Lance McMillian Presents The Murder of Sara Barton - A Stunning Legal Thriller!

“He was such a nice boy,” Mom observes. Was he? Am I? Is anyone? Maybe once upon a time, but the detours of life divert a person in a direction he never intends to go. Sam is dead, and Lara apparently wants me to kill Barton. I should get in my car and head west. Americans have always gone west to pursue a new world. I should drive west and forever forget this sordid business. The world is dirty, and I cannot make it clean. But the current of fate is too strong. I drive north to Atlanta, back to the city that is now my home. The fatalist in me needs to see the story through. I have no attic in the city in which to slip away—no place to call all my own.

Staring out my office window at the fading afternoon sun, a wave of loneliness sinks my mood. The sad reality is that I have nothing to do and no place to go. I’m ready for the trial. The work I could manufacture requires conferencing with Ella, and that’s a non-starter. The condo means the tempest of Lara. The thought of home fares no better. I live in a museum filled with ghosts, and I feel like a stranger to its history. I consider a hotel. Instead I just sit. A wandering mind has no peace, and mine is no different. Trying not to think about anything leads to a torrent of random, unsequenced thoughts more fitting in a dream. I think of Otis Redding—another Georgia boy from the country. My father did legal work for him long before I was born. The possibility

of leaving my home in Georgia to sit on a dock of a bay 2,000 miles from here is tempting. Otis died in a plane crash three days after recording that song. He was 26. I try to recapture all the lyrics, but lose the thread somewhere before thinking about the next thing—the Battle of Antietam. Over twenty-two thousand Yankee and Rebel casualties of war in a single day. For what? The world is mad. The mind eventually settles on Erin Riggs—the first girl I ever kissed. Friday night. The football game. Underneath the bleachers. A cool fall night. Awkward. Clumsy. Amazing. She moved away the following spring, and I moped around town for a full two weeks. Never saw her again. I swivel toward my computer and search her out for a good thirty minutes, happy to have something to do. The hunt grows cold. She probably got married, changed her name. Would I even recognize her? Maybe she was on one of my juries along the way. Whatever she looks like now, the vision of her that night materializes before me as if she were in the room right now. Erin Riggs. Then I think of Sydney. I pick up the phone and call Chad Dallas. We go to the same church, except I don’t go anymore. As soon as he answers, regret at my impulsive action descends like a paratrooper. What am I doing? “Haven’t seen you in awhile,” he says. Chad is one of the most rock-solid Christians I know, and this comment is his gentle way of chiding me for abandoning church. “I know. Been busy.” “Uh-huh.” “I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I was wondering if I could see Sydney.” “Right now?” “If that works for you.” “I don’t see why not.” I look at the phone accusingly as if it tricked me into making the call. The mind’s leap from Otis Redding to Erin Riggs to Sydney to reaching out to Chad happened with astounding swiftness. I head to my car questioning my every action. Work has been my crutch for so long that in its absence I’ve become unreliable in how I fill the void. Maybe that’s how Lara ended up in my lap. Having reached the limits of my physical endurance by working non-stop, I longed for another distraction. Now I’ve had my fill of her. Tonight it’s Sydney’s turn to aid and abet my war against emptiness. The drive over changes the feeling of uncertainty into one of anticipation. I haven’t seen Sydney in over two years. Will she even recognize me? As I park on the street, the thought that she might not remember freezes me in place. Experiencing that rejection would hurt. I get out of the car, put on a mask of happiness, and head to the house with slow steps. Chad greets me at the door, offers a hug, and says, “How are you, brother? We miss you at church.” “Been busy. Murder never sleeps.” “They’ll still be dead Monday morning, you know.” Chad’s gift is an ability to say seemingly innocuous things that nevertheless convey hard truths. The dead will still be dead no matter what I do, and using my job to avoid every other part of my life is a poor excuse for living. Chad’s wife, Olivia, joins us in the entryway. More small talk follows, and I fake friendly patience. At last, Chad calls out for Sydney. On cue, the sound of footsteps coming from the basement answers in obedience. Sydney enters the room and stops for a second before bounding toward me with unleashed enthusiasm. She remembers. Her meaty paws jump up at me, and I bend down to let her lick my face. When I kneel to get more on her level, she knocks me down in her excitement. Amber and I adopted Sydney as a rescue border collie and boxer mix shortly after we got married. We had just returned from our two-week honeymoon in Australia and named her after our new favorite city in the world. The trip was incredible—experiencing New Year’s Eve at the Opera House with a million other people, climbing to the top of Sydney Harbour Bridge, the revealing bikini Amber wore on Bondi Beach. On the flight back to the States, I looked at my sleeping wife and knew that God had given me a woman I did not deserve. Then we got a puppy. Sydney’s excitement at seeing me has yet to abate. I can’t help smiling in effortless joy at the spastic display of her devotion. I’ve watched touching videos of soldiers returning from war to reunite with their ever-loyal canine friends. Now I’m living out my own heart-tugging moment. The pureness of Sydney’s love humbles me. I gave her away after the murders because the pain was too much. She invoked too many memories—memories that I was too mentally weak to handle. Every time I looked at Sydney, I saw Amber and Cale. So I turned the page and found Sydney a happy home, convinced that I was doing the right thing. Chad, Olivia, and I make some obligatory small talk as required by the customs of the South. Chad brings up the trial next week, and I respond, “I pray that justice is done.” Olivia asks if I’ve met Lara Landrum. Et tu, Brutus? I never took her for the starstruck type. Yes, Olivia, I’ve met Lara Landrum, and I could tell you some things that would burn your ears off. I leave that last part out. Not wanting to overstay my welcome, I say my good-byes and give my ex-dog a parting hug. Chad encourages me not to be a stranger and even means it. But I am a stranger to everyone, most of all myself. The joy I felt moments ago gives way to deep sadness, and the night air judges me as I walk to the car. Reaching my door, I turn back toward the house and see Sydney staring at me through the window. I wave farewell to her and slump down in the driver’s seat. Giving away that dog is the single worst thing I’ve ever done in my life. I worried coming over here that she wouldn’t remember me. But her unbridled happiness at seeing me again hurts much more. Sydney doesn’t care that I gave her away. She doesn’t care that I haven’t visited her in two years. She doesn’t care about any of my faults. She loves me just as I am. And during the one time I needed unconditional love more than at any other moment of my existence, I gave it away. The buoyant man who held Amber under the December summer sky of Australia would never have exiled Sydney from his life. I hate myself. I turn again to the house, hoping to see Sydney still manning her post. But she is gone, and I am alone. The tears burst forth like a pent-up tsunami, sending me into convulsive heaves. I never cried when Amber and Cale died. I got the shakes and the chills. I vomited. I suffered in silent anguish. But I never cried. I couldn’t. The tears just wouldn’t come. Now I sit in a car on a street bawling over a dog. The release doesn’t make me feel better, only worse. I still hate myself.

~~~

Perhaps it's because I'm so disturbed by the lack of Law and Order at this time, that I've purposely sought out legal thrillers. I enjoy reading about or seeing court cases--which goes way back to when Perry Mason was a great television show... I still watch his shows if they are not reruns...  In fact, Della Street might have been one of the reasons I chose to start working as a secretary...LOL

Chance Meridian, as the Deputy District Attorney for all murders was a busy man. But the position had soured for me when his wife and son were murdered and the case became cold. Worse, he blamed himself and his position, as the possible reason of their deaths. There was no way that a normal mourning period would suffice, even though he ultimately did go back to his job... But his Faith had been badly affected.

And the next call to come to the scene of another faced him again... But he wasn't expecting to recognize the woman who was killed. In fact, Chance asked if that was her... Lara Landrum was a major movie star... her twin Sara Barton was the woman who was on her back on the floor with a bullet in her chest, blood all over her body and her face so like Lara that it was impossible not to wonder whether this was the real Sara Barton... She was married to Bernard Barton, another lawyer. Interestingly she had been found by her divorce lawyer...

Before Scott and I even say another word, Sam launches into defense mode. “I know it looks bad. What lawyer visits a client’s house this late? But Sara wanted to file her divorce papers tomorrow morning, and she had to sign the verification to the complaint before we could file. She didn’t like meeting at the office, so she told me to come over at ten. I wouldn’t normally do that for a client, but there is a lot of money to be made on this case. Or there was. Now she’s dead. I can’t believe it.” Scott and I look at each other then turn back to Sam. He leaks nervousness. I tell myself that if I were innocent and in his spot, then maybe I would be filled with anxiety, too. But something about him still smells off. Sam gives me a peculiar look, and alarm bells clamor. A memory stored in an unused warehouse of my brain stirs from the distant past. Something significant just happened, but I have no idea what. Sam launches into another monologue. “I knew I shouldn’t have come over here. I should’ve insisted that she drop by my office. I didn’t want to come. I told her. I asked about her husband. She said he had to work and would not be back until after midnight, if at all. She was persistent like that, and I came over against my better judgment. The client is always right and all that. I rang the doorbell. No answer. I knocked. No answer. I tried the door. It was unlocked. I walked in, said hello, anybody here. Everything’s quiet. I went to the kitchen and there she was. Lying on the floor. It was awful. I cannot believe this is happening to me.” He pauses before adding, “I didn’t kill her.” Scott gives Sam a disbelieving look, and Sam wilts in the glare. Giving up on Scott, he turns toward me on the verge of tears. “You gotta believe me. I didn’t kill her.” Sam is embarrassing himself at this point. A lawyer should never ramble. Scott and I have yet to ask him a single question, and still he cannot shut up. Our silent treatment is by design. Most witnesses become uncomfortable with the quiet and rush to fill the void. Talking takes the place of the silence that judges them. Sam complains, “Are you guys going to say anything? I’m in the hot seat here.” Scott and I continue our quiet vigil. Sam pivots to Scott and then back my way, his anxious eyes begging me to speak... 

“Sam, I want to help you, but I cannot help someone who refuses to help himself. You can’t lie to the police without repercussions. You’re part of a murder investigation. There’s a dead body in the kitchen. The good news is that Scott and I are close friends. I can fix what has happened in this room up to this point. You can start over fresh. Clean slate. But the truth needs to start coming out of your mouth. Now.” Without even looking at me, he says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Becky Johnson.” The name confuses him for a moment. Then our eyes register mutual understanding, and he accepts my accusation without challenge. But I still need to hear the truth from his own lips. I emphasize, “I swear to God that if you lie to me now, I will prosecute you for obstruction of justice myself.” Sam straightens up and nods. Fear gives way to resignation. He asks, “Does Liesa have to know?”

