Injustice

Praise for Lee Goodman and INDEFENSIBLE

“Goodman takes the reader by the hand and leads them into a frightening world they will never forget. . . . This book is top-notch!”

—
Suspense Magazine

“Complex and intelligent, fantastically well-plotted.
Indefensible
is as good as it gets.”

—John Lescroart,
New York Times
bestselling author

“
Indefensible
is the kind of gem we all love to stumble on, a novel that delivers its story flawlessly. Lee Goodman has created characters we care about deeply; when he puts them through the wringer, we feel their pain. Add to this a compelling insider's look at prosecution and law enforcement, language that sings, a stunning series of plot twists, and the result may well prove to be the outstanding debut novel of the year.”

—William Kent Krueger,
New York Times
bestselling author

“Lee Goodman is a rare find in a crowded field: a talented writer who knows the true intricacies and ironies of the American criminal litigation system. Before reading
Indefensible
, be sure to put on your helmet and fasten your five-point harness. You're in for a wild ride.”

—Walter Walker, author of
Crime of Privilege

“Goodman's debut legal thriller is compelling from start to finish—well-written, populated with intriguing multidimensional characters, and with many plot twists leading to a surprise ending.”

—
Library Journal

“As legal thrillers go, this one is right up there with the best of them. That's not because of its nonstop action, but because of its slow-burn pacing, unpredictable characters, and lots and lots of plot switchbacks. . . . And the big bonus is that author Lee Goodman's writing style makes me want to come back for more. And more. And more.”

—
BookReporter

“Attorney Goodman easily makes the transition to fiction writer, as have his brethren Scott Turow and John Lescroart.”

—
Booklist

“Goodman ties up every loose end in surprising ways, making for a deeply satisfying read.”

—
Authorexposure.com

For Barrie and for Gray

Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by slight ligaments are we bound to prosperity and ruin.

—
Mary Shelley,
Frankenstein

L
IFE IS SWEET.

That, in any case, is the opinion of a character from the funny pages, which I have taped to the stand of my desk lamp here at the cabin. Lizzy, my eighteen-year-old daughter, clipped the panel and glued it to an index card for me last July. “Dad, this made me think of you,” she wrote.

But that was before the murder, and it was before my wife, Tina, suggested I find an apartment where I could live alone while she stayed home with our son, Barnaby, using my absence to “figure some things out.” And it was before I discovered that the very incarnation of evil and misery had burrowed its way into the heart of my job and family.

It was on July 3, Barnaby's fourth birthday, when Lizzy gave me that cartoon, but the gesture wasn't as sweet as it sounds. The character in the comic strip wears a squiggle-mouth expression of befuddlement as if the idea of life's sweetness is an alien concept that the androgynous little freak has just stumbled upon at that moment. It taunts me, daring me to burn it, flush it, crumple it, stomp on it—whatever—smug in its certainty that anything I do to be rid of its hateful irony will only invite more calamity.

Life is
not
sweet.

Life sucks.

But on July 3 I still had a simplistic confidence in my identity as a vigilant father, a loving and beloved husband, and a shrewd federal prosecutor.

The third was a Wednesday. I remember because one of the assistant U.S. attorneys had a trial that day, which was the first event in what we, in the U.S. Attorney's Office, expected to be a wide-ranging series of prosecutions for bribery, extortion, and political corruption. This first case would be the quick trial of an unimportant player. My associate Henry Tatlock was going to try the case. Henry was a new lawyer and relatively untested in the courtroom, so I was second-seating for him.

I felt good about the trial. I liked playing mentor to new lawyers like Henry. Also, I was excited—the whole office was excited—about the burgeoning corruption investigation. This trial was the warm-up act, the first rollout.

I was also happy about the trial because of a little deception I was perpetrating on the court. The trial would take no more than one day, but when I saw that we were calendared for Wednesday, July 3, I told Henry to inform the clerk's office that we expected to need two days. Everybody blocked out Wednesday the third and Friday the fifth for trial. The fourth, of course, was a holiday. So if we actually did wrap up trial on Wednesday, and we all celebrated July 4 on Thursday, we'd have Friday the fifth completely open. Voilà! I'd created a four-day weekend!

Every year on July 4, the city has a celebration at Rokeby Park, with an evening concert by the state symphony orchestra, ending with an exorbitant fireworks display. No matter how cynical you are, it's hard not to feel some civic pride in the renaissance of this once-rotting mill town that has clawed its way back from the despair and economic desperation of the '70s and '80s.

Barnaby was especially looking forward to the fireworks. Tina kept warning him that the booms and pops could be scary, but he wasn't having it. He just ran around the house screaming “Boom!” and throwing his hands in the air.

We had invited the extended family over for a barbecue before the concert on the Fourth. On the fifth, if my scheme worked, Tina and Barn and I would drive up to our cabin on the lake for the weekend to formally celebrate Barn's birthday.

Adding to all this, Tina and I were quietly celebrating another milestone. Two years earlier Tina had had a malignancy removed from her left breast. The surgery went well, but a year and a half later, her doctor found “something of concern” in the latest mammogram. He wanted to give it six months and then look again. Now the six months were over, and the follow-up exam, done just two days before Barn's birthday, had given Tina a clean bill of health. We were confident and excited about our future.

Children; spouse; health; extended family; career.

Life certainly seemed very sweet on July 3.

J
uly 3 is now months in the past. I've been living up here at my cabin on the lake for several weeks, writing this summary of everything that happened. The trial will be starting soon, and I believe it will help to have things written down, especially in a case like this, where it all got so tangled up together and where, I'll be the first to admit, my own recollections and objectivity could be called into question.

I've been a prosecutor for nearly thirty years, but I still feel a moment of awe when I step into the courtroom. The polished wood of the rails and benches, the waiting seats in the jury box, the imposing altitude of the judge's bench, the smell of the carpet, and the crackle of the sound system: It is an arena, a coliseum in which great and tragic events play out. The hush of an empty courtroom is electric with incipience. Remorseless and indifferent, it awaits its gladiators.

I am a gladiator. And on the morning of July 3, pushing through the swinging gate into the courtroom proper and laying my briefcase atop the prosecutor's table, I felt that thrill.

Henry and I were the first ones in the courtroom. I had an urge to put my hand on his shoulder and ask how he was faring. He struck me as vulnerable and a bit out of his depth as a trial lawyer. My instinct was to be avuncular toward him, offering encouragement and reassurance. But I resisted. Henry deserved to be treated as an equal and a professional.

“You nervous?” I asked.

He shrugged.

“You didn't puke, did you? I've known lawyers, even experienced ones, who get so nervous they throw up before a trial.”

Henry laughed. “Not my thing,” he said.

“And some guys take beta blockers. They say it doesn't hamper their performance, but I don't know.”

Henry took a pill vial from his pocket and shook it like a rattle. “Antihistamines,” he said. “I used to get hives whenever I got nervous.”

“You'll do fine,” I said. I hoped it was true. Henry had more cause than most to worry about how the jury would receive him.