The Sheriff, the Snake, and the Shotgun: Unraveling Law & Justice in Southern and Rural Noir

How the absence—or abuse—of justice shapes the stories I tell.

Small-town law enforcement in the early 20th century was a whole different breed of animal. Sometimes you had a sheriff who doubled as the judge, jury, and (on more than one occasion) the guy with the shovel. Sometimes you had no sheriff at all—just a couple of deputies more concerned with drinking moonshine than keeping the peace. And sometimes, justice didn’t wear a badge. It wore overalls and carried a shotgun.

That’s the messy, lawless tension at the heart of Southern and rural noir—and exactly why I write the stories I do.

When Justice Is Personal

I grew up in that world. Not 1930s Tennessee, mind you—but close enough in spirit. My dad was a small-town cop when I was a kid. A hard-nosed, sharp-eyed man with a deep sense of justice and a healthy distrust of power. We didn’t talk about Disney movies. We watched whodunits together and, during commercials, debated motive, means, and opportunity. It wasn’t “what happened?” It was “why did it happen, and who stood to gain?”

He shaped how I see the world—and how I build it on the page.

I’d ask him about real crimes sometimes, especially ones I overheard grown folks whispering about. There was one case in particular that stuck with me. I asked him what really happened. He gave me a long look and said, “Use your imagination.”

So I did. I wrote the scene the way I imagined it—twisted, raw, and uncomfortably real.

He read it. Quietly handed the pages back. Then told me I’d gotten a little too close to the truth. And that’s all he’d ever say about it.

Truth, Fiction, and Everything In Between

Southern noir isn’t about solving puzzles. It’s about confronting what happens when the system doesn’t work—or worse, when it’s part of the problem. The difference between justice and vengeance gets mighty blurry when there’s no one left to enforce the law but the people who’ve been wronged.

In Snake Pond, the sheriff enlists help from a woman—Lucy Cameron—because she knows Bear Mountain better than any man ever could. He doesn’t fully trust her, but he sure as hell needs her. She doesn’t fully trust him either.

In Between Hope and Hell, Martina Grace doesn’t run to the law—she dodges it. The deeper she digs into the death of a local teen and the disappearances tied to a drug ring, the more she realizes the official channels are tangled in their own mess.

And then there’s Hell to the Bone and Peace of My Heart—stories where law enforcement exists, sure, but justice isn’t something you can always call for. Sometimes, it’s something you take.

Justice in Southern Noir Isn’t Always Legal

That’s the beating heart of Southern noir fiction: Justice may not always come in a courtroom. Sometimes, it comes in the form of a trap. A confrontation. A confession. A final shot in the dark.

These stories come from the reality I grew up in—where law wasn’t always just, and justice didn’t always wait for permission.

I don’t write about perfect heroes. I write about people backed into corners who have to claw their way out—messy, broken, and still swinging. It’s the ultimate fall flat on your ass, get up, dust said ass off, and walk on.

What Are Your Thoughts on Justice?

Ever read a crime story where the legal ending wasn’t the right one? Do you think justice and the law always walk hand-in-hand?

📢 Let’s talk—ping me on Instagram and tell me your favorite fictional reckoning.#SouthernNoir #CrimeFiction #JusticeIsMessy #SmallTownMystery #THMalcolm