Dear Reader,
Thank you for your continued support for me this year. As a writer of suspense thrillers and murder mysteries, I was more than thrilled when my latest release, To Kill A Saint, reached #15 on Amazon.com’'s bestseller list just behind John Grisham’'s new release The Confession.
The Rest of the Story
Before the first copy of a book comes off the first production run, thousands upon thousands of hours have been spent writing and re-writing, editing and polishing a manuscript that once upon a time began as a simple idea in the mind of the author.
What sparked the initial idea? And what journey did that little notion take before someone developed and refined it into a best-selling novel?
By clicking on the icon below, I will share with you the "behind the scenes" story of each book, some little known trivia about the publishing industry, as well as the first few chapters of each book for your review. I hope these insights will spark your curiosity, and I welcome any questions and comments.
Welcome to the Multi-Media room. Here you will find a variety of media formats, everything from radio drama, magazine articles and newspaper clipplings, to audio and video clips. In the weeks ahead, dozens of snippets will be added to the collage below.
Short Stories and Magazine Articles
Over the years I have been privileged to have short stories and articles appear in several national and international magazines. Below are two such stories:
My Life Story on Radio Theater
In June of 2008, Moody radio produced a dramatized documentary of my life. The program aired more than 7,500 times around the world and was heard on over 1,800 radio outlets in 148 countries, on six continents, in eight languages —English, Spanish, Arabic, Romanian, Russian, Polish, Korean and Japanese. Click on the radio to listen to a rebroadcast.
Video Documentary
This is a documentary video that tells my story in five minutes. It was shot for a short film competition and made it to the finals. The filmmaker is Robert A. Kramer and he can be found at www.eternalproductions.biz. Click on the picture below to see a video
Click here for a feature story in The Cleveland Plain Dealer.
I welcome your questions and comments.
Mikeswiger_gmail.com
Book Description
A corpse on an altar. A witness who isn't talking. An ancient vow of secrecy. It's 2 A.M. when County Prosecutor Peter Saul arrives at the scene of a grisly murder at St. Andrew's Church in Cleveland, Ohio. Reverend Howard Jamison is covered with the victim's blood, and there's a Satanic Bible on his desk.
Attorney Hunter St. James has spent his career fighting the shameful specter of his father's legacy. Now he's assigned a pro-bono case he's sure he can't win. The charge is first-degree murder, and the arraignment is in two days. Worse, the client's a holy-roller, and Hunter doesn't trust anybody who makes his living off the superstitions of others.
Psychologist Faith McGuire has just lost a husband, but gained a new client...who knows far more than he's telling. Saul's stepson, Jason, with his spiky hair, body piercings, and jackboots, is tap dancing on the prosecutor's last nerve. Is it just a rebellious phase, or could there be something more to his attitude? All hold keys to the deadly mystery...if they live to see it solved.
Click here for sample chapters
Why I wrote the book
While my chief end in writing any book is to entertain and outwit my readers, I also strive to challenge their worldview in some way. In To Kill A Saint, I explored the world of secret societies, their impact on our culture, and the role they play in the complexities of politics at every level. I also delved into the arguments for and against the existence of God through the mind of my protagonist, Hunter St. James, an agnostic lawyer with a knack for getting himself in trouble.
Politics. Power. Murder. If you want something bad enough, would you kill for it?
Marcus Blanchard has worked for years to get to this night-to the eve of the Eleventh District Congressional race in Cleveland. He's determined to oust long-reigning, crooked politicians Julius McGee and William McLaughlin, and has asked his favorite law-school professor, Edward Mead, to witness the victory. But just as the results are about to be announced, Marcus disappears, and a woman is murdered. Worse, Alontay Johnson is his old girlfriend, and he's caught crouching over her body. Did he strangle her, or was he framed? And who will believe him?
It's up to the quirky, arthritic Ed Mead, who hasn't been in a courtroom in years, to defend his friend and client while the State of Ohio seeks the death penalty.
I wanted to write a Classical murder mystery wrapped inside a legal thriller to encourage my readers to get involved in the political process. Biblical Christianty is the only cure for the ills of society. While I always hope to entertain my readers, I hope folks will see the critical need for Christian to be engaged in their communities. The drugs epidemic, racisim, and political corruption are rampant in our world, and only by Christians being salt and light can we hope to have a positive influence for the Kingdom of God.
