A Possible Screenplay? Maybe. A New Excerpt–Absolutely

A handful of potential suitors have showed some interest in turning Psychic Reprieve into a screenplay.  If and when an offer actually materializes, I will pass along the details.

Over the past two months, I have been contacted by about two-dozen readers who have purchased and read Psychic Reprieve.  It is important for authors to receive feedback from their audience.  Knowing that people have busy lives, I do appreciate the time taken to critique the novel.

It seems that younger readers, especially those who live on Milwaukee’s eastside or are alumni of the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, enjoyed Chapter Five, entitled, “Jokers to the Rite.” For your enjoyment, I have released an additional excerpt from this chapter.  The scene involves a hazing prank pulled by three individuals on the Milwaukee State baseball team in an attempt to produce the team’s funniest video.  In this segment of the chapter, a drone is used to frighten a member of the public.  The scene occurs near E. North and N. Humboldt Avenues.


From:      Psychic Reprieve

By:          Mitchell Nevin

Chapter Five: Jokers to the Rite

With just four days left before the MSU baseball team headed south, outfielders Jake Patterson, Jeremy Brietlow and Ian Rourke had plans of their own. Breitlow’s girlfriend, Rachel Dunning, borrowed a Hammacher Schlemmer 9-1/2 foot remote-controlled bald eagle, from her father, who was conveniently out of state on business.  The drone was controlled by a Gimbal-powered engine and propeller. A handheld transmitter enabled the user to command the bald eagle lookalike from a distance of over 300 yards away.  The concept was simple: find an unsuspecting person walking alone in an urban environment, have the large bird hover near them, and then video the person’s response.

The team set-up a state-of-the-art digital video camera, also procured from Dunning’s father, inside Rourke’s dilapidated Ford Windstar. The van was parked facing southbound in front of a home that Patterson rented in the 2200 block of N. Humboldt Ave.  Inside the van with Rourke, Breitlow would manipulate the eagle from the front passenger’s seat.  Patterson—stationed inside a beat-up bread truck he had borrowed from his uncle under the guise of retrieving a couch from a nearby thrift store—stood-by in the parking lot of a grocery store a block to the south. Inside was the 9-1/2 foot drone. On cue, Patterson would open the bread truck’s rear compartment skylight and release the eagle.

Even with the temperature nearing 40 degrees—considered balmy for the 10th of February—foot traffic in the area was minimal. Just before noon, however, the crew caught a break.  An older black man dressed in a filthy plaid work shirt and blue-jean overalls pushed a large shopping cart up the inclined sidewalk on the west side of Humboldt Avenue. The man, known throughout Patterson’s neighborhood as ‘Grady,’ eked-out an existence as a scrapper, scavenging through recycling bins and garbage receptacles in search of aluminum, copper, and used athletic equipment.

Jeremy Breitlow called Patterson’s cell phone.  “Okay, Jake, I think we’ve got one.”

“Yeah,” added Patterson, “that’s Grady. He’s the neighborhood junk guy. Do you want me to deploy?”

“Release the eagle,” said Brietlow, whose mannerisms mimicked those of a NASA flight engineer.

Patterson removed the skylight cover in the rear of the bread truck. He gently placed the drone on the roof and carefully spread the wings.  “Okay, ready for lift-off.”

Brietlow flipped a silver toggle switch to power the eagle’s electric motor. Using a plastic joy stick, he gradually took the drone airborne.

The prank’s target had stopped to rummage through a blue recycling bin just feet from the sidewalk.  Grady removed two aluminum cans, placed them on the cement, and crushed them with his right foot. He then spit a chunk of chewing tobacco to the ground, some of which clung to his shabby gray beard.  He then resumed pushing the shopping cart—filled with aluminum curtain rods, an older motor, a plastic bag of aluminum cans, and a sky blue bowling ball—towards the van occupied by Breitlow and Rourke.  Out of the corner of his eye, Grady spotted a large object in the sky.  He stopped, used his right hand to shield the sun from his eyes, and watched as it circled above.  That’s one big-ass bird, he thought to himself.

