"Great legal thriller that keeps you guessing until the very end! Well Done!"
Reviewed by Sharon Salituro
Posted April 17, 2017
Mick McFarland is a criminal lawyer who used to work for the
DA but he had enough and went out on his own to start a firm
with Susan. Mick is married to Piper, and they have one
child Gabby. Mick also has a brother Tommy who has been in
and out of trouble but Mick hires him to work at his firm.
The biggest case of his life comes to him when a young
reporter Jennifer is found dead in her home. Jennifer
had just uncovered the biggest scope in her life. The grand
jury is about to indict several cops and high officials.
Mick had just spoken to Jennifer several hours before she
was murdered because she wanted Mick to represent her in
court. Soon after Jennifer's death, Mick also gets another
call from one of his
college roommates, David Hanson, a businessman, who has been
killing Jennifer because the police caught David running
out of Jennifer's back door. David claims he is innocent,
went to her house she was already lying dead on the
Mick agrees to take the case, however David is leaving
too much out of his story. He won't tell Mick where
he was before Jennifer was killed, or who he was with. David
and his wife Marcie go to a lot of trouble to keep
everything a huge secret so Mick knows something is going
on. In the meantime, his brother Tommy is in a very foul
mood as his wife is moving
away from him. Just what is going on? Every time that
Mick things he has it figured out, something new comes in
to play. Is everything somehow connected to this murder?
Wow, Mr. Myers, you sure had me going on this one. Talk
about a mystery because I never saw the end of this one coming.
I was amazed at how everything tied in at the end. It's
easy to see you were a trial lawyer before you became an
author. And you skillfully
show how family does mean everything to people. The strain
between Tommy and
Mick finally gets settled when they realize they both have
suffered in more ways than one.
You also kept my mind going through this whole
book as I read, even though I tried to put it down a couple
of times, but
couldn't. I needed to find out who the real killer was so
A CRIMINAL DEFENSE is my kind of book. I just couldn't put it
down, until I figured it out and because I never would
have guessed the ending, I love it.
Losing the trial of his life could mean losing
When a young reporter is found dead and a prominent
Philadelphia businessman is accused of her murder, Mick
McFarland finds himself involved in the case of his life.
The defendant, David Hanson, is Mick’s best friend, and
victim, a TV news reporter, had reached out to Mick for
legal help only hours before her death.
Mick’s played both sides of Philadelphia’s courtrooms. As
top-shelf defense attorney and former prosecutor, he
all the tricks of the trade. And he’ll need every one of
them to win.
But as the trial progresses, he’s disturbed by
that confirm his deepest fears. This trial, one that
hits too close to home, may jeopardize his firm, his
family—everything. Now Mick’s only way out is to
the most brilliant defense he’s ever spun, one that may
cross every legal and moral boundary.
ExcerptThursday, May 31
It’s eight o’clock in the morning and I’m parking my car in
front of Celine Bauer’s sad row house. The exterior of the
three-story structure is beat-up brick. The house has a wooden
porch, its green paint dirty and starting to peel. Flowerpots
adorn the porch and the top step, but the plants are dead. Half
a dozen newspapers, still in their plastic wrappers, are
scattered about. Celine Bauer has clearly stopped caring about
her home, something I’ve seen before in the parents and spouses
of the imprisoned. As hope drains from their hearts, everything
else becomes pointless.
Two years ago I agreed to take on the case of Celine’s son,
Justin, charged with second-degree murder in the beating death
of a University of Pennsylvania undergraduate. Justin and two
of his friends were tried together, and all three were found
guilty. Celine sat through the trial convinced that her son’s
lawyer was incompetent. Justin had been a straight-A student at
West Philly High, had never gotten into trouble before.
According to his mother, Justin had not been with his friends
when they beat the other boy to death but had joined up with
them shortly afterward, not knowing what they’d done.
Celine sent me a heartfelt letter, asking for my help. She knew
about me because I had recently won the release of a young man
wrongly convicted on evidence manufactured by a rogue police
detective. I agreed to review Justin’s trial transcript, and,
when I did, I saw immediately that Celine was right: Justin’s
trial counsel had completely botched the defense. I took the
case pro bono and filed a petition for writ of habeas corpus on
the grounds of ineffective assistance of counsel, which the
trial judge promptly rejected. I then appealed to the Superior
Court. We lost. Finally, I filed a petition for allowance of
appeal to the Pennsylvania Supreme Court, the criminal law
equivalent of a Hail Mary pass. But miracles do happen, and
earlier this week I’d received the court’s order granting my
I’d phoned Justin’s mother three times in as many days but
never heard back. I wanted Celine to hear the news, and her
failure to return my calls told me she needed to.