~~~

And, of course, soon her sister arrives in town and all around, news reps began to be more and more involved as the investigation continues, and on into the trial... Hersister wanted to see the police so that she could tell them that her husband, Bernard, had killed her sister! She went on to say that Sara planned to divorce him--he was so controlling that she could not deal with it anymore...

Before we leave, Lara texts each of us the picture of her sister’s blackened back after Barton hit her. The photo speaks for itself. Barton didn’t hold back. I hate him already.

Sara screams into the phone, “My husband is trying to kill me!” I hear loud banging on a door as Barton tries to get into the room. Sara pleads, “He has already hit me. Please hurry.” The final sounds on the call tell the story without words—more thunderous banging on the door, yelling, a woman crying. The line goes dead. The call is chilling but evidentiary gold. I ask why Barton wasn’t arrested. The story is familiar. By the time the officer arrived, things had settled down. Both Barton and Sara were calm, and Sara did not want to press charges. No outward signs of physical abuse were present, which makes sense since Sara’s bruises were on her back. The officer departed, filled out his incident report, and left Barton and Sara alone to resume their dysfunctional lives. Scott announces, “Bernard Barton speaks to my policeman’s gut.” “The current does seem to be pushing that way.”

~~~ 

As the book moves forward, I began to see hints of the dialogue for which Robert B. Parker was known for in his Spenser series... It was a pleasure to read another writer with the skill to present tense, fast-paced words; but at the same time, writing about being in a courtroom... 

But many times, having lots of evidence doesn't mean that the correct individuals are being charged. Readers will be kept guessing as more evidence begins moving the case from one way to another, and sometimes back again, until everything can be documented and proven... That's why I love legal fiction... Everything is always clear and quickly addressed to gain a prosecutorial judgment they are correct! 

Doncha wish legal matters even were allowed to be addressed these days???

GABixlerReviews 

Morley Swingle Presents Choice of Evils: A Wyatt Blake Legal Thriller

 I didn’t deserve to lose, in my humble opinion. My misfortune was that “Bad Chad” Coburn, generally recognized as the most ferocious linebacker ever to play for the Denver Broncos, graduated from law school and moved to my rural district.  He started his campaign against me before he’d even passed the bar exam.  His name recognition proved impossible to overcome.  Two former Broncos quarterbacks even flew to Panorama Springs to speak at a fundraiser for him. a fundraiser for him.  Coburn’s yard signs bore the blue and orange of the Broncos.  To this day I can’t look at a Broncos jersey without feeling irritation.

An Ideal Client: The tabloids are calling him The Clifftop Killer. He spent less than two hours behind bars before bonding out.  He’s uber rich.  Those guys don’t stay in jail prior to trial unless a judge refuses to set any bond at all.  He hasn’t even been arraigned, but his case is already the top headline in three online tabloids.  I skimmed one and read the first paragraph of the others.  The story reeks of sex, adultery, and cold-blooded murder. They claim he killed his rock-climbing partner three weeks ago by cutting the rope, sending a man named Seth Bley hurtling to an awful death.  The Clifftop Killer is charged with first-degree murder, which means it was premeditated. 

He’s sitting in my waiting room right now. Ryker Brando showed up without an appointment.  He probably wants to hire me.  I need him as much as he needs me.  If all goes well, he’ll be the first person I ever defend against a murder charge.  Not that murder is new to me. I’ve tried plenty of murder cases, but always from the prosecution’s side.  I’ve never defended one. First time for everything, right? The Clifftop Killer? Seems like the tabloids could have done better. I haven’t read the stories close enough to know the details.  I’ll find out soon enough. If you live in Colorado, you might have heard of me.  My name is Wyatt Blake.  I’m thirty-five years old.  I practice law in Panorama Springs, a ski-resort town located on the Western Slope of the Rocky Mountains at an elevation of 9,995 feet.  There are 20,000 lawyers in Colorado, but 18,000 are crammed like litigious sardines in Denver and its suburbs.  That means the rest of us are scattered over the Rockies and plains.  I’m one of about 100 in Panorama Springs. I’m well-known in a big-frog-in-a-small-pond sort of way because I served a couple terms as the district attorney for these parts.  But my time as a public servant came to an abrupt end when a retired Denver Broncos linebacker beat me in my bid for re-election a few months back, even though he’d just graduated from law school and had never tried a case in his life.  Politics is all about name-recognition.  Sometimes that works in your favor; sometimes it doesn’t.  

I’m a defense lawyer now. I’ve been a criminal defense lawyer since January 1— four whole months.  Truth be told, I’m barely scraping by. I close the file on my computer.  I’ve been reading my late wife’s obituary.  I read it at least once a day.  I wrote it fifteen months ago.  Every word. I take the framed photo of my wife and daughter from its resting place next to my computer, glance at it, and slip it into a desk drawer. No need for an accused murderer to see I have a daughter.  Emily is six.  She’s the only true family I have left in this world, except for my estranged father, whom I haven’t seen in years.  I glance at her face one last time before closing the desk drawer.  I never kept a photo of either Tess or Emily on my desk when I worked at the prosecutor’s office.  Too many bad people sat in the chairs across from me, and some of their clients, too.  Just kidding, esteemed members of the defense bar.  Sort of. I keep the framed photo of Emily and her late mother next to my computer these days, but hide it in the drawer whenever I meet with a criminal defendant. A lawbreaker. A potential client. I don’t have enough of them. I head for my waiting room, where my secretary, Nikki Swank, is undoubtedly plying our soon-to-be client with coffee or Diet Coke and entertaining him with scintillating conversation.  Nikki can make anyone feel comfortable.  She’s a great conversationalist, and probably smarter than I am. Sure enough, when I enter the room, Ryker Brando holds a Diet Coke in his hand and is nodding at Nikki’s story about the one time she went rock climbing.  She fell twelve feet and landed on her cute derrière, but suffered no injuries other than hurt pride.  I’ve heard her tell the tale many times. But... For God’s sake, Nikki, don’t you know what he’s charged with?   Ryker Brando doesn’t seem to mind.  He’s not smiling, but he’s not frowning, either.  He’s listening intently to a pretty woman tell a story. It’s a small room.  The front end of our shotgun-style building contains only Nikki’s workstation, a set of file cabinets, a bookcase full of law books, a couch, and three chairs.  Paintings by Colorado artist Buffalo Kaplinski cover the walls.  He was my first client when I entered private practice.  I represented him free because I liked his name.  My tendency to take pro bono cases is one reason my bank account is perilously close to zero.  One of these days I’ll learn to say the word no. 

"Wyatt Blake,” I say, extending my hand. “Pleased to meet you.” My potential client stands.  He’s a fit man in his forties with a square face, a strong jaw, and unkempt blond bangs that touch his eyebrows.  He’s wearing a red, frayed North Face jacket, bluejeans, and hiking boots. “Ryker Brando.” He takes my hand and squeezes too hard. I don’t get the impression he’s doing it on purpose. “Come on back.” He glances at Nikki.  “I’ll take you rock climbing one of these days, if you’re interested,” he tells her. Does he realize the connotations of what he just said?  A man accused of murdering his rock-climbing partner during the climb has just invited my secretary to go up on a cliff with him?  Alone? She smiles. “Once was enough for me, but thanks.” Her smile is genuine.  I wonder if she’s seen the online stories.  Probably not.  We haven’t talked about them, and she wouldn’t have had time to read about his case after he showed up unannounced. I recognized his name, though, the moment I heard it. Ryker Brando. You don’t meet too many people with a name like that. I wonder if he’s related to the actor. Maybe a grandson?  Great-grandson? Might be. Lots of Hollywood types have bought places in Panorama Springs during the past decade.  Jake Turner was the first.  Scores have followed.  Next to Telluride, we’re the most popular ski resort town on the Western Slope.  We’re cheaper, too.  Fewer billionaires. I stand at the door to my inner sanctum and usher him inside.  Behind him, Nikki is waving at me, beyond his line of vision.  She’s holding up a document.  It’s our health insurance bill.  The payment is overdue.  She’s reminding me how desperately we need a fat retainer. I get the message. I’m on it. I close the door. “Have a seat.” I settle in the tall chair behind my desk. He sits on one of the two wooden chairs in front of it. 

He leans forward. “I didn’t murder Seth,” he says. He stares at me, awaiting a response.  I lean back in my chair.  He’s definitely getting right to the point. “Not on purpose, anyway,” he adds. His face is ruggedly boyish and completely inscrutable.  He is perching on the front edge of the antique chair as if afraid he’ll break it.  It will hold him.  I bought it from a lawyer’s estate sale.  It’s held bigger butts than his, no doubt. He’s remarkably calm for a man charged with murder. Unsettlingly so. “I heard about your case,” I say. “Who hasn’t?  Makes a great headline—DENVER MILLIONAIRE KILLS BUSINESS PARTNER WHILE ROCK CLIMBING.” “Where’d they get the nickname?” “The Clifftop Killer?” “Yeah.” “Seth fell from the top of a cliff.” Ryker Brando omitted a key fact. “You cut the rope, right?” “I cut it.” I see no trace of remorse. This guy killed his best friend. You’d think he’d be racked with grief and guilt. 

“It was an accident.  I told the sheriff the whole story, but he didn’t believe me.” “Cops are untrusting souls,” I say, tapping my pen on a yellow legal pad while looking into his intense gray eyes.

~~~

At this time in our lives, many are finding it hard to accept any type of prejudice against one another. Even in a character. Interestingly in Choice of Evils, it is both a character as well as the author of the book who reveals a lack of sensitivity to many who know people with an identified problem... Yet he used it not to inform, but to ridicule... I couldn't help but remember the face of another man who chose this path. And, frankly, I was offended so much that it affected my opinion of the author, sadly...

As a lover of books, especially legal thrillers, I was very much impressed with the overall book, characters, other than the one I identify. The case itself, Choice of Evils, was an excellent choice for the beginning of a new series. It would be relatively unknown to the average reader, but sufficiently unique to pull attention to just how much the legal structure and its historical wealth of "possibilities" had been documented and able to be used as a basis for a new, similar situation.

Wyatt Blake was "elected" from his office as a prosecutor, when politics got into the middle of the legal system. A Senator had chosen a former athlete to mentor, knowing that his name value would be sure to garner votes--we have seen this type of activity played out during the last decade where, even the presidential, and other elected position, candidates came from name notoriety... And we've seen that their notoriety is often insufficient to declare them actually qualified to do the job... But Blake was now out of a job, so chose to go to the "dark" side rather than not continue in law...

He became a Defense Lawyer and was slowly redoing his skill expertise to take on those individuals who, by law, were to be defended to the best of his ability.

Blake immediately worried about the extremely rich man who had walked into his office, unannounced, but with a referral to hire Black to defend his case. He was accused of killing his partner...

It is not possible to share much about the case so that I do not give away any part of the events to follow. Other than to say that, for me, I picked up only "one" clue that put me on the alert... Because, Blake was immediately frustrated with this possible new client, but who he needed to accept as a client, purely because of his financial condition which his staff often reminded him about...

You see, the possible defendant presented one of the many possible effects of Asperger's: social difficulties resulting in an even level (monotone) of voice use--little, if any, empathy... The character was made to present as such, along with other effects, which were difficult for Blake to deal with. In other words, he reacted negatively to the individual and they both knew that he didn't like the client. Yet the amount of money offered could not be passed up and, Blake knew that, even if he didn't like him, he was the type of lawyer that still would work to win his case, if at all possible.

