About Jack McMorrow
This is what is known about Jack McMorrow:
Jack grew up in New York City, where his father was an entomologist at the Museum of Natural History. After college, he climbed the newspaper ladder until he was hired by the New York Times as a metro reporter. He soon gained a reputation for going where other reporters wouldn’t, reporting on life on New York’s mean streets in 1980s. He was the golden boy of the city room when he stumbled, failing to disclose his friendship with a police source (COVER STORY). Reprimanded by his editors, Jack set out for Maine to do a story on a small-town weekly newspaper in Androscoggin. He’s lived in Maine ever since. His adventures have produced eight novels, with the ninth, DAMAGED GOODS, due out in a few months. In DAMAGED GOODS, Jack brings home an injured prostitute and Roxanne goes up against a backwoods Satan worshipper.
Maine, the way life should be.
Jack McMorrow lives on the Dump Road in Prosperity, Maine, a tiny town in inland Waldo County. When he’s not working as a stringer for the New York Times or the Boston Globe, Jack roams the woods, reads books, cuts wood with his buddy, ex-Marine Clair Varney. Jack has been with Roxanne Masterson, a child protective worker for the State of Maine, for several years, and they have a daughter, Sophie. Roxanne has seen it all, which is a good thing, living with McMorrow.
Jack has a reputation for tenacity, both in his journalism, and in his need to ferret out the truth. McMorrow also isn’t afraid to become physically involved in his stories—and to retaliate with force when threatened or attacked. Consider this exchange in HOME BODY (June 2004). Police are interviewing Jack after he intervened to snatch a street kid from an older hoodlum.
“What happened to him?” Cobb said.
“I had to kick him a couple of times. Pretty hard. ”
“Why?” Cobb said.
“He came after me with a bottle. ”
“So you kicked the crap out of him and took the kid and left,” Cobb said.
I shrugged. They looked at me curiously, like I was a museum specimen, something to examine from various angles. Then Cobb stood up and reached for the recorder. He clicked it off and the recorder’s red eye went black.
“So what is it you do at this newspaper, Mister McMorrow?” he said, slipping the recorder into his jacket pocket.
“I’m a copy editor.”
“Is that right?” he said. “What do you do if the writers spell a word wrong? Break their fingers?”