Brietlow then maneuvered the eagle directly above its target. Forty-feet off the ground, the eagle did a flip and gracefully rolled to one side. Grady was getting a little nervous. He began pushing the shopping cart up the hill noticeably faster. Breitlow turned the eagle slightly south, increased the height 20-feet, and took the drone into a dive.

Looking over his shoulder, the man with the shopping cart realized that he was under attack. “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!” he screamed. “Good God almighty!” To increase his chances of escaping, Grady let go of the shopping cart, which tipped over onto a small section of grass between the sidewalk and the street.  Brietlow once again sent the eagle upward as Grady dove headfirst to the ground covering his head with his arms.

Ian Rourke laughed hysterically.

With their attention and the video camera focused on Grady, the pranksters failed to notice that the bowling ball from the fallen shopping cart was now traveling down a hill southbound in the Humboldt Avenue roadway.  As a passing motorist used a horn to warn others, the blue bowling ball gathered momentum as it approached the bottom of the hill. A man in a candy-apple red BMW, turning left from E. Kane Place, never saw the fast moving object, which, after striking a lip in the road, went airborne, before slamming into the BMW’s front driver’s side door.

“Damn it,” Rourke shouted, “make that eagle go away!”

Breitlow steered the drone back to the bread truck, where Jake Patterson quickly grabbed the bird, slammed its wings together, and pulled the robot inside. After replacing the truck’s skylight, Patterson drove the van out of the parking lot northbound on to Humboldt Avenue.

*                                             *                                             *

Sent to investigate a bowling ball versus car accident, Officer Felix Montes was skeptical, to say the least, of the statement given to him by the man whose actions allegedly caused the damage.

“Officer, I’m tellin’ ya the truth,” Grady insisted, as tears welled-up in his eyes.  “I was just mindin’ my own business, walkin’ down the street, pickin’ up junk, when all of a sudden, this big-ass bird came swoopin’ down out of the sky right at me!”

“And what did this ‘big-ass’ bird look like?” asked Montes.

“The wings, man, they had to be ten-feet long,” Grady pleaded.  “I know this sounds kind of crazy, but I’m thinkin’ it looked like one of them bald eagles.”

“Come on, man. How much have you had to drink? A bald eagle flying around the east side of Milwaukee? What’s next, Big Foot in Reservoir Park? ”

© Mitchell Nevin, Bloomington, MN, 2013.


Psychic Reprieve is available now at Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble.  For more information, please visit www.authormitchellnevin.com

Former Chicago PD Sergeant Ranked #1 as Crime Novel’s Favorite Character

Psy Rep book inside

Those responding to a poll of their favorite character in Mitchell Nevin’s new crime novel, Psychic Reprieve, rated a former Chicago police sergeant highest by a nearly two to one margin.

“A long-serving LEO [law enforcement officer], my favorite character was Gannon Burke, the former Chicago Police Department sergeant sent up the river on corruption charges,” wrote Lance, from Madison, Wisconsin. “He is the crew’s politically incorrect leader – a caricature of the Windy City’s cop’s cop – described by his sidekick as a “paddy straight out of Chicago,” and the son of a retired police captain. My favored chapters involved Burke’s run-in with a priest and his confrontation with a detective from the Eau Claire Police Department. Good stuff, classic cop-like dialog, and very colorful. You would have to be dead not to get a good laugh out of these segments of the novel.”

“In Psychic Reprieve, I found myself rooting for the underdog,” wrote Kelly from Milwaukee. “Of the three men released from Club Fed, Gannon Burke’s matter-of-fact demeanor and humorous wit drew the other characters together. The former Chicago cop is a person who pulls no punches. I loved his strategic thinking and the verbal darts he flung at deserving targets.”