But that was not enough for the writer. He wanted to give a big ending--which he did. Perhaps he thought this would be rectified in future books, which I will not be reading... Yes, I am an individual who once loved a young man with Asperger's, who committed suicide... because he couldn't handle his life...

And just like many felt when the president made fun of an individual with a disability, I was disheartened that somebody chose to use a disabled individual as was done in this book. Many writers create characters to inform and introduce people with disabilities into their stories. I have appreciated those authors. I found the author's use of the legal history as was done, a firm example of just how we are losing the rule of law in America right now! We are making a mockery of the law... through lies that nobody will acknowledge as lies... 

However, my ranking is only one point lower in giving my personal opinion. If you decide to read, let me know what you think, but, just like I wouldn't ban a book that bothered me, I wouldn't not recognize the effectiveness of the story for the majority of the book.

GABixlerReviews

“My favorite part was his low opinion of prosecutors,” she says.  She opens the book, finds the page, and reads aloud: “A prosecutor hopes and expects to be a judge, and after that he will aspire to be governor, then senator, and President, in their regular turn. To accomplish this noble ambition, he must in each position give the people what they want, and more; and there are no rungs in the ladder of fame upon which lawyers can plant their feet like the dead bodies of their victims.”

Blood Flag: A Paul Madriani Novel by Steve Martini - Historical Past Brought Into Murder Case(s) Now...

 

 They shake Frank’s hand. He seems befuddled, surrounded by all this power. “Sofia’s father.” I mouth the words to Harry and Gwyn. “Oh.” Riggins draws back a step and puts on a more sober expression. Jolting music, blasting horns, and a bass drum makes us all jump. Somewhere there’s a sound system. Powerful speakers under the eaves of the house blast down on us. Aaron Copland, “Fanfare for the Common Man.” It’s a nice tune, but not at this volume, and certainly not something Sofia would have picked. I look over and one of her roommates, Tess, I believe, is telling someone inside the house to turn it down. A few seconds later the ear-shattering noise quells to background music. We can hear ourselves again. Copland on the quiet. Tess must know the owner of the house. Maybe it’s her family...