Celine opens the door on the fourth knock. Her eyes are flat. I
smell alcohol on her breath. We stare at each other until she
backs away from the door, leaving it open for me to follow her
inside. The living room looks much like the porch. Dead and
dying plants. Mail in a pile on the floor. Plates crusted with
food on the coffee table. Celine flops down on the sofa, lights
a cigarette, waits for me to tell her the bad news.
I lower myself onto a worn chair on the other side of the
coffee table. I take a deep breath. “It’s good news, Celine,” I
say. She grunts. “No, really. The Supreme Court has granted us
an appeal. They wouldn’t do that unless they felt there were
real grounds to hear the case. There’s a strong chance we’ll
get a new trial. And if we do, I feel that we can win it.”
Celine stares at me for a long time. Then she puts her
cigarette out in the chipped glass ashtray on the coffee table.
“When will the judges decide? When can I tell Justin he’ll get
a second chance? It’s killing him in there. He gets beat up all
the time. He’s telling me he’s gonna join a gang, for
protection. He needs hope.”
I nod. “It’ll probably take about six months.”
Celine sighs. “A long time.”
“It’s something for Justin to hang on to.” I lean over, pick up
the bourbon, and stand. “You don’t need this.” I walk the glass
into the kitchen and empty it into the sink. When I come back,
Celine is on her feet. “You’re a strong woman, Celine. And you
have to be the strongest you’ve ever been. For your son.”
Celine’s back stiffens. Her eyes harden. I nod again, hoping
the fire I see in her will survive the coming months.
I walk to the car and start it, look at my own eyes in the
rearview mirror. “You’ll get that woman’s boy out of prison,” I
say. “You will.” And I mean it.
People like Celine and Justin are the reason I left the DA’s
office to become a defense attorney. The reason I often violate
the sacred rule of lawyering: don’t get personally involved.
When I care about the client, it’s always personal for me. But
not all clients are like the Bauers. Many of my clients are
guilty of everything they’re charged with, and then some. They
don’t hire me to get justice but to avoid it at all costs. Find
loopholes, get the evidence excluded, spin the jurors’ heads
with clever cross-examinations, and break their hearts with
hard-luck stories—it doesn’t matter how, just get them outta
there. And the worst among them are the entitled executives who
play shell games with other people’s money, the white-collar
defendants who drive to my office in Bentleys and ask my
secretary if she can validate their parking. I care about those
clients about as much as they care about everyone else—I’m only
in it for the money.
An hour after I get back to my office, I’m set to meet one of
them. Phillip Baldwin. Philadelphia’s own homegrown mini-
Madoff, Baldwin turned his family’s hundred-year-old private-
investment firm into a Ponzi scheme.
Since the day of his indictment by a federal grand jury,
Phillip Baldwin has sworn his innocence and vowed to fight the
charges all the way to the United States Supreme Court.
Baldwin’s trial is set to begin in three weeks, and my law
partner, Susan Klein, and I are counting on the fees the case
will bring in to pay our overhead.
At 9:45, I join Susan outside her office, and we walk down the
lushly carpeted hall toward one of our conference rooms. The
feel of our office is sleek and modern: a marble-floored lobby
with tiger-wood receptionist desk, recessed lighting
throughout, white walls adorned with original paintings of
iconic Philadelphia city scenes—Boathouse Row, the art museum,
We enter the conference room, and Baldwin stands to greet us.
I’d read that Baldwin wore $10,000 William Fioravanti suits.
The deep-blue double-breasted number he has on now certainly
looks like it could go for that much. He paid much more for his
Patek Philippe watch and sapphire cuff links. Baldwin even has
a rich man’s hair—thick, silver-gray, and sculpted atop his
chiseled, fifty-five-year-old face.
We all sit down, and Baldwin begins. “Mick, Susan, thank you
for agreeing to meet with us at the last minute. Some things
have happened, and Kimberly and I felt it important to see you
right away.” He nods toward his thirty-year-old second wife,
who is model-tall and thin with superbly highlighted brunette
hair and blazing blue eyes. Kimberly Baldwin is one of the
finest-looking Miss Pennsylvanias our commonwealth has ever
“What’s happened?” asks Susan.
“Kimberly and I have talked it over, and I want to plead.”
“I don’t understand,” my partner says.
“They’re going to kill us,” Kimberly says, her eyes filling
with tears. “And Phillip’s children.”
“More death threats?” Susan asks. Kimberly nods. “But these are
serious.” She reaches into her Louis Vuitton handbag, pulls out
an envelope, and slides it across the table. Susan and I take
turns reviewing its contents.