Set in Chicago, Milwaukee, St. Paul, and Eau Claire, Wisconsin, Psychic Reprieve tells the story of three colorful characters – a well-liked Milwaukee college baseball prankster, the former Chicago police sergeant, and a folksy Twin Cities identify thief – who devise a plan, from the confines of Italian restaurant, to market a member of the trio’s clairvoyant abilities.

Volume One Magazine Profiles Psychic Reprieve

photo (1)
Earlier this week, Volume One — a weekly magazine in Eau Claire, Wisconsin — spotlighted my new novel, Psychic Reprieve (click the below link):


Now, The Local Store — Volume One’s retail outlet — has made my first novel, The Cozen Protocol, and Psychic Reprieve available for sale.

Since a major portion of Psychic Reprieve’s plot occurs at venues in Eau Claire, I encourage readers to stop by The Local Store and ask for the book.

In an effort to improve literacy and expression, I also stopped by the L.E. Phillips Memorial Library and donated a copy of Psychic Reprieve.

Mitchell Nevin is an author and law enforcement veteran. His first book, The Cozen Protocol, was an Amazon.com Breakthrough Novel of the Year Award nominee.

© Mitchell Nevin, Bloomington, MN 2013

The Colorful Characters of Law Enforcement and Beyond


My new Web site, www.authormitchellnevin.com, is now up and running.  I have received some positive feedback about the graphics and links to The Cozen Protocol—an Amazon.com Breakthrough of the Year Award nominee—and my recently release sports related crime drama Psychic Reprieve.

Whether it is at a farmer’s market book signing or an informal setting, one question I am frequently asked is why I choose to dedicate months-and-months writing crime novels.  Having served in law enforcement capacity for parts of three decades, I have had an opportunity to work among some larger-than-life characters. These colorful individuals include the men and women who serve and protect, as well as those who I have had contact with.   Police officers and detectives who are successful at their jobs relate to people by walking a mile in their shoes. Often these shoes are worn by those from a variety of backgrounds.

In this online video, former Milwaukee Police Department (MPD) Patrick Kennedy, who recently passed away, correctly points out that it is important for investigators to speak the language of the boardroom and the barroom.


Known in MPD circles as the Big Kahuna, Kennedy left the department and spent a considerable amount of time in academia researching police officer decision making.

In Psychic Reprieve, I took a page from Pat Kennedy’s mantra of top-to- bottom communication skills by introducing three colorful characters that are fish out of water.  When individuals find themselves thrown together in challenging environments, they often operate outside their personal comfort zones regarding age, race, and geography. In many instances, they soon learn that while Americans are different their hopes and aspirations are somewhat similar.

So enjoy Psychic Reprieve, not just for the character development.  While writing this novel, I spent hours-and-hours researching psychic meanderings, high-tech government surveillance initiatives, criminal profiling and even traveled various locations in Wisconsin, Minnesota, Illinois, and Iowa.  A retired detective recently told me that he had a conversation with an investigator who asked how I obtained specifics about sophisticated drone surveillance and warrantless sneak-and-peak searches of homes.  These descriptions, provided in the novel during an probe of international terrorism, apparently touched  a nerve.

As always, I appreciate any feedback whether it is good, bad, or indifferent from readers of my novels.  I can be reached at mitchellnevin@ymail.com or via my Web site.

Read Free Excerpt of “Psychic Reprieve”

Nevin Logo

My new sports related crime novel, Psychic Reprieve, tells the story of Raunold Choquet (a.k.a. R.C.) a stellar pitcher who accepted a baseball scholarship to Milwaukee State.  During a hazing prank gone bad, investigators learned of R.C.’s role in the plot.  He is suspended from the university and charged, in federal court, with a violation of USA Patriot Act involving a bomb scare.

For your enjoyment, I have made this excerpt from Chapter 14 of the novel available.  This portion of the book explains the court process and the difficulties confronting R.C. as he makes his way through the criminal justice system.