I turn to the computer, punch up Google, and type in “45th Infantry Division.” In seconds the site list pops up. There’re a bunch of sites. I open one of them. It spills across the screen, a map of Western Europe with text underneath in big letters. “The 45th Infantry Division drove on Munich in the closing days of the war and, in the process, it liberated the Nazi concentration camp at Dachau. The division crossed the Danube River on 27 April, 1945, and liberated 32,000 captives of Dachau on 29 April. The division captured Munich during the next two days, occupying the city until V-E Day and the surrender of Germany. During the next month, the division remained in Munich and set up collection points and camps for the massive numbers of surrendering troops of the German armies. The number of POWs taken by the 45th Infantry Division during its almost two years of fighting totaled 124,840 men.” “Dachau concentration camp,” says Harry. “I see it.” “You think Brauer was there?” “I don’t know.” “We could ask Emma.” “She says she doesn’t know anything. According to her, her dad never talked about the war. All she knows is little bits and pieces from letters he’d written to army buddies and a few telephone conversations she overheard. Whenever she asked him about the war, the men he served with, he’d go silent. Didn’t want to talk about it. She assumed it brought up bad memories, so she never pressed him.” “It is possible the swastika on the wall is something Brauer captured, like the pistol. Maybe they go together,” says Harry. “Herman looked at the Luger and said he thought it was authentic.” I punch up another site, wait a couple of seconds, and sit there staring at it. “I’ll be damned.” “What is it?” says Harry. “The unit emblem for the 45th Infantry Division of the United States Army.” “What was it?” “Come take a look,” I tell him. Harry steps around the desk so he can look over my shoulder. It’s an item from the 45th Infantry Division Museum, their online site, an organization dedicated to the history of the unit. I know from other readings that the symbol in question has a history dating back thousands of years. It is formed by an equilateral cross, the outward legs of which are bent at a ninety-degree angle. It has been used by various cultures and religions from time immemorial, including Hindus, Buddhists, and followers of Jainism. In ancient Sanskrit it was known by the word svastika. We know it as the swastika. According to the article from the 45th Infantry Division Museum, the unit wore the swastika on their divisional arm patch for a period dating from around 1920 until 1933. To the unit it was an ancient American Indian icon, a symbol of good luck. The 45th was headquartered in Oklahoma City and trained at Fort Bliss. It was made up of recruits mostly from Oklahoma, New Mexico, Colorado, and Arizona. This was Indian country for many of the western tribes, so according to the article the symbol made sense. From reading we find out that the problem arose when the swastika became known worldwide as the symbol of Hitler’s Nazi Party in Germany. Apparently the 45th abandoned the swastika in 1933. They wore no arm patch insignia until 1939. After much thought and a contest to come up with a new insignia, the army settled on another American Indian motif. It was gold and red, the same colors as the old patch, but this time it was the Thunderbird—the symbol of the “sacred bearer of happiness unlimited.” They marched with it on their shoulders through World War II and the Korean War. The 45th Infantry Division was deactivated in 1968 and rolled into the 45th Infantry Brigade along with its battle flags, storied history, and Thunderbird shoulder insignia. “That proves what they say,” says Harry. “What’s that?” “There’s nothing stranger than history. Could have knocked me over with a thunderbird feather. We can forget the theory that Brauer was a Nazi.” “Looks like it.” “Where did they end up?” says Harry. “Who?” “The 45th, at the end of the war?” I look through some of the materials online. “Looks like Munich. Why?” “Munich was a hotbed,” says Harry. “It’s where Hitler got his start. The Beer Hall Putsch, remember? Early twenties.” “That was before my time,” I say, and start to smile. “I know it’s fashionable to be ignorant with regards to history,” he says, “but the Millennials will end up reliving it if they aren’t careful. Our own American version of Hitler. Country’s in trouble, in case you haven’t noticed. And most people haven’t a clue as to current events. They know even less about history.” He’s getting wound up. I can tell. Harry’s lecture series, new season, episode one. “If a nuclear war happened before four o’clock yesterday, they don’t know about it. If another one is scheduled for tomorrow, the only question they’ll ask is whether they can catch it on YouTube. The definition of being cool. The younger generation is ignorant,” he says. “You tell my daughter that, tell Sarah that the next time she’s down, and I’ll take odds she hits you with a book.” “You can bet it won’t be a history book,” says Harry. I start to laugh. “It’s not funny,” he says. “The world’s coming apart and the kids are gonna inherit it.” “You did pretty well last year. Have you checked your portfolio balance lately?” “I’m not talking about money,” says Harry. “Forget the money. Do you realize you’d have to dig up at least three generations of elementary school teachers in any major city in this country before you find one who knows what World War Two was and when it happened? I’m not kidding. Stop anybody on the street under eighty and ask them who Stalin was, and they’ll tell you it’s a rock group. We’re gonna wake up someday and find his clone sitting with his feet on the desk in the Oval Office,” he says. I need to buy Harry a bullhorn and sandwich board so he can go out on the street and scream at the kids. See if all those noise-canceling headphones really work. “They can either learn it or relive it,” he says. “Well, I suppose every so often the world needs a refresher course,” I tell him. “That’s not funny,” says Harry. “That’s not funny at all. That’s learning the hard way.” “Yeah, well, maybe it’s a lesson they won’t forget,” I tell him. I have my back to him looking at the screen. “Can you find that little box with the key? It’s on the desk there somewhere.” “What, this?” I turn. “Yeah. There’s another piece of paper folded up inside. Take it out and take a look.” He does it. It’s the brown wrapper. “Do you see a return address on it?” “Yeah, there’s a small sticker.” “What does it say?” “Law Offices of Elliott Fish. There’s a P.O. box, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, and a zip.” “It was sent from a law office?” “Looks like it,” says Harry. Harry gives me the name again and I punch it into the computer. Sure enough, I find a website with a phone number. I pick up the phone and dial. A receptionist answers: “Elliott Fish Law Offices, can I help you?” “Is Mr. Fish in, by any chance?” “Who may I say is calling?” “Attorney Paul Madriani, from Coronado, California.” “Just a moment please.” I get an earful of elevator music. A few seconds later a male voice comes on the line. “This is Elliott Fish. Who am I speaking to?” “Mr. Fish, this is Paul Madriani. I’m a lawyer out in California.” “Yes, what can I do for you?” “I have a client whose father received a small package from your office. His name was Robert Brauer. Can I ask who you represent and why you sent it to him?” “Do you represent Mr. Brauer?” “No. No, I’m afraid Mr. Brauer is dead.” “Oh, I see. Do you represent his estate?” “I represent his daughter, Emma Brauer.” “May I ask when Mr. Brauer died?” “About six weeks ago.” “And may I ask how you know about the package?” “It’s sitting here on my desk right now.” “I see. Then you should be able to tell me the contents of the package.” “A key. Looks like a safe-deposit key. And some kind of an ID, very old. In German, the name Jakob Grimminger.” “Yes.” He clears his throat. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.” “Am I correct in assuming that you sent the package to Mr. Brauer?” “I did.” “Was it on behalf of a client?” “It was.” “May I ask who the client was?” “That I can’t tell you.” “May I ask why?” “It’s confidential lawyer-client information,” he says. “Well, let me explain. Mr. Brauer’s daughter, Emma Brauer, is my client. She has her own set of problems at the moment.” “Yes?” “Well, she’s charged with homicide. Mr. Brauer, who was quite ill before he died, was in a VA hospital out here, and it seems the authorities have reason to believe that he may not have died of natural causes. They seem to believe that my client may have put him out of his misery in a mercy killing.” “I see.” “At the moment it’s a single charge of voluntary manslaughter, but I’m concerned that if I can’t determine what’s happening here it could become more serious.” “What makes you think that the package has anything to do with your client’s case?” “Before Mr. Brauer died, his home was burglarized. Whoever broke in was looking for something. Mr. Brauer told his daughter that he was fearful both for himself and for her, and told her to place the package in a bank vault for safekeeping.” There is a lot of heavy breathing on the other end of the line. “Last week an employee of my office, a young woman, went to Brauer’s house on an errand for the office. Ms. Brauer was not there because she was in jail. That employee was found murdered Monday morning. We have reason to believe that she was killed at the house and that her body was deposited at another location.” “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says. “But if, as you say, Ms. Brauer placed the package in a bank vault and it wasn’t in the house, how can you be sure that it’s in any way connected to the death of your employee?” “The placement of the package in the bank was a private matter known only to Mr. Brauer and his daughter.” “I see. This does complicate things,” says the lawyer. “I’m not certain whether I can disclose the identity of my clients.” The way he says it makes it clear that there is more than one. “When did you say Mr. Brauer died?” he asks. “About six weeks ago.” “Do you have a death certificate?’ “I can get one.” “You might send me a certified copy,” he says. “He would have been the last.” “Last what?” “I’m sorry, I can’t say. But I should advise you that there may be other claimants.” “Claimants to what?” “I can’t say. But you should be aware that since you hold the box and its contents you may be on the receiving end of one or more lawsuits.” “For what? By who?” “By persons with a valid legal claim to the item in question.” “What’s the item?” “To tell you the truth, I don’t know the answer to that myself. I’m simply carrying out the instructions of my clients.” “Can you tell me when you were hired?” “The specific date? I’d have to look, but it was several years ago.” “Can I ask you—and you don’t have to answer if you can’t, but I’m really up against the wall here. I’m assuming that whatever’s going on here has to do with Mr. Brauer’s former military service with the 45th Infantry Division in Europe during the Second World War.” Nothing but breathing and silence from the other end. “Hello?” “I’m here,” he says. “There is one peculiar thing.” “What’s that?” “You did say that the police believe that Mr. Brauer may not have died of natural causes, is that correct?” “That’s right.” “It’s a strange coincidence.” “Yes, what’s that?” “There’s another individual out here in Oklahoma City who says his father died under similar circumstances. He was in a nursing home. And according to what I’ve heard, there is at least one person who doesn’t believe he died of natural causes. He’s requested an investigation by authorities, but so far they have no evidence to establish foul play.” “Am I to assume that this other individual, the man who died, is somehow connected with Mr. Brauer?” There is no reply from the other end of the line, but I can still hear him breathing. In this case I construe silence as assent. “Was he by any chance a member of the 45th Infantry Division?” More silence. “You put me in a very difficult position,” he says. “You don’t have to answer. My client told me that the package came from one of her father’s military buddies. That’s what he told her before he died. The wrapper has your return address on it. So I have to assume that the group you represent consists of Mr. Brauer’s former military associates. I would further assume then that whoever is raising questions about the man’s death, the gentleman back there in Oklahoma City, must be a relative or a friend of one of these men?” More silence. “Let me ask you, do you have an attorney-client relationship with the individual who is complaining about the death of this gentleman?” The lawyer finally exhales and says, “As a matter of fact, I don’t.” He seems almost relieved to give up the information. “Do you have something to write with?” “I do.” “His name is Anthony Pack.” He gives me the man’s phone number and address. “I think if you contact him, he may be able to help you.” “Thank you very much.” I hang up.

~~~

I find I'm watching more of the legal shows on television these days. And, when I saw this book by Steve Martini I decided to read it...Would you believe I hadn't read any of his books since 20 years ago! And, frankly, I was shocked by that post. LOL I hope my presentations have improved greatly since that time... In any event, I was immediately hooked into this storyline, especially when Paul Madriani, the main character, had learned that his young legal assistant who had volunteered to pick up the dog of his client who had been put in jail, was dead! Readers read what had actually happened to her, but then her body was later found in an entirely different area, moved after she'd been murdered... It's these little switches that pulled me further into the mystery because this one won't be the last, I warn you. Even being on the alert will not help, at least it didn't for me... 

On one hand, I was very unhappy that she was murdered so early in the book. On the other hand, Madriani, and his wife, were so upset, that it pushed them both to work to discover what had happened... And, you will find that all of the people working in this legal firm are top-notch and characters who "care" about solving the case--the kind of legal firm you'd wish to find if you need one... Indeed, determining the actual plot was practically impossible... Then it hit me, when I began to stumble and go back and rethink a scene, I realized one thing. Somebody was lying... And we have all learned just how much disinformation, even from a individual you think you should be able to trust, is later determined to be lying... Often... Relentlessly... And, seemingly, with no reason... I finally caught on but it was only by reviewing that one scene where I knew it had to be "created" as a "gotcha" by the author...

I have learned over the last decade that not knowing history has been a downfall, or, maybe, a blessing in a way, for me. In school I was working, choosing classes that I would need to immediately get a job and start working right after graduation. At that time, I had already decided I wanted to help another individual by becoming a secretary. I succeeded and by July, 1963, I was working in the Office of Personnel at West Virginia University. Thereafter, all of my reading and training was based upon advancement... By the time I had retired nearly 40 years later, and moved on into publishing, book reviewing, and ultimately by 2016, I began to learn that, through fiction, I had learned much more about history than I ever had from a public school education. That is not saying it negatively, but rather, realizing that within 12 years, there was no way that routine and basic education classes could possibly have prepared me for what I was discovering of what had taken place in America! Continuing education, which I had done all of my life, is normally pointed at a goal; only reading can provide a way to ensure you learn a sufficient amount of information to prepare you for living in a country as diverse as can be found across the world...

Thus, I did not have the background upon which to evaluate the Blood Flag historical facts that were shared in the book, nor will most readers. So, here's the basic story. Three men were together in a group during WWII and fighting against Hitler's plan to take over the world, kill all Jews...and more... We learn enough to understand how and what the Blood Flag was and where it was first "created..."

These three men had returned home, returned to life and family, until suddenly, we learn, all three men were sent the same package. Some family knew of that package--the client of Paul Madriani--who has been accused of a mercy killing of her father... The normal investigation of the law firm begins and readers will learn of the connection of this package and the fear of each of the individuals who received them. All are dead now, with the last being Madriani's client's father... 

Folks, at first I thought it was going to be a "treasure hunt" book where we will have to hunt clues to find what it is the key(s) opens... But, soon, it turned to be a murder mystery where it became clear that the deaths of all three soldiers had succeeded in happening... Your job, is to enjoy the book, to try to follow carefully all that happens, and to discover before the end of the book whodunit! I was close, but never quite sure... Dare you work to solve an 80-year-old mystery that started during WWII? I highly recommend you do!

GABixlerReviews

The Dynamic Duo Has Blasted Us With Their Latest! Seriously Serial Murders! A Ricky Burns Mystery By C. K. Laurence and Jerry Lyons - WOW!!!

 

Ricky pulled himself out of bed at nine the next morning. He could smell bacon and eggs and hear Collette softly singing “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.” How can she possibly be so cheerful after last night, Ricky wondered. When he’d arrived home, they’d had a marathon of lovemaking. The second he’d fallen into bed, exhausted....he thought he could get right to sleep. Collette turned to him, leaned in to kiss him, and that was all she wrote. All that pent up sexual tension from the club exploded and he couldn’t get enough of her. It had to be five o’clock when they’d finally gone to sleep. ​Driving home last night he’d run what was ahead of him today through his head. He had to talk to Jay about the glass and the DNA. Hoping it wouldn’t end in disaster, he’d finally decided to suggest they talk to Bill and Carol about running the DNA. After breakfast, he was going to call Jay to see what he was up against. ​Collette came into the bedroom just as he finished dressing. ​“What a night,” she smiled. ​“It was amazing, You’re the best!” ​“No, you are, but let’s not argue. I made breakfast.” ​“I smelled it. I’m starving.” ​“Good, because it’s ready and I don’t want it to get cold” ​He followed her into the dining room where the table had already been set. They both sat down and after a few bites, Ricky decided to run his plan by Collette. ​“Babe, I got DNA last night. I want to give it to Bill or Carol to have it checked out, but I have to talk to Jay first. I’m going to tell him that I got it and the only way to find out if there’s a match with Tso’s ex is to have his permission to do it.” ​“When he says ‘no’ what are you going to do?” ​“I have an idea and I hope he’ll give me the chance to tell him.” ​“What kind of an idea?” ​“I thought we could take it to Tso and let him decide.’ ​“Whoa. That could end in disaster.” ​“I know, but I’m in a no-win situation. If I have it run without talking to him and it’s a match, I’m going to have to tell Jay and there’d be hell to pay. If there’s no match, I wouldn’t even have to say anything.” ​“True. You’re right, though. You’ve got to run it by him before you give it to Bill and Carol.” ​“I know. I’m going to call him when we finish breakfast. These biscuits are incredible. Pillsbury?” ​“Nice. No, not Pillsbury. Collette’s special recipe for my special man.” ​“You’re the best!” ​After they’d finished breakfast and he’d helped Collette clean up, he went into his office and made the dreaded call to Jay. As expected, Jay refused. Not too proud to beg, Ricky pleaded with him. Finally, he suggested they go to the jail and meet with Tso...

