by David Ellis
“[A] terrific legal thriller…in the tradition of Scott Turow and even superstar John Grisham…The twists and turns are always surprising, the courtroom politics interesting, and the story a grabber from start to finish.”
—Toronto Sun
“He powers his latest legal thriller with a narrative engine that smashes through the barriers of coincidence and credulity, leaving readers breathless at the author’s audacity…As expected from past Ellis performances, there is a beautifully sustained trial sequence, with several surprises. But what really makes his third book so impressive are the human challenges he sets up and conquers.”
—Chicago Tribune
“A steady stream of twists and complications…a stunning Perry Mason–style courtroom shocker will knock readers right out of their seats. After they pick themselves up off the floor, the ensuing fast and furious revelations will have them flying through the final pages.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Ellis keeps the suspense bubbling at its highest peak. This first-class legal thriller is strongly recommended for all libraries where good writing, excellent character development, and exceptional trial strategies are appreciated.”
—Library Journal
“[A] twist sets the story’s last third spinning as Ellis tightens, then ties up, a solid case. Unlike the mob of hacks who want to be the next Grisham, Ellis is never glib, hackneyed, or tiresome. In style, plot, and character, he engages and entertains.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“The gladiatorial trial sequences are detailed and riveting…[Ellis’s] misdirection and plot twists will please fans of Bernhardt, O’Shaughnessy, or Margolin.”
—Booklist
Praise for the legal thrillers of David Ellis
LIFE SENTENCE
“Ellis balances plot, setting, pacing, characterization, and surprises in just the right measure to create a compelling high-stakes courtroom drama. He also takes time to explore the psyche of lawyers as Turow does so well.”
—Katy Munger, The Washington Post
“Who does Ellis think he is—John Grisham? The answer to that has to be, Yes—with any luck. Ellis certainly writes as well as his Georgia colleague, and his plotting is even sharper.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Ellis sets a new standard with this superb legal thriller…[a] stunning ending.”
—Library Journal
“Chilling…a tale combining betrayal, tense courtroom drama, family tragedy, and a quick twist of surprise at the end. It was hard to put down.”
—San Antonio Express-News
“[The] tight plot and believable dialogue keep the pages turning…Life Sentence has a wallop of an ending.”
—The Santa Fe New Mexican
“This insider’s tale of political chicanery and extreme ambition is effectively told…a skillfully written crime story with some very believable characterizations. Recommended.”
—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
Praise for the Edgar® Award–winning
LINE OF VISION
“The best suspense novel I’ve read in a while.”
—James Patterson, author of 3rd Degree
“A fresh take on the legal thriller. Crackles with unexpected twists.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“Don’t think you can put Line of Vision down—you can’t. Dave Ellis won’t let you go, from the first tantalizing page to the final double twist.”
—Barbara Parker,
New York Times bestselling author of Suspicion of Madness
“The most original and exciting thriller I’ve read in a long time. Starts at a fever pitch and never lets up.”
—J. F. Freedman,
New York Times bestselling author of Above the Law
“Line of Vision is a wicked delight…David Ellis’s hero beguiles like Patricia Highsmith’s Ripley at his most devious. The story grabs, shakes, twists up, and won’t let go, all the way through to its deeply satisfying resolution.”
—Perri O’Shaughnessy,
author of Unlucky in Law
“Almost continuous tension and a surprisingly sympathetic narrator. [Marty’s] struggle is compelling and the verdict a stunning surprise. Expertly written, intricately plotted, and, of course, highly entertaining.”
—St. Louis Post-Dispatch
“A spellbinding legal drama—sexy, seductive, and full of surprises—which features a fascinating if unreliable protagonist. This is the best first novel I’ve read in a good long time.”
—William Bernhardt,
author of Hate Crime
Titles by David Ellis
LIFE SENTENCE
LINE OF VISION
JURY OF ONE
JURY
of ONE
David Ellis
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
JURY OF ONE
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
G. P. Putnam’s Sons hardcover edition / March 2004
Berkley mass-market edition / March 2005
Copyright © 2004 by David Ellis.
The Edgar® name is a registered service mark of the Mystery Writers of America, Inc.
Cover design by Marc Cohen.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-101-65817-8
BERKLEY®
Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The “B” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
TO MY WIFE,
SUSAN
Table of Contents
Prologue: Blood
Part One: Offenses
1: Chances
2: Dreams
3: Lost
4: Never
5: Pinch
6: Home
<
br /> 7: Life
8: Lessons
9: Help
10: Schemes
11: Deliberations
12: Family
13: Company
14: Birthday
Part Two: Choices
15: Mother
16: Son
17: Plea
18: You
19: Farewell
20: News
21: Different
22: Sunlight
23: Offer
24: Skeleton
25: Reports
26: Reason
27: Inquiry
28: Testing
29: Schemes
30: Distance
31: Fun
32: Victim
33: Liar
34: Details
35: Jump
36: Hide and Seek
37: Hindsight
38: Cannibals
39: Silence
40: Digging
41: Shadows
42: Wounds
43: Notice
44: Continuance
45: Questions
46: Searches
47: Break
48: Breaking
49: Switch
50: Conflict
51: Future
52: Privileges
53: Round-up
54: Cross-Examination
55: Ready
56: Suspect
Part Three: Guilt
57: Subtraction
58: Peers
59: Snitch
60: Sing
61: Diversion
62: Trust
63: Identities
64: Messenger
65: Angles
66: Price
67: Flipper
68: Partners
69: Dance
70: Silence
71: Bait
72: Foundation
73: Refuge
74: Why
75: Beginning
76: Messy
77: Regrets
78: Rewind
79: Slow
80: Forward
Acknowledgments
PROLOGUE
Blood
A FEELING HE cannot escape: Someone is watching. He has no visual confirmation but it’s a sense, his gut telling him that he’s not alone as he stands on the street outside the athletic club on the commercial district’s southwest side. The bitter air of a February evening stings his sweaty body, the light wind shooting over the top of his long black coat and filling the space inside his sweatshirt. His fellow players have left in their various directions, to high-priced condos along the city’s lakefront or, in some cases, to student housing at whatever school they are attending. Not so for this young man. He will walk four blocks to the Austin bus that will transport him to the city’s south side, to his middle-class home.