Chapter 14 of the novel PSYCHIC REPRIEVE


The formalities had ended.  Assistant U.S. Attorney Gretchen Zeiler asked the court for 16 months. Leo Staver, as part of the plea agreement, argued for probation. Seated to his attorney’s left, Raunold Choquet hoped for the best.  A single sentence uttered by U.S. District Court Judge Thomas Callaghan sealed the defendant’s fate.  “The conduct here cries out for prison.”

Raunold’s head drooped as Judge Callaghan glanced down at the paperwork in front of him. “Until this point, the defendant led an exemplary life—an honor student, the dean’s list, and, by all accounts, a leader. No additional points were recommended as a part of the sentence by the government.  In order to protect the community from this type of hooliganism, the court needs to send a message. On the other hand, having reviewed the record, Mr. Choquet has shown remorse and has agreed to reimburse the city for some expenses.  He has been expelled from college and lost an athletic scholarship.  In a sense, he has already paid a heavy price for his conduct. Considering these factors, I hereby order that the defendant serve 14 months at the Federal Correctional Institution in Sandstone, Minnesota—a minimum security penitentiary. I further remand Mr. Choquet into the custody of the U.S. Marshal’s service.”

Leo Staver quickly turned to his client. “Two months less than we expected, although we didn’t get the prison camp. Behave, and, in eight months, you’ll be in a halfway house. Good luck.”

Two deputy U.S. Marshals approached and instructed the convict to stand. As one of the agents slapped on a set of handcuffs, Ruanold turned to his right and caught a glimpse of his grandmother sobbing in his grandfather’s arms. Russell Choquet momentarily stared at his grandson and then nodded, acknowledging that it was time to go. “Be good, son.”

*                                             *                                             *

After waiting for what seemed like hours, a man wearing a blue sport coat appeared at the door of the sparse holding room.  “It may not seem like it, but, in a sense, it’s your lucky day.”

“Why’s that?” Raunold asked.

“Usually, we take prisoners awaiting transport to the county, where they sometimes sit for up to a week before we can arrange a ride,” explained the agent. “Believe me, when I say the county lock-up sucks. Within an hour, a transport van with one open seat will convey you to the Twin Cities.”

“Is that where the prison is?” Raunold asked. “I don’t know much about Minnesota.”

“No, Sandstone is about 100 miles north of the cities.  My guess is you’ll spend the night at the federal correctional center in Minneapolis or the Ramsey County lock-up.”

*                                             *                                             *

What seemed like the longest day of his life was coming to an end. At 1AM, the transport van carrying Raunold and seven others, four of which were unseemly and smelly, pulled into the sally port of the Ramsey County Detention Center. After sitting handcuffed to a bench for 45 minutes, a correctional officer ordered Raunold to step into a small room, where he was stripped searched and given a fresh set of sky blue jail apparel.

The officer then pointed down a corridor. “Mr. Choquet, follow the yellow line on the floor until I tell you to stop.” Thirty-feet later, the line turned to the left and traveled down another corridor. “Stop right here.”  A thick, tan-colored steel door slid open. “Step inside. Chow starts at seven.” Raunold walked into the holding room, secured by thick glass windows, and the door slammed behind him.

To his surprise, the only person in the room was and older white man lying on a bed while watching a small television monitor mounted to the wall. The man’s face was wrinkled and weathered—his arms peppered with faded tattoos.  “It’s about time they give me some damn company,” the man scowled. “What’d they call yah, son?”

“R.C.,” Raunold cautiously replied. “And you?”

“I’m your worst fuckin’ enemy,” the man laughed, “which is why I’m wonderin’ why they put your sorry ass in here with me. Name’s Mick.  Nah, don’t worry, I’m too old to hurt anyone now—just a corruptin’ influence.  What yah in for, embezzling from the church choir?”

Ruanold frowned. “Committing a terroristic threat.”

A strange look came over the man’s face.  “Are you one of Uncle Louie’s black muslim converts?”