~~~

And another Wow!!! This dynamic duo has moved forward in their latest book, Seriously Serial Murders! Soooo, I'm now thinking this fantastic series is going onward and upward and in for a long run!

So I want to begin by properly introducing the main characters... The series features Ricky Burns, a PI as the main character. In my mind he is exactly the type of individual who should BE in law enforcement. Mainly because he wants justice and that means the individual who is guilty should be charged and punished. In this book, Ricky's search for the truth places him in a difficult situation. Why? Because he works for a defense attorney... And, in seems to me, the defense attorney never really wants to know the truth, just how to get his client off... Ricky agrees!

Jay is his boss and has notified Ricky that they have a new client. Not only has the client paid Jay in advance $50,000, but has also provided a $10,000 payment for an investigator... Frankly, both Jay and Ricky, while being thrilled with this, are also wondering just why this man has acted to be prepared if he is not guilty...of something...

Collette plays a double role. She worked for Jay when Ricky came into the picture. But now holds Ricky's heart and they are living together on a houseboat! Cool, right?!

But there is a serial killer in the area, killing women--women who are of a certain type--each one seemingly prettier than the last one... The MO is consistent, even to leaving a small plastic heart... And kills are escalating!

The book opens with Ricky playing darts with two of his best friends, who are cops he has met since he moved south and left his job as a NY homicide cop. Bill Sewell and Carol Brooklyn are good cops and they have worked a few cases with Ricky in the past. 

This time, however, Jay is hyper about maintaining client confidentiality, while Ricky is struggling with his own doubt about their "client." Why put out $60,000 and not explain? And Bill and Carol are both on the serial killer case as it is near Spring Break when all college students head to Florida for fun and games.

When another murder takes place, they found the man and arrested him immediately. The mayor announced they had their serial killer... but it was a copycat! And two more women were found dead with the original MO... The mayor had to spin his tale to the news staff as they were crying out for information!

Then the case got a break, the condom had been found inside one of the women recently found, apparently having been lost as the killer finished his assault...

And, suddenly it all fell apart as the DNA test showed that an Asian was the killer, but was not it their database...

And Jay and Ricky looked at each other, knowing that their...client...was...Asian...

I could not stop reading! I suffered along with Ricky as he struggled with his own moral code to seek justice for the victim... But, then, as he investigated,  information was confirmed that their client was out of town during the last two murders... But sooner or later, the fact that he was one of the few Asians in this area, just might mean he would be questioned.

Did Ricky follow his heart or would his boss tell him to ensure their new client was protected under the law...