During the research, I was surprised by the various special interest groups that make up much of the liberal left in our country. Most of these groups have nothing in common with the exception that they oppose social and financial conservatism. The writing for this book was greatly influenced by the writings of Walter Williams, Rev. Jesse Lee Peterson, Hugh Hewitt, and Rush Limbaugh.
A sensational case. Dark motives. Deadly secrets. And it all adds up to murder. Everyone hates and fears the arrogant and verbally abusive Judge Samuel Chesterfield. But who hates him enough to murder him in his own chambers? Only the four trial lawyers had access and motive. And what - if anything - does the murder have to do with the sensational wrongful-death suit brought against a prominent abortionist?
Edward Mead, a distinguished law professor, acts as a special prosecutor. No one knows the secret pain he hides, because he masks his inner turmoil behind a razor-sharp wit. But sometimes eve he wonders: Do I, at seventy-six years old, still have what it takes to solve the case? Special Agent Sarah Riehl sees the case as her one chance to shatter the suffocating glass ceiling that has defined her ten-year career at the FBI, and she's not about to let an old man's weakness ruin her chances. But her impetuous drive to success will propel her on a deadly collision course with the prime suspect. Cutting-edge. Quirky. Suspenseful. Gutsy.
I wanted to address a side of the pro-life argument that is not often discussed; the devastating toll abortion takes on not only the women who receive them, but also on the abortion providers. Using this as the sub-plot, I wove a fast-paced legal thriller/murder mystery around it. A lot of people intellectually assent to the wrongness of abortion, but I want them to feel the impact enough to want to get involved. And of course, as a writer I want to entertain my readers and keep them guessing.
Working on this project made me feel a bit more sympathetic toward those who work in the abortion industry. It is easy to demonize them, but until they are reached with the Gospel, they will never comprehend the harm they are doing.
A brutal crime leaves one woman clinging to life, her unborn child dead, and a peaceful Ohio Valley community crying for vengeance.
Lori Franks, beautiful and ruthless, will stop at nothing in her relentless pursuit of a conviction. While seeking to execute a handicapped man accused of killing an unborn baby, her own dark past rages back to haunt her again.
Defense attorney Danial Solomon locks horns with Franks in two cases. His crusade for the truth leads him on a collision course with the abortion laws of the state while driving him ever deeper into a labyrinth of conspiracy and corruption.
The very pinnacle Christian fiction, this pro-life legal thriller races from the life-and-death decisions of the operating room to the tension-packed fireworks of a murder trial - a unique mix of legal intrigue and page-turning suspense that catapulted John Grisham to the Bestseller list. This story will leave you exhilarated and shaken, but above all, it will make you think.
A terrorist explosion rocks a peaceful Ohio community and triggers a nationwide manhunt.
A teenage girl is accused of concealing her pregnancy then killing her newborn baby.
A Machiavellian political operative will stop at nothing in his quest to re-elect his ailing client and so advance his own career.
What do these divergent strands snatched from today’s headlines have in common? With one client dead and another’s life hanging in the balance, defense attorney Danial Solomon must unravel this Gordian knot before...
In this masterful sequel to the 2001 Pulitzer Prize nominate book, A TRIAL OF INNOCENTS, Michael Andrew combines a tense, twisty thriller with a penetrating commentary on political corruption and the ambiguities of the American justice system through the lens of Conservative Christianity. Andrew lays bare the ambitions and fears of healers, killers, and betrayers. He proves once again that no reader can outguess a master storyteller.
© 2010
Visit www.MichaelSwiger.com and www.oaktara.com.
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Also available in ebook from amazonkindle.com.
$19.95, 6 x 9 Paperback, 272 pp., 978-1-60290-096-7
F1C030000 FICTION / Suspense
Published in the U.S. by:
OakTara Publishers, P.O. Box 8, Waterford, VA 20197
BOOKS by
Best-selling Author
Michael Swiger
Edward Mead Legal Thrillers
LETHAL AMBITION
Book One
LETHAL OBJECTION
Book Two
LETHAL OBSESSION
Book Three
Coming Soon…
Suspense Thrillers
TO KILL A SAINT
1
Saturday, October 14
Clifton Park, 6 miles west of Cleveland
Lakewood, Ohio
2:04 A.M.
uyahoga County Prosecutor, Peter Saul, fumbled for the phone on the nightstand beside his bed.
“Who is this?”