“Nah, nothing like that. Just a prank I pulled with some dudes from my baseball team. I put a package at a bus stop outside an Islamic community’s crib with a note that said, “Get your gas masks. Stop blaming Israel.” Long story short, the other dudes shot some video and the cops got their hands on it. They were white and got probation, but, being the black guy, they put a federal case on me.”

The man snickered. “So you’re kind of an accidental terrorist.  Beats being accused of the real thing, I guess. Where the feds sending you?”

“Some place called Sandstone. It’s low security.”

Mick sat up on the edge of his bed. “R.C., I’m tellin’ you, don’t be believe that low security shit. I’ve been in-and-out of the joint since I’ve been 13 — been in all kinds of jails and prisons. I’m tellin’ you, people get killed in so-called low security institutions.  True, you’ve got some size on you, but these assholes are goin’ to test you.”

“What you mean?” Raunold asked. “Like Morgan Freeman in Shawshank Redemption?”

“Somethin’ like that,” Mick explained. “If you take what these pricks dish out, then you’ll be their bitch. They’ll walk all over you.” Mick lifted his blue shirt. “See this scar, the one that’s about six inches long. Got that in 1982 inside of Joliet—bastard thought I’d scream like a stuck pig. In a blink of an eye I beat his Mexican ass bloody.  Then, the word got out: fuck with this guy and you gotta be prepared to bleed. I found out that if you hurt people, they’ll leave you alone.”

“Thanks for your advice,” Raunold said, rather nonchalantly. “I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. So, what you in for?”

“Murder — I’m never gettin’ out.  Beat a guy’s head in with a 12 inch pipe over a $5 hand of poker about 15-years ago.  Now they think I’ve got prostate cancer. Goin’ to take me to a medical center for some tests and then back to the infirmary to die.”

*                                             *                                             *

At 7 AM, two corrections officers stood in the narrow corridor as the doors to each holding room slid open.  “If you want chow, step out to the yellow line.”

Mick, Raunold, and a dozen other men soon mustered in the corridor.

“Walk single file,” shouted an officer in a stern, controlling voice, “and follow the yellow line to the chow hall.”

The men snaked through a series of corridors before stopping at the entrance to the detention center’s food service area.  Already served, dozens of prisoners sat on bench seats at long tables. It took ten minutes to move to the front of the line. Raunold reached for a tray, approached a server, and accepted an offering of cold scrambled eggs. Moving through the line, he placed a powdery white donut and a box of milk on the tray. Eyeing an empty table in the far corner of the mess hall, Raunold made his way down a narrow aisle that separated the tables.  To his right, a group of heavily tattooed white prisoners steadied an angry gaze. To the left, a table of loud, black inmates sized him up.  “Come sit your ass down ov’r here, brother,” one of the men at the end of the table shouted.  Raunold ignored the cat call; however, the same man reached over and grabbed the donut from the passerby’s tray. “I be needed it more than a cornball brother.”

Mick, now standing just ten feet away, was right—they were testing his metal. Within a second, Raunold had to make a decision: should he simply keep walking or make a statement.  He turned the tray to the side and tossed its contents towards his antagonist’s face; then, he reached back and, as quickly as he could, launched a punch that collided with the left side of the thief’s cheek bone.

“You punk ass motherfucker!” the man yelled as he fell to the floor. Three other black inmates then surrounded an attacked Raunold, who delivered a series of blows that knocked one the men to ground. A counterpunch from an attacker landed squarely on his left temple. As Raunold collapsed to the floor, four other men kicked him in the face and stomped on his head. Mick ran towards one of the assailants and delivered a crushing left hand that sent one of the attackers over a table, but he, too, was soon surrounded, forced to the ground, and pummeled. Within 30 seconds, six correctional officers moved in to break-up the melee.  The damage, however, had already been done.  Mick suffered a broken nose and Raunold slipped in-and-out of consciousness.

