to visit with each other and share their opinions of the proceedings. The media wasted no time heading for the door, anxious to file their stories. Several bailiffs quickly ushered Andrea out another exit to the holdover area, a routine they had performed so many times before. For a moment, I watched. Head down and with no hesitation, Andrea did as she was told. It was always strange to see her surrounded by so many guns and guards, when Andrea was the least likely person to cause any problem. I began to gather my papers.

“Good argument, John.”

“Thanks, George, you did well yourself.”

My co-counsel and I shook hands, and then I went over to the prosecutors and did the same. It has always been a habit of mine to congratulate the other side, no matter how they have done their job. It’s simply my reminder that we are all part of the same legal system, win or lose. Right now, I felt like the winner.

I was proud of my defense team and the job they had done. They had worked hard. George Johnson was my second chair on the case and my closest friend. He was brought in for what is known as “the protection of the record.” A trial is a process of “building a record,” and each trial has a transcriber who records each legal argument presented for or against the admissibility of a piece of evidence. These arguments must meet certain standards so that a case can be considered at the appellate court level. As second chair, George's role is to make sure any errors committed in the trial are recorded in case an appeal is needed later on.

Our defense team also included Mary Wills, George’s sister, a jury consultant, and the psychiatrists and medical personnel we brought in as witnesses. Thanks to the latter, I was now conversant with mental health terms and pharmaceutical information as well as medications and their impact. In fact, I was now almost an authority on delusions and psychosis and postpartum depression.

Before I left the courtroom, I gave Andrea’s mother, Karin Kennedy, a hug and checked up on Rusty Yates, Andrea’s husband, to make sure he was okay. Some disturbing things had to be said about him during the trial, and Rusty had heard them all. I told him, “Hey, it is what it is. We had one obligation here and that was to Andrea. Not to you. Not to her mother.” I think he understood.

It was almost 1:00 p.m., and everyone was getting hungry, so our team headed down the street to Mia Bella for some good Italian food. The minute we stepped out the door, the media descended and once again I found microphones shoved in my face. I tried to keep the attention in perspective, telling myself that it’s the case, not me that holds their interest. Gag order, or not, the questions kept coming.

“John, how long will it take?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” I kept walking. I could hear some of the reporters and producers taking bets on that one. It was so tempting to give them what they wanted, so unrealistic to say nothing.

As we headed down the street, I inhaled the beautiful day. It was sunny and pleasantly warm for March, and I was feeling good. The jury hadn’t even begun to deliberate. They had to eat too.

Over the course of the trial, I had made it a habit to visit with Andrea in the holdover area during recesses. If it were time to eat, I would take her a sandwich. Today was special, so as soon as we finished lunch, I ordered a hot meal to go and headed back to the courthouse to pay her one last visit.

Riding the elevator to the fifth floor, I thought how much I appreciated the care and concern law enforcement had given Andrea throughout this trial. The jail psychiatrists and the bailiffs, like Karen French, had gotten very attached to her. Captain Doehring, in charge of this court, was really a great guy and had become a good friend. He permitted me these special holdover visits, most irregular for an attorney. He knows I try and do this with as many of my clients as I can, because I want to give them a sense of support, both figuratively and literally. Waiting for a verdict can be a horrible experience, and the accused needs someone to lean on and explain the process. Especially Andrea.

As I walked through the old, paneled courtroom, I paused to take a long look. Despite the polish the county had put on it because of the high profile of the Yates case, it looked tired and worn. There was a lot of history here, and I felt sad to think this courthouse would soon be closed and replaced by a newer, more sterile version a few blocks away. Too bad. This place had character. I had tried some of my first cases in this very room, and now the Yates case would be its last. What a finale!

I also thought about how we had been blindsided by all the graphic images and testimony the prosecution had presented. I hoped that it all would backfire and that maybe the jury would see poor Andrea as the underdog. But as I reflected, I began to worry that the graphics had been too effective, and my emotional high started to wane.

I found Andrea waiting quietly in her cell and sat down next to her.

“How’s it going?”

Slowly and in a soft voice she replied, “Fine.”

“I thought instead of a sandwich today, you might like a nice hot meal. Is that okay?”

“Fine,” she nodded.

Trying to keep this one-sided conversation going, I continued. “How’s everyone treating you? Are they taking good care of you?”