“April Denholm. Sorry to wake you, sir, but we’ve stumbled onto a gruesome scene a few blocks from your house.”
Peter Saul looked over at his sleeping wife, Marilyn, her red hair draped across her face. He spoke in a hushed whisper. “What’d you find?”
“A woman called the station a few hours ago to report a peeping Tom over at St. Andrew’s Church. We didn’t get here until a few minutes ago.”
“Why the delay?”
“She’s notorious for false alarms, so the local police didn’t take her seriously.”
“Go on.”
“When the patrolmen arrived, the front door was open, so they walked in and found a corpse stabbed to death on the altar. It’s pretty messy.”
“Did you call Jimmy Graham?”
“He’s already here snapping pictures.”
“I'll be right over.”
“There’s more.”
C
2
“What?”
“The pastor is all scratched up, and he isn’t talking.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Saul hung up the phone and turned on the lamp on the nightstand. He slung his legs over the side of the bed and fished his feet around for his slippers. He shuffled over to the closet and pulled a pair of jeans over his pajama bottoms. He tugged on an Ohio State sweatshirt, a pair of wingtips, and grabbed his tan overcoat. He walked around the other side of the bed, leaned over, and kissed his wife on the cheek.
She opened her eyes. “What time is it?”
“It’s very late.”
“Where are you going?”
“They found a woman murdered over at St. Andrew’s.”
“That’s just down the street.”
“Don’t worry. Everything is fine.”
“Check on Jason before you go.”
“I’m sure he’s okay.”
“Just look in on him.”
“I will. Go back to sleep.”
He kissed her on the forehead; she closed her eyes. He walked down the hall and noticed light reflecting on the hardwood floor under his stepson’s bedroom door.
That kid will be the ruin of me.
He trudged down the arched stairway, across the great room with its vaulted ceiling, and into the attached garage. A few minutes later he parked his black BMW on the street outside St. Andrew’s Church. Yellow police tape, strung from tree to tree, fluttered in the breeze and surrounded the white-sided building. The steeple’s silhouette reached into the moonlit sky. Lights blazed through the windows.
Saul walked up the uneven sidewalk and nodded to the uniformed patrolman standing near the front door.
Lieutenant April Denholm met him inside the vestibule, her bright blue eyes looking surprisingly alert for this time of the night. Wheat-gold ringlets dangled around her oval face and partially covered her milk-white neck and narrow shoulders.
“Give me the scoop,” Saul said.
3
“The deceased is a blond female approximately thirty years old. No I.D. She was stabbed repeatedly…dozens of times actually.”
“Does the pastor know her?” Saul asked.
“If he does, he’s not saying. You want to talk to him? We’ve got him in the office.”
“Not yet. I want to look around first.”
They walked down the center aisle, the sound of their shoes echoing through the cavernous room and mingling with the rapid clicking of a camera shutter. As they approached the sanctuary, a sickish-sweet scent of blood tinged with sage permeated the air. The victim came into view. She lay with her arms and head hanging off one end of the altar, her blond hair spilling back and brushing the floor. The pink blouse was ripped open and saturated with blood. Her bra was hiked up around her throat. Punctures and slashes riddled a taut abdomen. White lace panties hung from her left ankle. Coagulated blood blanketed the maple altar, ran down the table legs, and puddled on the floor in an irregular, black pool. A gray skirt lay crumpled in a ball on the floor near the table.
Jimmy Graham stopped snapping close-ups and turned toward Saul. “Howdy, Pete. How’s this for a little late-night excitement?”
“I could do without it, Jimmy. What’s your take?”
“Well, it looks to me like one of the first blows must have hit a lung. You see how this fine mist of blood covers everything like red spray paint?”
“Uh huh.”
“If you look close, you can see it emanates from this one diagonal wound here to the right of her sternum—right here…see, between the ribs.” He pointed with his finger. “Blood in the lung must’ve mixed with air and sprayed everywhere.”
“You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes,” Denholm said.
“You got any better explanations?”
“Lose the attitude, people,” Saul said. “We all have a long night ahead of us. Jimmy, I want pictures of everything.”
“I’m on it.”
“Any sign of rape?”
“It’s hard to tell.”
4
“We’ll probably have to wait on the autopsy for that one.”
Saul turned toward Denholm. “What about this peeping Tom?”
“Detective Myles is talking to the neighbor right now.”
“Good.”
