Once upon a crime, a murderer could land a Netflix deal, a memoir, and maybe a limited-edition vinyl soundtrack. We lived, we streamed, we moral-compromised to the extent that even Satan was like: tone it down. And then the Son of Sam law entered the chat, holding receipts and a moral compass. Suddenly, true crime felt less like entertainment and more like a group project in bad taste. A legal side-eye asked: Who exactly approved this horror story as a distribution deal?

As true crime blurred the line between justice and showbiz, one law decided to draw it in bold. Here is all you need to know about the Son of Sam law.

The Son of Sam law is basically what happens when the justice system gets tired of watching killers book press tours. Introduced in 1977, it politely, but firmly, blocks convicted criminals from profiting off their chaos. Think: memoir money? Frozen. Biopic royalties? Seized. Podcast appearance fee? Try again. Any potential proceeds are rerouted to victims while the courts handle lawsuits. It is capitalism with consequences, a financial slap that says: just because your crimes are trending does not mean you get to monetize trauma.

While the law now blocks killer cash-outs, it all began with one man who treated murder like marketing, cue David Berkowitz and his demon-dog-fueled PR rollout.

David Berkowitz, known as Son of Sam, really did the most. Not content with just serial killing, he added demonic dog letters and theatrical vibes, basically pitching himself for a Netflix Original before streaming existed. Fittingly, Netflix would go on to make a documentary about him decades later. When whispers of media deals started, lawmakers panicked like they had seen his pilot script. The law was both a panic button and a boundary. For more on the madness, Conversations with a Killer: The Son of Sam Tapes dropped on Netflix on July 30—because of course it did.

While Berkowitz gave the law its name, New York gave it a glow-up, because nothing says justice like rebooting a statute with inheritance clauses and killer-adjacent tax disclaimers.

The original 1977 version of the law got canceled in 1991 for being unconstitutional, translation: too bold, not legally chic. But New York loves a comeback. By 2001, the law returned with a remix, targeting not just book deals but prison paychecks, lottery wins, and inheritance money. In 2023, lawmakers took it further, trying to include spouses of serial killers, because apparently wedding vows now come with potential royalties. The message? If your partner commits mass murder, maybe skip the GoFundMe.

While New York tightened every legal loophole like it was editing a prestige drama, Idaho took the minimalist route, no script, no statute, just a judge and some emotional lighting.

No Son of Sam law. During Bryan Kohberger’s sentencing, concerns about future book or streaming deals sparked public unease, but all the judge could do was deliver a chilling PSA. He warned against attention as currency, begging society not to click, stream, or quote. It was less courtroom, more existential TED Talk. There was no legal ban, just a collective moral “please do not.” And in this economy, vibes alone rarely hold up.

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What are your thoughts on the Son of Sam law, criminal fame, and who should really get paid when infamy sells? Let us know in the comments below.