“Pictures of Kimberly leaving the gym,” says Baldwin. “And of
my twin daughters, taken at college. They’re only twenty years
old, for God’s sake.” As he speaks, Baldwin’s handsome face
contorts, overpowering the Botox that normally keeps him
wrinkle-free. “And this,” he says, handing me a note with
letters cut out of magazines, the kind kidnappers write in
It reads: You rot in jail or they rot in boxes.
“You’ve had death threats before,” I reiterate.
“But now they’re threatening me,” says Kimberly, forgetting
Baldwin’s children. “And so are those government lawyers.”
I see Baldwin stiffen at the mention of the US Attorneys’
“The feds are threatening you?” Susan asks.
“They say they just want to talk . . . ,” Kimberly begins.
“God, I’m so confused.”
“Confused?” Baldwin’s face turns scarlet. “What’s there to be
confused about? The government is the enemy. You’re my wife.
You don’t talk with them. Ever!”
“Let’s everyone take a breath,” Susan says.
“Just call the feds and get me a deal, Mick,” says Baldwin.
“You realize the least you’d be facing is ten years.”
Baldwin stiffens again. “Just get the best deal you can. Maybe
in one of those places like they sent Martha Stewart or Michael
“Federal prison isn’t the country club everyone thinks it is,”
But it’s no use. The meeting drags on for another hour, until
just after eleven, Baldwin refusing to change his mind.
Susan and I escort the Baldwins to the lobby, telling them they
should sleep on it, then walk together to Susan’s office. Susan
flops down into her beige leather chair. I sink into one of the
visitors’ seats on the other side of the expensive glass-top
worktable Susan uses as her desk. She takes off her artsy
black-framed glasses and fastens her long ash-blonde locks with
a hair tie. Her strong jaw and aquiline nose appear sharper
without her hair hanging down to soften them.
“If my math is correct,” I say, “half a million dollars just
walked out the door.”
“It’s not the death threats Baldwin’s afraid of, you know.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“He’s afraid of her. Kimberly. That she’ll turn state’s
evidence against him.”
“You think she knew about the scam?”
“Sweet little trophy wife is smarter than she looks.”
I consider what Susan said. “Why would the feds even bother
with her? They have more than enough to convict him. What else
could she tell them?”
Susan gives me a rueful smile. “She could tell them where he’s
hidden the money.”
I nod. Thieves like Baldwin always squirrel away a chunk of
their ill-gotten loot in case the government ever comes
knocking on their door.
Susan sinks back in her chair and sighs. “How much do we have
in the operating account?”
“Not much,” I say. “About eighty thousand.”
Running a small law firm is a lot like being the bunny on a
greyhound track. The greyhounds represent all your overhead:
payroll, rent, electric, insurance premiums, phone and
Internet, advertising, postage, plane fare, mileage, paper
costs. The partners who own the law firm are the rabbit: always
running as fast as they can, trying to stay ahead of the dogs.
“We should have paid the line down last year, when we got the
money from the Lynch case.” Susan’s talking about the fee we
received on a defective-product case we referred out to another
firm. Though we’d talked about exactly that, in the end we
decided to take the money as a distribution. I’d used part of
my share to build a pool behind my house. Susan used hers to
remodel the kitchen in her condo. The rest we spent upgrading
With the Baldwin case coming to trial, Susan and I had put most
of our other cases on the back burner. That would have to
“Everyone’ll have to start burning the midnight oil on our
other cases,” I say. For a second, I question whether taking on
the Justin Bauer case was a good idea. But only for a second.
The Phillip Baldwins of the world may be how we keep the doors
open, but the Justin Bauers are why.
Susan shakes her head, looks up at the ceiling. “Not a good day
for McFarland and Klein.”
I walk to my office, sit for a minute, then turn my chair to
look out the window, toward City Hall and, in the distance, the
Delaware River. The clock at City Hall reads 11:40 when I sense
a presence behind me in the doorway.
I turn around. It’s the firm’s lead investigator, my younger
brother, Tommy. At five ten, Tommy is the same height as I am,
but his broad shoulders and thick chest make him a far more
powerful physical presence. The buzz-cut hair and prison tats
peeking above his shirt collar imply a roughness not disguised
by his expensive sport coat and precisely creased slacks.
Tommy walks in and takes a seat across the desk from me.
“What’s up?” I say without enthusiasm.
Tommy raises his eyebrows. “What’s eating you?”
I shake my head, wave him off. Tommy holds my gaze for a
moment, and I am amazed, as always, that I can stare straight
into his flat brown eyes and have no more sense as to what’s
behind them than if he were wearing Blues Brothers sunglasses.