“Also, we found some footprints near that window over there.”
“What?” Saul’s eyes opened wide. “What are you talking about?”
“We found footprints.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“We found them since I called you.”
Saul’s forehead wrinkled. “Let’s go have a look.”
They walked toward the side door to the right of the sanctuary. A uniformed officer stood in the doorway, her doe brown eyes blazing. She stepped aside to let Saul and Lt. Denholm pass. Around the side of the building, two lights mounted on tripods illuminated a large patch of ground.
“What did you find?” Saul asked.
“We’ve got a good set of impressions,” Lt. Denholm said. “They look fresh but a little indistinct.”
“What do you mean, indistinct?”
“Whoever stood here didn’t stand still. It’s almost like he was dancing in place.”
“Can you lift the impressions?”
“I’ll be able to get a couple good casts. There may be more footprints around here. I’m keeping everyone off the grounds until daylight.”
“Good, good.”
“You think the perp staked out the scene before he went in and took care of his business?” Graham asked.
“Maybe.”
“Or a lookout,” Denholm said.
“Or maybe a witness.” Saul patted her on the back. “Take your time. These prints are critical.”
“Now do you want to see the good Reverend?”
“Yeah, I guess it’s time.”
The group walked back around the church. Crickets chirped in the cool air.
5
“You know,” Saul said, “it’s been my experience that most homicide cases that get cracked are solved within the first forty-eight hours.”
“Why’s that?” Denholm asked.
“Any witnesses who haven’t stepped forward within the first couple days probably won’t appear at all. And usually new clues don’t surface after the initial investigation.”
“That makes sense.”
“So we need to take our time and make these first hours count. Sun Tzu says, ‘That which depends on me, I can do; that which depends on the enemy cannot be certain.’”
“That’s interesting.”
“What’s this guy’s name?”
“Jamison. Reverend Howard Jamison.”
They walked back in the side door, then crossed the front of the church. A uniformed officer tied a plastic bag over the victim’s left hand. Off to the left of the sanctuary two uniformed officers stood with their back against a door; they stepped aside as Saul and Denholm walked in and closed the door behind them. Off in the corner of the small rectangular office sat a chubby, middle-aged man with his face buried in his hands. Thin hair lay plastered to his balding scalp by a layer of sweat, like strands of brown seaweed. He wore a light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a pair of pleated, tan Dockers.
“Reverend...Jamison,” Saul said.
The man looked up. Three deep gouges ran from the center of his high forehead and down his left cheek. Dry, crusted blood ringed the nostrils of his beak-like nose. His puckered eyelids quivered as a pair of vacant gray eyes darted around the room.
“Reverend Jamison.” Saul threw a leg over the edge of the desk and bumped a book—a Satanic Bible. “I need you to tell me what happened.”
Jamison started to say something, checked himself, then dropped his head.
“What did you do?”
Silence.
6
“Reverend Jamison, it would really be helpful if you told us what happened here tonight.”
No response.
“Do you know who that girl is?”
Jamison looked up; his face went white to the lips.
“Reverend, it’s quite late,” Saul said, his voice rising at each word. “And there’s a dead girl on the altar. I want to know how she ended up with a chest full of holes.”
Tears welled in Jamison’s eyes, brimmed over his lashes, and ran down his cheeks. His lips trembled. “I’d like to talk to an attorney.”
Saul didn’t speak for a long moment; then a wolfish smile spread across his face. “In that case, you have the right to remain silent....”
7
University Circle
Cleveland, Ohio
7:05 A.M.
unter St. James jolted awake when a door slammed. He stared at the ornate-plaster ceiling for a moment, then looked over at the empty half of his king-sized bed.
“I wonder where she—”
He heard bottles clanking in the bathroom sink, followed by a shrill string of obscenities he didn’t think Pamela Marsh knew. When her approaching footsteps reached his ears, he covered his head with the pillow and braced himself.
“I’m late,” she yelled.
He peeked an apprehensive eye at the clock from under his feathery shield. “No, you’re not. It’s only seven.”
“Not that kind of late.”
“How many kinds of late are there?”
“My period.”
“Oh.” He raised his eyebrows. “How late?”
“Eight days.”
“But you’re on the pill.”
“Yes, I know, but I’m still late.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I want my period.”
“I want you to have it, too.”
“I want it now.”
“Did you try clicking your heels together three times?”