*                                             *                                             *

As his vision slowly focused, Ruanold saw a nurse reading a chart at the foot of the bed. Twisting to the left, a sharp pain shot-up the side of his neck. “Ahhhhhhh.”

The nurse put down the chart. “Look whose back with us.”

“Ahhhh, where am I?”

“You’re an inpatient at the Hennepin County Medical Center,” the nurse replied. “You’ve been here for a little over a day now.  Do you have any recall of how you got here?”

“Last thing I remember is someone stompin’ on my face.”

A middle-aged man wearing a white smock entered the room.

“Ah, Mr. Choquet, it is nice to finally speak with you.  I’m Dr. Greenburg—the neurologist overseeing your care here.  How are you feeling?”

Raunold peered through the openings of his still swollen eyes. “Like I just got run over by a city bus.”

“During the fight at the jail you sustained a subdural hematoma—a hemorrhage to the brain.  The swelling from this type of injury causes intracranial pressure to build within the skull. To relieve the pressure, I drilled a few burr holes in your skull so the blood would drain.”

Raunold appeared confused. “I don’t remember too much about the whole thing, Doc.”

“Short term amnesia is common with these types of injuries,” the doctor noted. “Someday, you might recall bits and pieces of what happened. The main thing is that it appears you’re out of danger. We’ll need to run some more tests, but, from what I saw from the MRI, you should make a full recovery.”

“Cool. Do you know what happened to the white dude who was with me?”

“I don’t know the specific details of the entire ordeal, although an investigator from the Ramsey County Sheriff’s Department has called several times to check on you. Once you get cleaned-up and we run a few tests, I’ll give her a call and the two of you can chat.”

*                                             *                                             *

The setting sun pierced the blinds of the hospital room window. Watching a rerun of a late afternoon game show, Raunold heard a knock at the door.  “Come on in.”

A fit Hispanic woman in her late 30s, attired in a modest gray pantsuit, opened the thick wooden door and stopped at the foot of the bed.  “Hello, Raunold, I’ve heard that you’re feeling better. My name is Maria Azcano. I’m an investigator with the Ramsey County Sheriff’s office. I’m reviewing the incident that took place inside our detention facility.”

Raunold forced open his swollen eyes.  “I don’t remember too much about it.”

“You took quite a beating,” said the detective, as she opened a yellow steno pad, “so that’s probably not unusual.  Unfortunately, I’ve been unable to locate a single witness that is willing to step forward, even though over 50 people were present when the fight went down. We do have some surveillance video and the statements of the correctional officers. Still, I was hoping that you might be of some assistance.”

Raunold was skeptical.  “Am I in any trouble?”

“Technically, you did break the detection center’s rules by engaging in disruptive conduct.  On the other hand, I’m more interested in the party who instigated the matter. The rumor mill has it that someone removed an item from your food tray without your consent.”

“Let’s say I decide to make a bitch; that makes me a snitch, doesn’t it?”

“No doubt,” Azcano admitted, “you’d be considered a rat. On the other hand, you’d be able to avoid any further legal problems regarding the disturbance, and, while I can’t officially promise you anything, I might be able to pull some strings regarding your terms of federal confinement. I see that you’re going to serve time at Sandstone.”

“Yeahhhhhh,” the patient moaned as he turned on his side, “minimum security.”

“Let me tell you something, young man, people have been killed in federal minimum security prisons.”

“Come on now,” Raunold complained, “you’re the second person that’s told me that. Let me ask you something: why are you being so righteous about this beat down?”

Azcano took a seat in chair alongside the bed. “The man that stole that donut off your tray is Juwan Cunningham. He’s the enforcer for POWAR.”

“What’s that?” Raunold asked.