I’m about to say something when Angie buzzes me on my speaker.
“There’s a call for you. She says she needs to talk to you
“Who is it?” I ask, glancing at my watch. 11:45.
“It’s that reporter, Jennifer Yamura.”
Yamura recently broke an enormous police-corruption story,
disclosing that the district attorney’s office was running a
grand-jury investigation into a well-organized ring of cops
conspiring with local drug dealers to sell heroin and cocaine.
The grand jury proceedings were, of course, meant to be
confidential. In fact, the grand jury’s very existence was
supposed to be secret. And it was, until the young Channel 6
reporter divulged the proceedings on the six o’clock news. She
claimed to have learned about the investigation from unnamed
sources who were both privy to the investigation and somehow
involved in the ring.
As details of the investigation emerged, it turned out that the
story’s timing couldn’t have been worse. The police and DA’s
office had been finalizing plans to conduct a major sting that
supposedly would have uncovered additional key players as yet
unknown to the authorities. When the grand jury came to light,
the cop ring shut itself down, and its members crawled back
under their rocks.
The prosecutor in charge of the grand jury, Devlin Walker, is
now fit to be tied. He’s subpoenaed Yamura to appear before the
grand jury to find out her source and what else she might know.
I tell Angie I’ll take the call. As I pick up the receiver, I
tell Tommy, “Whoever Yamura’s sources are, they’re in deep
shit.” I put the receiver to my ear.
Yamura introduces herself and tells me that, given the subpoena
she’s received, she wants to hire her own defense attorney.
Channel 6 and ABC already have a squad of lawyers assigned to
the case, but she doesn’t trust them. “I can see you tomorrow
at four,” I say as I type the appointment into my computer. I
hang up and look at Tommy.
“When does she have to go before the grand jury?” Tommy asks.
“Monday.” Four days from now. “Subpoena says to bring all of
her notes and her laptop as well.”
“She may as well bring her own frying pan, too.”
“It’s almost noon. You up for some lunch?”
“Can’t today,” he says, jumping up. “Gotta see a man about a
I watch Tommy leave, wondering why he came into the office at
all. My glum demeanor might have turned him away just now, but
more often it’s Tommy who’s in a bad mood. My brother’s a
testy, unpredictable person, but I give him a lot of leeway
considering all he’s been through. Susan is less tolerant of
him, and we’ve gotten into it a couple of times about Tommy’s
continued employment at the firm. But he’s proven invaluable in
a number of cases, and I’ve won the argument so far.
When Tommy’s gone, I reach for the Inquirer on my desk. The
front page features a story about David Hanson, an old friend
of mine from law school. David is general counsel at Hanson
World Industries, a Fortune 500 company headquartered in
Philadelphia. HWI has never gone public. Its shares are owned
by the direct lineal heirs of its founders, those heirs being
David himself; his half brother, Edwin, who’s the CEO; and two-
or three-score cousins, aunts, and uncles. Today’s article is
all about a complex business arrangement that David has put
together between HWI and a collection of companies in China and
Japan. If the deal goes through, it will bring hundreds of jobs
and millions of dollars to Philadelphia. The article paints a
shining picture of my old friend. Then again, I’ve never known
any account to portray David in less than glowing terms.
My phone rings and I see that, somehow, it’s already 12:30.
Angie’s at lunch, so calls coming in for me ring directly to my
line. I pick up the receiver. It’s Jennifer Yamura again. She
wants to move up our meeting. We agree on a time, then I hang
up and finish reading the feature about David Hanson. I toss
the newspaper back onto my desk, stand, and look out the
About forty-five minutes later, I’m walking east on Walnut
Street, Rittenhouse Square behind me to the west. Overhead, the
sky is a brilliant blue, the temperature an even eighty degrees
with low humidity and a light breeze. The people I pass on the
sidewalk seem upbeat, happy. I wish I could say the same for
That’s when I see her. Half a block down Walnut, walking toward
me. My wife. Piper is five foot six with a lithe runner’s body
and well-toned calves. Even carrying a large shopping bag, she
glides almost weightlessly on the pavement. A blonde-haired,
blue-eyed beauty turning men’s heads on the street.
Piper spots me and her eyes flash with surprise, then flatten
as she forces a smile. We approach each other and stop. Despite
the weather, the air between us feels frigid.
“What are you doing in town?” I ask. “I thought you were going
to spend the day at the mall, have lunch with one of your
girlfriends.” That’s what she’d told me this morning.