She nodded and said, “Yes.”

I waited to hear more, a complaint perhaps, but there was none. There never was. She just sat there and nibbled at the food. So I stopped asking questions, and we just sat together in silence.

As I watched her, I thought about the past seven grueling months as we had prepared and moved through this trial. I thought about how, in the beginning, our hopes had risen as all the mental health professionals had explained how sick Andrea was and why this tragedy had occurred. I then recalled how our hopes had been crushed when the prosecution hammered on the graphic details of the drownings. To this day, I refuse to look at some of the photos, like the picture of Noah’s face after he had floated head down in the water for a very long time. Why was such a picture even taken? It served no purpose other than to sensationalize the event. I was as horrified as anyone about what had happened to the children and was deeply shaken by their deaths. However, the issue here was not to judge how horrific the deaths were but to judge the state of their mother’s mental health when she took their lives. I had to believe the jury understood that and understood how very sick she was that day. I had to believe the jury would come back with a verdict of “Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity.” I prayed that it did.

I turned to Andrea. She was staring at a small piece of food that had fallen on the floor. It reminded me of the day during jury selection when she had stared at the floor in much the same way. She had been sitting on the far left of the courtroom as each of the prospective jurors was being questioned. I had been watching to see how many of them would look directly at her and how many would not. When I noticed her staring at the floor for the longest time, I went over to see if she was all right. She had discovered a spot on the floor where food had fallen that was now covered with ants. Ants had suddenly become more important to Andrea than anything else going on in that room.

Here, sitting with me now, was the Andrea that I had come to know—so simple, so childlike. There were no boundaries in her trust. If it weren’t for the 15 mg. of Haldol she had been given every day during this trial, I don’t know how we would have kept her so calm and gotten her through it all. Thank God for the Mental Health and Mental Retardation Authority (MHMRA) of Harris County and the support they had given us. Their daily updates on her mental condition and advice were invaluable. “Watch for her to drift, it’s a sign that she is moving from a stable to unstable condition,” they told me. District Judge Belinda Hill was so supportive as well. Every day having me join her in chambers and asking how Andrea was doing. All of us collectively keeping our eye out for any changes in her demeanor. The MHMRA deliberately upped Andrea’s meds on the day the prosecution described the children’s deaths and paraded their pictures and clothing in front of everyone, but Andrea still hung her head and sobbed.

I hadn’t realized how long I’d been daydreaming when Andrea broke the silence and with it my reverie.

“Mr. Peters, what is going to happen now?”

I explained to her about the jury making their decision and how things would proceed from here. I tried to encourage her by telling her what we were going to do next and how we were going to do it. She continued to sit there and listen. And then after a few minutes, in the very same way, I again heard,

“Mr. Peters, what is going to happen now?”

Not long after I left Andrea, I received a note that the jury wanted the legal definition of insanity. I couldn’t believe it. What the hell was going on in there? We had spent three weeks with 34 mental health professionals discussing what insanity was. And we had spent a month before that in jury selection talking about the insanity definition, and now I get a question like this? My growing concern reached new heights. If the jury hadn’t been paying attention to what we were saying–unbelievable, but not unusual–then what had they been doing? An answer began to take shape in my mind: they had been horrified and transfixed by the images of the crime scene, by prosecution expert and psychiatrist Dr. Dietz’s testimony about the Law & Order TV episode, and most of all, by the children’s pajamas nailed to the wooden boards and brought into the courtroom. They were not thinking about the issues; they were seeing terrible images.

If ever someone was “innocent by reason of insanity,” it was Andrea Yates. But proving that under Texas law presented enormous problems. In Texas, the jury is asked to presume a defendant sane unless the defense can prove that, “at the time of committing the act the accused was laboring under a severe mental disease and/or defect so as not to know that what she did was wrong.”

This is a tough test to pass in any courtroom at the best of times, but in Texas, the insanity yardstick is even tougher because it asks a jury to determine if the defendant knew what he or she was doing was wrong. The problem then becomes defining the word know. It could mean anything. I always believed that Andrea knew what she was doing was the right thing for her children. She did not want them to burn forever in Hell. And I always believed that she perceived society would judge her actions to be illegal, but she still believed her actions to be the right thing. Is that what know means?

This is where the Texas law fails. . . .