IIn March 2023, Alex Murdaugh, 54, received two life sentences for the murders of his wife and young son at the family’s hunting lodge in Colleton County, South Carolina. From the early 20th century, three generations of his family were elected as state prosecutors in the “Lowcountry”, a vast expanse of lush, marshy marshland on the southern eastern seaboard marked by severe economic and social inequality. The Murdoffs were the guys who could send you to jail or put you in the electric chair, and still maintain the veneer of good old Southern gentlemanliness.
In parallel with these public duties, the family ran a large law firm specializing in personal injury. In the land of old booze addicts and rusted farm equipment, Murdaugh ran a prolific business in multimillion-dollar settlements for people who had lost a limb, a parent or their cognitive abilities due to someone else’s negligence. But instead of passing on these life-changing winnings to vulnerable clients, Alex Murdaugh used them to fund a lavish lifestyle, including big cars, prostitutes, opioid pills, and a military-grade personal arsenal. For good measure, he also embezzled millions from his law partners.
There have been whispers for years about Murdaugh’s questionable financial condition. But they paled into insignificance that evening in June 2021 when Paul and Maggie were killed in the family dog kennel. Alex swore he was nowhere near the crime scene and tried to blame the murder on someone else. They theorized that hired hitmen may have come for Paul, who was on bail for drunkenly crashing the family boat into a bridge in 2019, killing one of his teenage passengers. In this scenario, Maggi was merely collateral damage.
Despite Murdoff’s boasts, the prosecution was able to convince the jury that he was the one who attacked his wife and son by pulling the trigger not twice, but seven times. As far as motive, he argued that Murdaugh was trying to distract from the financial disgrace that threatened him: in this highly emotional community, no one would think of moving against “Big Red” – so called because he stood 6 feet 4 inches tall with ginger hair – for embezzlement, while he was dealing with a personal tragedy of such biblical proportions.
When James Lasdon, a British novelist living in America, began his research, he was not convinced that Murdaugh had done it. Big Red may be an arrogant, intimidating man, and rotten to the core, but Lasdun cites Thomas De Quincey’s eloquent statement about how a man’s ability to rob says nothing about his propensity to kill. Furthermore, there is something about the crime that Lasdun, who himself is married and has children, cannot accept. How could a person with no history of domestic violence or even bad temper feel compelled to shoot their loved ones just to delay their impending financial risk?
This type of ethical audit takes into account Janet Malcolm’s distinctive approach to writing about famous criminal cases. Indeed, Lasdun tells us that he “respects” Malcolm, who, like him, usually tried out his ideas in longer pieces for The New Yorker before expanding them into books. Yet here the similarities end. Malcolm’s approach to writing about famous murders was to avoid getting into narrative weeds in order to maintain room for his own psychological and moral explorations. Lasdun, in contrast, insists on giving a careful retelling of the Murdaugh case, including a byzantine subplot involving the suspicious death of the family’s housekeeper and the murder of another local teenager.
This impulse for perfection is puzzling, given that the Murdaugh murders – the coherence is irresistible – have already been perpetrated by a small army of investigators. In addition to a flurry of well-regarded podcasts by local journalists, there have also been serious and well-received multi-part documentaries on Netflix and HBO. Lasdun appropriately acknowledges these contributions, yet insists on giving us chapter and verse on established evidence.
Yet although it reveals nothing new about the case, Lasdun’s prose is pure joy. Their resistance to going full Southern Gothic is particularly admirable, though the lingering stench of rotting jelly fish that results from one of Murdaugh’s failed attempts is too good to pass up. Likewise, Lasdun’s refusal to reach any firm conclusions about Big Red’s guilt proves remarkably prescient. On May 13, 2026, by the time his book had gone to press, the South Carolina Supreme Court sensationally overturned the murder conviction, citing “shocking jury interference” by the court clerk. It was revealed that Becky Hill – “Miss Becky” – was pressuring jurors to convict Murdaugh. One witness testified that she was writing a book about the trial, and needed narrative closure to make the project truly popular. The irony is that in the process he has once again exposed everything. Murdaugh’s retrial is expected to begin sometime next year and Lasdon will likely be there to watch.
The Family Man: Blood and Betrayal in the House of Murdaugh is published by WW Norton & Company (£22). To support the Guardian, order your copy here guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