“POWAR stands for People Organized for the Welfare of the African Race. It’s a newly formed prison gang with tentacles in a number of our state’s penal institutions.  Right now, Juwan is at Ramsey County Detention for a two-bit 90-day possession rap. But, if you became a complainant, I might be able to nail him for Third-Degree assault of a prisoner. With his rap sheet, he’d be off the streets for another two-years, and, better yet, probably punch a ticket to Oak Park Heights—our state’s premier maximum security facility.  They have an Administrative Control Unit there that’s a perfect fit for a thug like Juwan.”

“Alright,” Raunold said cautiously, “good for you, bad for me. That’d put a target on my back. I’ve already gotten the snot kicked out of me once, and, let me tell you something, it don’t feel all that good.”

The investigator sought to reassure the victim.  “I’ve got a good connection in the Federal Bureau of Prisons who might be able to pull some strings. There is a federal prison camp in Duluth.  These facilities have no gates. It’s kind of like living in a college dorm. Some people call it Club Fed. Most of those there are informants, low-risk prisoners, or corrupt politicians.”

“Tell me, detective, just how good is this connection?”

“I sleep with him every night.  He’s my husband.”

“Oh, I get it,” Raunold grinned, “mama’s not giving any honey if he won’t deal.”

“If you want to put it that way,” Azcano laughed, “yeah.”

Raunold cracked a partial smile until the pain caused him to stop.  “Alright, I think I like my chances then. I’ll make a bitch against the dude.  One thing, though, when I get out of this place, are they going to take me right back to the same jail?”

“I’ve checked your background, Raunold. A good student; an athlete; here on your first rap, and it’s not exactly the Lindbergh kidnapping. I’ll see what I can do. For now, I need to do an in-depth interview and show some photos to you. I’ll work on the specifics when I get back to the office.”

“Detective, can I ask you something before you get started?”

“Sure, Raunold, shoot.”

“Whatever happened to that white dude, Mick?  One of the last things I remember is looking up and seeing him punk some gangster that was about to stomp on my face. He seemed real hardcore. I’m kind of surprised that he would put his ass on the line for some black guy he barely knew.”

“The good news is that he only suffered a minor concussion,” replied a somber Azcano. “The bad news: he got this morning—only three to six months to live. The cancer got into his bones. When I interviewed him, Mick claimed to know that he was dying and that, by coming to your aid, he could make a claim to the almighty that he did something positive before he died. Funny thing, though, how even a career criminal like Mick Mahoney—a person who’s done some very bad things to people—feels the need to seek redemption.  In the process, he might have saved your life. It’s something I tell my kids everyday: the good Lord works in mysterious ways.”


PSYHIC REPRIEVE: DECEPTION AND REALITY. Copyright © 2013 by Badger Wordsmith, LLC.  All Rights reserved.  No part of this material may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.  For information: Badger Wordsmith, LLC, 2809 E. Hamilton Ave. #191, Eau Claire, WI, 54701, info@badgerwordsmith.com.

Vote for Your Favorite Eau Claire Author

Nevin Logo
My latest novel, Psychic Reprieve: Deception & Reality, is based, in part, in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. As a cheesehead who travels between Eau Claire, Hudson, and the Twin Cities, I chose to base this book at a fictional Italian restaurant—Drina’s Pasta Palace—in downtown Eau Claire.

Having toiled for almost a year to develop the characters and write the novel, I would hope that readers will take a few moments out of their busy lives to read Psychic Reprieve and provide me with feedback.

Volume One Magazine, an Eau Claire publication, is now sponsoring a “Best of the Chippewa Valley” vote online. One of the categories is “best local author.” If you’re a fan of my work, please visit the following link, register, and then vote for yours truly.


Thank you so much for checking out and purchasing my novels—The Cozen Protocol, an Amazon.com Breakthrough Novel of the Year Award nominee, and Psychic Reprieve.

To find out more about these books, please visit Amazon.com

Mitchell Nevin is an author and law enforcement veteran. His first book, The Cozen Protocol, was an Amazon.com Breakthrough Novel of the Year Award nominee.

© Mitchell Nevin, Bloomington, MN 2013