“I could scratch your eyes out when you say stupid stuff like that.”
H
8
“What did I say?”
“This isn’t something you can joke away.”
Hunter sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Pamela Marsh stood in front of the alcove of windows beside the bed with her hands on her hips. Her golden blond hair touched her shoulders in gentle waves. Half-squinted blue-gray eyes bored into the side of his face. The nostrils of her aquiline nose flared in and out with each breath. Her dark red lips were stretched as thin as threads.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll buy one of those pregnancy tests on the way home from work.”
“And then what?”
“Then we’ll deal with it.”
“I’m not having a baby.”
“I didn’t say you had to.”
“I’m telling you, I’m not.”
“All right. Go to work. We’ll deal with this later.”
“Fine.”
She turned abruptly, sending her hair out in a defiant fan, and stormed from the room, leaving a faint floral scent behind. He heard her high heels tapping down the hardwood steps then out the door.
“Unbelievable.” Hunter sat up in bed and stared at the copy of Jean Paul Sartre’s No Exit sitting on the nightstand beside the clock. “Maybe old Jean Paul had it right.”
He strolled over to the bathroom and looked at the wake of destruction Pamela left behind.
“How come she never throws a tantrum at her parents’ house where the maid can clean up the mess?”
He picked up the bottles of Tylenol and Vitamin C from the sink and put them back in the medicine cabinet. He closed the mirrored door and scrutinized his face. Bristles of brown hair stood on end. He leaned forward to get a closer view of the ever-increasing crop of gray and examined the beginning of a blemish on the bridge of his long Roman nose. He splashed hot water on his face, lathered up, and shaved. When he finished, dribbles of blood appeared along the ridge of his square jaw, including a gash beside the mole on the right side of his chin.
9
A few minutes later he drove his midnight blue Jaguar down Euclid Avenue, past Severance Hall—home of the Cleveland Symphony Orchestra and premier Concert Master Pamela Marsh. Fifteen minutes later he parked on Superior Avenue across from the Rockefeller Building.
Taking the elevator to the top floor office suite of Owens, Ryder, and Scott, he hurried past the young receptionist with the lush application of rouge.
She quickly hung up the phone and called after him, “Mr. Scott’s waiting for you in your office.”
“It’s Saturday. What’s he want?”
“I don’t know, but he looked mad.”
“Wonderful.” He started toward his office door.
“Hunter.”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve got something stuck to your face.” She pointed to her chin.
“Oh, that.” He peeled off the blood-crusted toilet paper. “I lost a fight with my razor this morning.”
“Good luck with Mr. Scott.”
“Thanks.”
Hunter walked toward his office, reached for the brass doorknob, and took a deep breath. This can’t be good, old boy. He shoved open the door to find Scott reclining with feet propped on the desk and hands laced together behind his head. In spite of his seventy years, he still looked vigorous. His hair was iron gray and thick. A network of lines seamed his face, but his brown eyes were clear and luminous. He always spoke with a considerable sense of his own worth.
“Morning, Hunter.”
“Good morning, Mr. Scott. What brings you here on a Saturday morning?”
“Sit down. I want to talk to you.”
Hunter obeyed, perching himself on the leather couch next to his desk.
“I got a call from Mr. Basik over at Cleveland Metal Products last night, and he told me a curious thing that I couldn’t believe. He said you advised him not to sue the Cleveland Plain Dealer.”
10
“Well, yes, I…”
“Why in the world would you do that?”
“He had no basis for a claim.”
“So.”
“I thought I—”
“Mr. St. James, we are a law firm, and a law firm is a business. The purpose of a business is to make money. You do understand that, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course, but—”
“We make money by charging clients for our services; we charge them a lot of money, and they’re happy to pay.”
“I thought I owed him the truth.”
“Our clients don’t want the truth. They want to sue people either to get money for nothing or to tick somebody off. It makes them feel better.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry? I’m sorry.” Scott spoke like a parent lecturing a child. “I’m sorry Mr. Basik took his twenty-thousand-dollar retainer over to Rose and Rose. I’m sorry he’ll be paying them three hundred dollars an hour instead of us…that’s what I’m sorry about. The next time you get a twinge of idealism, recuse yourself from the case before you turn away a paying client.” He stood and made his way toward the door. “And keep this in mind, all associates here serve at the pleasure of the partners, which means you can be dismissed at any time. Is that clear?”
