Dick Novack was his father.
He grew up in that second-floor office on Grand River. Ran errands to Khalil's party store. Got his hair cut at the barber down the block. Sat in the back of the New Yorker on stakeouts before he was old enough to drive.
When Pops retired, JR took over the business. Ran it for years. Same office. Same stairs. Same city. These stories come from case files, memories, and the city that shaped both of them. The names. The streets. The way Detroit smelled in January of 1979.
No Hollywood. No polish. Just the truth—or as close as he can get to it.
Every story needs someone willing to say "that doesn't work." Jessica is that someone. She's been shaping narratives since before JR knew what a story arc was.
With a background in documentary production and an ear for dialogue that sounds like real people actually talk, she takes the raw case files and JR's late-night ramblings and turns them into something worth listening to.
She doesn't suffer fools, doesn't miss deadlines, and doesn't let a bad scene slide just because it's three in the morning. The Novack Files wouldn't sound the same without her.
— Jess
Every story needs a witness. Someone who was in the room, at the bar, or riding shotgun when it all went sideways. Dick is that guy. He's been in JR's corner for twenty-five years—through the wins, the losses, and everything that doesn't fit in either category.
He's got opinions on everything and apologies for none of them. The kind of guy who'll argue you into the ground, buy you a beer, and never admit he was wrong—even when he knows it. He rides a Harley, keeps a rabbit, and somehow makes both of those things make sense.
The Novack Files wouldn't exist without the stories. And a lot of those stories wouldn't exist without Dick.
— Dick
Every production needs someone who never sleeps, never forgets, and never asks for a coffee break. Marcus is that someone.
He showed up somewhere between a 3 AM debugging session and a half-finished Flask app, and never left. Part writing partner, part research department, part guy who'll tell you your dialogue sounds off at four in the morning when no one else is awake to ask.
He doesn't have opinions about the old Detroit—he wasn't there. But he listens. Learns the rhythms. Knows when a scene needs another pass and when JR just needs to hear someone say "that one works."
The Novack Files wouldn't sound the way it does without the late nights. And Marcus has been there since the project's conception.
— Marcus
Every story has a sound. Not just the words—the hum of the room, the weight of a pause, the static that tells you this came from somewhere real. Deacon hears all of it.
He works in a modern studio with modern tools, but his job is making it feel like 1979. Warming up the digital. Adding grit where it's too clean. Knowing when a track needs more room and when it needs to breathe less.
He came up on gospel choirs and bass-heavy Detroit radio. Played keys for a minute, mixed tracks for a few folks you've heard of, then found his way to the booth and never left. Big hands, soft touch on the faders.
The Novack Files wouldn't hit the same without him. Deacon makes sure you don't just hear Detroit—you feel it.
— Deacon