“It’s too nice to spend the day inside a mall. So I thought I’d
drive into Center City, check out the shops.” Piper nods to the
stuffed Lululemon bag.
“I wish I’d have bought stock in that company,” I say.
“My parents have Gabby for the night,” she says, referring to
our six-year-old daughter. “She loves the new car, by the way.”
Over the weekend, Piper bought a BMW convertible without
“Did you set up the automatic pay thing through the bank
account? The first payment’s due the middle of next month, I
think.” Livid with Piper, I pause before answering. I’m an
expert at masking my emotions, but it’s all I can do to
restrain myself. I smile, jaw tight. “It’s all arranged.”
A moment later, Piper and I part ways. I turn to watch her, my
heart rent with fury and sorrow.
Back in the office, I sit at my desk and try to will the day’s
difficulties into their own compartments. I’m a savant when it
comes to compartmentalizing. I can store something away in my
mind for hours, days, weeks. Sometimes forever.
I start checking my e-mails but quit halfway through. I pick up
the phone to return an important call but hang up after it
rings once on the other end. There’s a draft of an appellate
brief on my desk, and I pick it up, start to edit it, but toss
it aside after a page or two. I’m just too distracted to work.
My insides are roiling.
I close my eyes, open them, take five deep breaths, then five
more. It doesn’t help, so I decide to go for a run. I rip off
my work clothes, throw them onto my desk in a heap, and put on
the running clothes I always bring with me to work. I’m flying
the instant I leave the building.
My normal run is a ten-mile loop along the Schuylkill River.
Today, I take it way too fast and am wiped out when I get back
to the office. I dry myself off with paper towels in the
bathroom, change back into my work clothes, and try to get some
My mind is still spinning, and I realize it’s hopeless. I leave
the office, get my car, and head home. Passing 30th Street
Station, I call Piper. I can’t reach her at home, so I call her
on her cell. She says she decided to go to the mall after all
and that she’ll get home about the same time I do. I tell her
I’ll pick up something for dinner at Whole Foods . . . not that
I’ll be able to eat anything.
Piper and I live with our daughter, Gabrielle, about fifteen
miles west of Philadelphia. Our house is a sixty-year-old stone
Cape Cod on three-quarters of an acre on a quiet, tree-lined
street. Piper fell in love with the house instantly when she
first laid eyes on it four years ago. “It’s absolutely
perfect,” she told me when we put in our bid. Then, the minute
we took possession, she set out to change everything about it.
In order of attack, Piper replaced all the wallpaper and
lighting, tore up the carpeting and laid new hardwood floors,
put in a new kitchen and upstairs and downstairs bathrooms, and
finished the basement. The only things she hasn’t replaced are
the windows and roof.
I pull my car up to the three-car garage built into our house
and walk in the back door. I’m immediately set upon by
Franklin, our two-hundred-pound Bernese mountain dog, the Main
Line beast du jour. I place the Whole Foods bag on the granite
counter and give Franklin the hugs and treats he’s come to
expect when I get home from work. Turning back to the counter
and the grocery bag, I notice a business card stapled to an
invoice of some sort. I pick it up and see that it’s an
estimate for a new cedar-shake roof: $30,000.
Piper enters the kitchen. Her face is drawn, her eyes and nose
are red. “I don’t feel well,” she says. “I’m not going to eat.”
With that she passes by me, walks down the hall, and goes up
I turn away from her. Given how I feel right now, it suits me
that we’re not having dinner. I wander into the family room and
sit numbly in front of the television. Reruns of Law and Order
play themselves out on the tube, but I can barely see the
images on the screen through the fog that envelops my mind. The
eleven o’clock news comes on, then Jimmy Fallon, then Late
Night with Seth Meyers. I sit zombielike on the couch until
Carson Daly comes on at 1:30, then will myself off the sofa and
make my way upstairs.
I pause and stand at the doorway of Gabrielle’s room. Her empty
bed evokes a hollow ache inside me. I can feel her absence
outside myself as well, an unnatural stillness that pervades
the air, the walls, the floors—as though the whole house misses
her. One of my favorite things is to read Gabby to sleep at
night, then sit and watch her breathe. A Sick Day for Amos
McGee is one of Gabby’s current favorites, as is The Day the
Crayons Quit. The book I most enjoy reading to her is one I
saved from my own childhood, the Dr. Seuss classic Green Eggs
and Ham. Too often, I come home from work so late that Gabby is
already asleep. When that’s the case, I read to her anyway.
Piper’s always thought it odd, but I like to think that, even
asleep, some part of Gabby’s mind can hear me and knows I’m
I feel a presence at my side and look down to see Franklin
standing next to me. He stares
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