“Crystal, sir.”
“Good.” Scott walked out and slammed the door.
“What a day.”
Hunter walked around behind his desk and wiped the shoe prints off his leather ink blotter. He plopped down in his chair, feeling like a teenager who had just been grounded. He’d been chewed out before, but this was the first time he ever remembered being bawled out for doing the right thing, for actually being ethical. He shook his head and looked out the window at the panoramic view of the Cleveland skyline and Lake Erie. He thought about how the coveted office came open in the first place when the last Boy Wonder blew the McPherson case; a
11
week later he was on the street.
Hunter set to work on the pile of depositions stacked neatly on his desk, but his mind drifted back to Jean Paul Sartre’s contention that after death there is nothing. The theory made perfect sense and certainly agreed with Hunter’s atheistic beliefs, but he couldn’t seem to wrap his mind around nothingness. It didn’t feel right in the pit of his stomach. Then this morning’s argument with Pamela popped into his mind. The idea of her being pregnant made the hair stand up on the back of his neck; she was certainly not the motherly type. He considered driving to Severance and catching her during a break in rehearsal, but then again, this wasn’t the sort of thing best discussed in public.
He grabbed the stack of depositions and jammed them into his briefcase. It was impossible to focus with this pregnancy thing hanging over him. Picking up the phone, he pressed the intercom button.
“Jill, has Mr. Prescott come in yet?”
“No, but he called from One to One and said he’d meet you there at noon.”
“Cool. Anything else?”
“A couple other messages for you.”
“Fire away.”
“Ms. Marsh called while you were meeting with Mr. Scott.”
“What did she want?”
“She said to tell you not to come to the concert tonight—that her father was in town, and afterward they were going to New York. She said she’d call you from there.”
“Wonderful. Anything else?”
“One last thing. The Court Administrator called and said something about you being assigned a pro bono client.”
“What did I get—a drug case?”
“First-degree murder.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“As a heart attack. The arraignment is on Monday.”
He shook his head. “Wonderful.”
12
One to One Fitness Center
12:20 P.M.
aith McGuire leaned forward on the exercise bike and picked up her bottle of water. Sweat ran down her face and dripped on the digital display. She took a sip, put down the bottle, then chugged at the pedals with renewed determination. The stationary bikes faced a glass wall overlooking the weight room. She glanced over at her friend, Monica Frisk, a full-figured woman in form-fitting spandex, pedaling halfheartedly and stretching her neck toward a couple of men working out on the Nautilus bench-press machine below.
“Blue Eyes is down there with Gargoyle.”
“I see him,” Faith said.
“Why don’t you go down there and introduce yourself?”
“Yeah, right.”
“Why not? It’s better than stalking him.”
“I’m not stalking him.”
“What do you call this?”
“I happen to prefer cycling in the same spot.”
“At precisely the same time he works out on...”
“Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays.”
“I rest my case.”
“All right, so I’m stalking him.”
“Go down and meet him.”
“He’s probably got a perfect girlfriend who’s ten thousand times prettier than me.”
F
13
“Are you nuts? Women kill to look like you. I’d kill to look like you.”
“Give me a break.”
“Well, if you don’t go down there, I will.” Monica smiled. “His friend is starting to grow on me.”
“Now I know you’re crazy.”
“He’s sort of cute.”
“You call him the Gargoyle.”
“Some gargoyles are cute.”
“I’m going down there.”
“You do, and I’m outta here.”
“Do you plan on staying single the rest of your life?”
“I’m not ready to start dating again.” Faith thought about her ex-husband, and raw emotions came flooding back. The infidelity stung her heart, but the abandonment hurt worse. “Besides, as soon as a man sees Jeremy, he’s going to run the other way.”
“You just have to find the right one.”
“And Blue Eyes is the right one?”
“You’ll never know from up here.”
“Then I guess I’ll never know.”
12:27 P.M.
Hunter St. James effortlessly pressed the entire stack, some three hundred and twenty pounds for ten repetitions. He sat up on the end of the bench and took a deep breath.
“I wonder who’s going to get the La Salle case?” Gordon Prescott said, stepping forward for his turn at the machine. Prescott stood almost six feet tall and was muscular but not well defined. His broad face was riddled with pockmarks, and he couldn’t see without his thick glasses. His wide, irregular mouth sat atop a large, square chin. Hunter always thought he looked like a character out of Dante’s Inferno.