Reading a book all the way to the last page is rare for me... And, I have to tell you, when I did, I was lying in bed reading the last sentence and I began to laugh wildly! Sure glad I don't live with anybody! Laurence has allowed herself to write as the book needed to be told and it shows that she's moving into a must-read author. She notes in her bio that she's tried many things through her life and just lately she's tried writing. Well, I'm finding that she's a natural at it! This book shares the dialogue, the situations, and the people that are encountered with criminally-minded people are encountered in daily life. She doesn't hold back anything, as it should be... And, indeed, it makes this book the best fiction I've read this year! Obviously, it's a personal favorite for me...

But for readers of mystery, true crime, with a touch of appropriate sexual encounters, Laurence has taken the story of the Real Ricky Burns, Jerry Lyon, and presented avid readers with a page-turner that will ensure you, too, will read it through once you get started! High praise for this solid thriller that keeps you guessing. I was fairly certain early on what was happening, but that is only because of the way the writer presented the case... Thank YOU Dynamic Duo for a series that keeps on providing great stories directly from the headlines!

GABixlerReviews

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Every Reasonable Doubt - First in Series - By Pamela Samuels Young!

 

One of the advantages of being on Facebook or other sites where you are surrounded by writers, is that you're bound to pick up a free book from time to time! And, guess what, as of today, this book, Every Reasonable Doubt is still free, so I recommend you take a hop over to Amazon, because you will enjoy this one!

The brain is a funny thing. Sometimes it’ll just go numb for no apparent reason. Like when you’re in the middle of a conversation and whatever you were about to say just tumbles out of your head. That’s exactly what happened when I heard the jury’s verdict. My brain went totally numb. “Congratulations, counselor,” beamed David Winslow, my ever-arrogant second chair and a fellow associate at O’Reilly & Finney. He was smiling just like Howdy Doody. “Think this verdict’ll get us a

multimillion dollar book deal?” he whispered. I took exception to his use of the word “us” since he’d been nothing but a pain during the entire trial, and shook his extended hand anyway. I could smell the stale scent of the three double lattes he consumed each morning before eight. 

Turning away, I gripped the edge of the plaintiff’s table and tried to steady myself. I’d just won the biggest verdict of my career and I felt faint. The entire courtroom was one big, beige blur. The judge was speaking now, but I didn’t hear a word he was saying. I was buzzed from a strong blast of adrenalin, but trying hard to play it cool. As if juries handed me five-million-dollar verdicts every day. 

I suddenly remembered my client, Roland Hayes, standing next to me. He was gasping for air like an elderly asthmatic. The verdict obviously meant a whole lot more to him than it did to me. He’d be set for life. I pulled out his chair and motioned for him to sit. When I saw the jury rise, I assumed we were done. I sloppily stuffed papers into my Coach briefcase, hugged Roland for the second time, and watched as he ran off into the arms of his ecstatic wife. 

David, meantime, was flashing our despondent opposing counsel a gloating smile. As we headed out of the courtroom, a gang of reporters rushed toward us, nearly knocking us back inside. “Vernetta Henderson,” somebody shouted, “the jury’s five-million-dollar verdict is a pretty hefty award in a single-plaintiff race discrimination case. How do you feel?” 

I looked to my left and saw that the question came from the skinny blonde with the bad split ends from Channel 7. Before I could answer, another reporter hurled a question my way. “Ms. Henderson, why do you think the jury went so heavy on the punitives?” Because my client worked for a bunch of racist yahoos. I squeezed through the crowd, chin forward, shoulders erect, ignoring them. Just like they did on Law & Order. 

I looked over at David. His thin lips were tightly pursed. No one had bothered to stick a microphone in his face and he was pissed. When we reached the elevators, we found the down button blocked by a fortress of reporters. The hot, gleaming lights from a small TV camera nearly blinded me and somebody’s microphone kept nudging me in the back of the head. “Ms. Henderson, were you surprised at the verdict?” yelled a voice from the rear. I brushed passed the inquisitive mob, determined to ignore them. 