He looks at his watch. It’s early. Seven-forty. Open gym at the City Athletic Club—every Wednesday night, the basketball courts can be used free of charge—officially ends at eight o’clock and usually goes to eight-thirty, but tonight the game broke up abruptly after a minor fracas between players turned into a heated altercation, enough so that the gym supervisor sent everyone home. He wasn’t a part of the fight. He wouldn’t feel so comfortable shoving or throwing punches; it’s a class thing, an issue of hierarchy. He’s not one of them. He’s not their age and he doesn’t have their pedigree. They are college kids and grad students, mostly, who live in nice housing their daddies are paying for. He’s a high-school kid with a good outside shot. He understands his place.
Not one of them. He’s not sure who he is anymore.
The streets on the southwest side are empty. It has been dark since five, and most of the professional buildings in the district are to the east and north, so it is quiet as he walks toward the bus stop. Quiet is not good, not anymore. These days, he prefers noise and company to drown out the howling in his head.
He hears it before he turns his head and sees it behind him, to the north. Squad cars are unmistakable even from a distance. This particular police vehicle is headed south on Gentry, toward him. The car has just crossed Bonnard Street, which puts it less than a block away from him. The boy finds it difficult to walk with his head craned back, but he will do what he can to be nonchalant. There is no reason to panic. He doesn’t know the officers’ intentions. More than likely, it’s a routine cruising. He’s a white kid in a long coat and sweats, obviously leaving the City Athletic Club after a game of hoops. They might not think anything of him. Or they might stop him. They might even ask him what’s in the gym bag he’s carrying. But he doesn’t know this, and he can’t react preemptively because that would draw suspicion, could turn a nonevent into something.
He hears the squad car stop short of him. That seems odd, because there is nothing behind him that would draw their interest, no reason to stop. He doesn’t know how to respond. He listens a moment, slowing his pace. He hears another car drive by, on Bonnard Street north of the officers. That car, headed east, sounds like it’s moving quickly, which might normally catch the attention of police officers on a sleepy night. But he hears no response from the cops, which means something else—someone else—has their attention just now.
He tries to be casual as he turns and looks back at the squad car. The illumination of the street is decent, with the towering overhead streetlights, and he sees two of them inside the car. The driver is a thick man, an Italian; his partner is smaller and Latino. The driver is speaking into a radio.
The boy turns and continues walking, stifling the instinct to run. His heart is drumming now. Perspiration on his forehead, when it’s only ten degrees or so outside.
He hears car doors open, then close, one after the other.
He will not run, not yet. If nothing else, he will let them walk a sufficient distance from the vehicle, so that if he does run, it will take some time before they can return to the vehicle, if that is their choice.
He looks straight ahead now. He is walking among high-rises, so there are few options. Buildings will be closed, or open only to the extent that he could approach a security guard. Wait—an alley, before the end of the block. His mind races as he taps his recall. The alley goes through to the next street. Yes. He can cross through the alley to the next street. Yes.
“Hey,” the officer calls out. It’s the driver, the bigger, older guy.
It has happened in a finger-snap. He has been identified and called out. Until now, it has been something of a game, the boy ignoring the police and the police not overtly approaching him. Now a line has been drawn.
The boy runs. He’s in the perfect outfit, sweats and court shoes, though a sixteen-year-old probably doesn’t need such advantages against a large man pushing forty. It takes him under thirty seconds to reach the alley. He hears the officer calling to his partner, something about the car, which means that the vehicle will be coming after him soon as well.
He looks down the alley. Bags of garbage next to full dumpsters, an old fire escape running up one wall. A parked car on the next street over. Something in the shadows, maybe his eyes playing tricks. It only takes a second to make the decision. He turns and runs into the darkness.
He hears the officer again, talking into the police radio as he gives chase.
“—in pursuit—”
He looks back for signs of the officer as he’s running. A mistake. He knows it before it happens. His foot catches something, a pipe probably, and he falls. His gloves rip against the uneven pavement. Worse, his knee. His kneecap, even with the protection of the wool coat, has landed awkwardly on the tattered concrete. He can’t diagnose the damage. It just hurts like hell.
He gathers his gym bag and manages to get to his feet. He is shrouded in the darkness of the alley, only indirect lighting from the street allowing him to see at all. He can’t run anymore, will probably need a moment before he can even put weight on his leg. He is not even midway between the two streets now. He couldn’t possibly escape.<
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