14
“Not me,” Hunter said, rising from the bench. “I’m in the doghouse.”
“From what Jill said, you’re under the doghouse. What were you thinking?”
“I felt sorry for the old guy. He didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell to win.”
“But he has deep pockets.” Prescott lay down and struggled under the weight. “You must be some freak of nature. Lighten that up a little.”
“Even if I wasn’t on the hit list, I still couldn’t have taken it.” Hunter bent over and moved the pin about halfway up the stack. “I’ve got a pro bono case in Cleveland.”
“You? You’re a contract lawyer.”
“Who are you telling?”
“What are you going to do?”
“Get out of it. So where were you last night?”
“Templeton meeting.”
“Again? How often do you guys get together?”
“Depends. Usually once a week.”
“What do you talk about?”
“Stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“I can’t say.”
“You’ve known me since we were kids, and you can’t say?”
“You’d lose respect for me if I broke my vow of secrecy.”
“I already don’t respect you.”
“Funny…funny.”
“Why don’t you talk to them about me?”
The two men traded places. Hunter put the pin at the bottom of the stack and pressed out ten reps with little effort.
“I did.”
“Well?”
“No can do.”
“Why not?”
“Your dad.”
The answer struck Hunter like a blow. His father had been arrested for embezzlement and fraud, accused of swindling his elderly clients
15
out of their life savings. He maintained his innocence throughout the trial, but the jury slammed him. The judge sentenced him to ten years, but he never served a day; they found him hanging from the air vent in his cell the day after sentencing. Hunter spent his entire life with the shameful specter of his father’s legacy haunting him. He always felt like he had to be twice as good as the next man just to stay even. No matter how well he did at Ohio University or later at Case Western University’s Law School, he couldn’t escape the stigma. He discovered that social stains don’t wear off in some circles. Redemption was impossible….
For more of the story, read on…
Cutting-edge. Quirky. Suspenseful. Gutsy.
These legal thrillers could be ripped from today’s headlines….
Don’t Miss These Best-sellers by
MICHAEL SWIGER…
Lethal Ambition
An Edward Mead Legal Thriller
Politics. Power. Murder.
If you want something bad enough, would you kill for it?
Marcus Blanchard has worked for years to get to this night—to the eve of the Eleventh District Congressional race in Cleveland. He’s determined to oust long-reigning, crooked politicians Julius McGee and William McLaughlin, and has asked his favorite law-school professor, Edward Mead, to witness the victory.
But just as the results are about to be announced, Marcus disappears…and a woman is murdered. Worse, Alontay Johnson is his old girlfriend, and he’s caught crouching over her body. Did he strangle her, or was he framed? And who will believe him?
It’s up to the quirky, arthritic Edward Mead, who hasn’t been in a courtroom in years, to defend his friend and client…while the State of Ohio seeks the death penalty.
www.MichaelSwiger.com
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Lethal Objection
Dark motives. Deadly secrets.
A sensational case. They all add up to murder.
Everyone hates and fears the arrogant and verbally abusive Judge Samuel Chesterfield. But who hates him enough to murder him in his own chambers? Only the four trial lawyers had access and motive. And what—if anything—does the murder have to do with the sensational wrongful-death suit brought against a prominent abortionist?
Edward Mead, a distinguished law professor, acts as special prosecutor. No one knows the secret pain he hides, because he masks his inner turmoil behind a razor-sharp wit. But sometimes even he wonders: Do I, at seventy-six years old, still have what it takes to solve the case?
Special Agent Sarah Riehl sees the case as her one chance to shatter the suffocating glass ceiling that has defined her ten-year career at the FBI. And she’s not about to let an old man’s weaknesses ruin her chances. But her impetuous drive to success will propel her on a deadly collision course with the prime suspect….
About the Author
MICHAEL SWIGER, a Summa cum Laude graduate of Ohio University and an honors student at the Reformed Theological Seminary, has published two Edward Mead Legal Thrillers—Lethal Ambition (Book One) and Lethal Objection (Book Two)—and two novels under the pen name Michael Andrew. His first, A Trial of Innocents, was considered for the 2001 Pulitzer Prize for fiction. His short stories and essays have appeared in numerous national publications. Michael serves as the Associate Pastor at The Gospel House Church in Walton Hills, Ohio.
Readers can e-mail Michael Swiger at Mikeswiger_gmail.com.
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