“No questions for now,” I said finally, as David and I escaped toward the stairwell. “We’ll talk to the media later this afternoon.”

~~~

Right from the first page, I was thrown back into the first sign, to me, that I was in trouble... It was a flashback where I was the facilities representative in a meeting with representatives of all vice-presidents of West Virginia University... I don't remember what I was talking about, but all of a sudden, my mind went blank. I still don't know how long everybody sat waiting for my next words... At some point, I began presenting my message again and the meeting went on.

I asked one of the women with whom I routinely worked and felt comfortable to open the topic. "Was it really noticeable when I stopped in the middle of a sentence?" She, I knew, was being kind, when she responded that it wasn't too bad... But, as anybody would have been, I was both embarassed, and frustrated that it had happened in front of one of the most important groups I could be meeting with: Those who led the direction for facilities planning and management for each related office across the campus. I had attended many other meetings with them, and many more with deans and directors of those administrators to whom space was allocated for their educational and other campus programs. I'd been interacting in this position for many years, but one thing had changed. A new Assistant Vice-President position had been created, and I had been told that I should not, as in the past, continue to work with the academic administrators. Yet, that was impossible given my overall job responsibilities. (more on another page...)

Vernetta Henderson, on the other hand, was driven to her mind stopping because she had just won a difficult and important racial discrimination case that would help her client, who had become disabled, be able to live comfortably for the rest of his life. Perhaps, it was difficult for her to react when her legal partner for the case, who had done little of the work which led to the successful verdict... Again, I flashbacked onto those who had also acted in the same vein, yet had no real concern that they actually were not effectively doing their jobs...

Needless to say, Vernetta received recognition within her office, which was great, since she hoped to one day become partner. Her boss was supportive and had assured her that she would be able to expand upon her present role into other areas of law. What she didn't imagine, however, was that it would happen immediately after the win of her present case!

She had several concerns, first, that her husband was pushing her to not work so many hours...and to work with him to start a family. Second, it was a murder case, for which she had no significant training or experience. And, finally, she did not have a good relationship with the other lawyer who was known for her criminal legal expertise and high-profile cases.

In fact, not only had the client asked for Neddy McClain, the other lawyer, she was fine not having another lawyer, until she learned that Vernetta had just won another high-dollar case... What was really bad, however, was that the leader of the company had made a big news splash about having a top-notched Black Women's team for a high-profile Black female client, who was being accused of murdering her husband... All the women had a right to be offended they were being used purely for the firm's publicity!

The husband, who some would say actually deserved being dead. He was an egotistic, womanizer who did not know what the word monogamy meant!  

Soon the normal activities for murder cases were underway, but it certainly was not the smooth sailing that would normally happen with a big-name law firm. Especially when the client seemed to evade the truth whenever she could get away with it...

One bright spot was a character named Special, who was the best friend to Vernetta... As Vernetta admitted, and I had to agree, just seeing her and hearing the outlandish guidance she would be giving made her, and me, smile... But the tension between Netty and Vernetta was palpable right from the start and reminded me that, oftentimes, women do not appreciate it when another has also moved upward in rank within the same company... For my own background, I had heard the gossip that I must have "slept" my way out of the clerical role to move upward... The only thing you can do is ignore that type of situation... However, Vernetta realized that she had to work with Netty, whether she liked it or not... And the ups and downs of not only the case investigation began, but also the ups and downs of the interactive communications between all those involved was, as mentioned earlier, quite extraordinary... especially when the news reporters honed in on the "dream team" not being such a dream... Netty quickly began to act on her own, as she would for handling a case, while Vernetta knew that if she allowed that to happen, she would not be able to learn as well as participate as she needed to in this important case.

As all great legal thrillers are, readers are kept guessing what and who was doing what and when. But slowly Vernetta was picking up on many details that would affect the outcome of the case. And awareness that a lot of lying was going on by many!

I admit that I watched with a great deal of interest as Vernetta had to deal with her husband wanting more of her time, especially when he heard that, right after the completion of a big case, she was now going into another highly visible and time-consuming murder defense... All the way through, I was wondering if their marriage was going to make it... 

This was an interesting first book in a series. One reader commented that the first was ok but the next was going to be great... Well, I was fascinated by the first book and no doubt will be heading for the next in series! So many great books, So Little Time! LOL! But I think you'll enjoy this one. The characters are well developed and readers will be drawn to each as the story moves forward... Do check it out while it's free and enjoy!

God Bless

Gabbie

Divorce in America is Spotlighted in Kenneth Eade's Extraordinary Decree of Finality

“My husband and I never considered divorce… 

murder sometimes, but never divorce"

-Joyce Brothers

Aside from Kenneth Eade being one of the most outstanding writers in legal fiction, I admire him so much for taking on major social issues and writing a story surrounding some of the major ones... Like marriage/divorce... One of the old songs of my youth was Love is Lovelier the Second Time Around. Yes, there are sometimes reasons to seek a divorce and it became acceptable... However, as Eade found in his research, today, many people care more about the results of divorce on their financial pockets, than on getting out of a bad marriage. I wanted to share an overview of what he found...

I usually pick an important subject to wrap a story around.  This time, I thought that the subject would be a little lighter, but I was very surprised when I did a little Internet research to find just how common spousal murder was. According to a 2014 article in the Huffington Post, at least 1/3 of all women murdered in the United States are killed by their male partners. Now, with the baby boomer generation approaching retirement, according to an article in Saultstar.com, divorces in the after-55 crowd often involve fat retirement funds and paid-off houses, making alternative solutions (albeit insane insane ones like murder) attractive. Hiring a hitman (or woman) becomes an irresistible and economic alternative for some amoral people who feel that they are trapped in long marriages.  The article cites that 3.2% of murders are done on a commercial basis.  Citing straightdope.com, the article states that “most contract killings are carried out by small-time freelancers hired by ‘schlubs.’ The perpetrators in these arrangements are often caught by undercover policemen and FBI agents posing as hired killers.  The article reports that an Australian Institute of Criminology study estimates the average costs of a hit to be $12,700; which is significantly less than the cost of an attorney in a contested divorce.  According to a 1995 study by the U.S. Department Department of Justice, husbands are convicted more often than wives of spousal murder, and the convicted men are more likely to receive a prison term than convicted women.  In 44% of the cases of husband killing, the husband had assaulted the wife at the time of the killing.  Assaulted wives were convicted 56% of the time, compared to 86% in the case of unprovoked wives and 88% in the case of unprovoked husbands.   Another article in the Journal of Criminal Justice and Popular Culture entitled Monstrous Arrogance: Husbands who Choose Murder Over Divorce, by Cynthia Lewis, PhD, examines a dozen convictions in murders where husbands have murdered their wives to save themselves from some consequences of divorce that they perceive as “too costly.”  How murder could become a viable alternative to divorce is either an indicator of the collapse of moral compass in our society, or an indication of the need for divorce reform, or perhaps both.  The article points out that, instead of the emotional crimes that you expect to see in spousal murders, it was a “practical matter;” so much so that most of the women never had a sense of how much danger they were in. According to the article, this type of murderer often projects confidence and an ability to win the trust of others, yet is “atypically devoid of feeling,” “icy and calculating,” and self-centered to the point of narcissism...

Decree of Finality:

A Lawyer Brent Marks Legal Thriller

By Kenneth Eade

Eade quotes Dr. Joyce Brother in the front of the book... When I first read it, it was funny: that she and her husband never considered divorce, but had murder... Decree of Finality is a perfect response to his research findings! in these chaotic times, it made me happy to have remained single! At the same time, Eade has created a suspenseful legal thriller that readers will quickly be pulled into...And hating the wife, was my first response...

Actually she deserved my hate--don't you just love being allowed to hate book characters?! LOL  Amy Taylor was perfectly happy staying married. She had successfully pulled away from any personal interpersonal relationship with her husband, while still using his money to live the lavish life for which she had first married him. She considered she was earning the money by hosting lavish parties and courting clients for her husband...

Indeed Dr. Robert Taylor had built up his professional career and had become well known as one of the best dermatologist and cosmetic surgeon around... 

So, when Dr. Taylor told his wife he wanted a divorce, she immediately turned the tables, faked a physical abuse charge on her husband, and called the police! Wow! Readers immediately come to attention! And, quite frankly, we will not be surprised when murder comes to mind for these spouses...

Of course, one is murdered; however, by that time, the complexity of the storyline and the investigative results from Lawyer Brent Marks' office has uncovered much--they aren't new situations, but rather the known--hiding money...anything that can be easily done with a good lawyer helping point out all the options!  

Brent Marks had built his reputation so that he had stopped taking divorce cases, which were always messy. But, recently business had slowed, and he knew he needed to consider this case, especially if the client could pay his normal costs, plus investigative services. Sadly, Marks took it, thinking he had a decent client who would work with him...

That had been before, he was called by his client when his wife had staged a physical assault and had been charged and jailed! This was going to get dirty...

Jack Ruder, Marks' investigator, was an outstanding character in this book, in my opinion... It was Ruder, not the police, who was watching Taylor's house 24/7 and saw and documented who had visited on the night Amy was killed... But he went on to think through the case as his FBI training had provided and moved through step-by-step to provide a major portion of the evidence to solve the case.

But, Eade refused to present a straight case...and the climatic finale was a surprise, even to Marks! I love being caught off guard...and Eade is a master of keeping his readers on edge, not knowing how the book will actually end...

I am definitely a fan of the Brent Marks' Series (as well as the Paladine series)... Check out more from this series on this blog:

https://gabixlerreviews-bookreadersheaven.blogspot.com/2018/04/predatory-kill-by-kenneth-eade-second.html

https://gabixlerreviews-bookreadersheaven.blogspot.com/2018/04/kenneth-eade-presents-patriots-act.html

https://gabixlerreviews-bookreadersheaven.blogspot.com/2016/09/freedom-of-information-act-spotlighted.html

https://gabixlerreviews-bookreadersheaven.blogspot.com/2016/08/kenneth-eade-gets-readers-involved-in.html

https://gabixlerreviews-bookreadersheaven.blogspot.com/2016/03/kenneth-eade-produces-another-must-read.html

Let me just say that I have never been disappointed with any book by Kenneth Eade. For legal thrillers, I will think of him first--he speaks to my desires to learn more about the legal ramifications of social issues. Something that is, in my opinion, very much needed today when Truth--in accordance with fact or reality-- has become such an important, but much sought after, attribute for individuals. But I surely do love a thriller I can sink into...Eade provides a most satisfying read and is a favorite author! Do check him out!

And if you are thinking of a divorce, you might want to read this book...first...

GABixlerReviews

Kenneth Eade splits most of his time between Russia, France, and the United States. His background as a Wall Street and corporate attorney along with his ability to see the world from multiple perspectives has helped catapult him into one of the top thriller writers of his generation

http://sarahwestall.com/russian-views-with-kenneth-eade/

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