Author: Steve Clark
Publisher: Rorke Publishing
Pages: 430
Genre: Suspense
In JUSTICE IS FOR THE
LONELY, the stunning new suspense novel by author Steve Clark, Kristen
Kerry, a smart, attractive, young lawyer faces the dilemma of trying her
biggest legal case while attempting to fulfill the less than moral demands of
her client and boss. Kristen’s malpractice case has the potential to be the
largest verdict of its kind in Texas legal
history. She must juggle her strong legal skills with a heavy load of
insecurities stemming from a traumatic childhood. The book, which Midwest Book Review says is
“exceptionally well written and engagingly entertaining from beginning to end,”
features action-packed scenes; complex multidimensional characters; and compelling
subplots.
Kristen Kerry made partner at Wright and McGee in six short
years. During that time, she worked obsessively and spent most of her personal
time alone or slamming punching bags in martial arts training. The “Layne”
malpractice case is Kristen’s opportunity to prove she is a trial lawyer equal
to any male. Tammy Robberson, a tough talking, morally deficient insurance
adjuster handpicked Kristen to represent the defendant hospital in the lawsuit,
certain that Michael Stern, senior partner representing the doctor would see
the attractive young attorney as another potential conquest. To win the case,
Kristen is expected to be competent, wily, and a team player, even if it means
sleeping with attorneys her firm is supposedly collaborating with during the
malpractice case.
After Kristen fails to charm information out of Tony
Caswell, Stern’s associate representing the doctor, Tammy instructs her to
focus on Stern himself. She is told to do whatever it takes to gain his trust
then betray him so the doctor ultimately bears the liability rather than the
codefendant hospital and nurses. Michael Stern who is an attractive, masterful
attorney, is also a known philanderer. His wife Diana is a Dallas
socialite from very old money. Teaming up with Stern is a risk for Kristen that
shakes up her professional and personal worlds. Despite her disgust over the
assignment, Kristen finds herself attracted to Stern after she sees him in his
role as father of a teenage daughter, but she still knows he might double cross
her.
As the case progresses, Stern’s wife, a member of the Texas
Pardon and Parole Board, becomes responsible for the release of Leonard Marrs,
a sexual predator, who is violent and disturbed, yet very charming. After
leaving prison, he becomes obsessed with Diana. When Caswell, whom Stern
removed from the Layne case, discovers secrets about Kristen’s past, he teams
up with Marrs for revenge against both attorneys. And what better revenge than
implicating them in murder?
Clark was inspired to write JUSTICE IS FOR THE LONELY as a means of
showcasing story lines and characters from some of his own dramatic cases. He
has encountered many fascinating people during his years of private legal
practice. Clark states, “While there
are many legal genre books, the vast majority involve the criminal system and
none, to my knowledge, explore the nasty business of malpractice litigation,
particularly its effect on troubled characters.”
JUSTICE
IS FOR THE LONELY is much more than a novel with thrilling legal
action, gripping subplots, and romance. It offers readers a story of the
transformation of a shallow, self-absorbed man who finds love and an adult
child of alcoholic parents who overcomes her inability to trust anyone.
“I think almost everyone, including men will identify with
Kristen and her insecurities, her loneliness,” Clark says, “they will cheer on
her courage, even her recklessness, and will be heartened by her integrity and
hopefully eager to follow her future adventures.”
For More Information
- JUSTICE IS FOR THE LONELY is available at Amazon.
- Discuss this book at PUYB Virtual Book Club at Goodreads.
Tony
Caswell somehow reached his car, bent at the waist and gasping, fearing each
step would be his last. This posture helped keep the jewels from being jostled.
Kristen’s blood-chilling martial arts scream echoed in his head, only matched
by reverberations of his wail. He leaned against the Targa door, trying to
breathe.
His normal
hand fumbled inside his pants for the key. Even this small movement reinforced
the agony. He wasn’t sure he should -- or could -- drive, but didn’t want to
collapse in the street.
He caught
his reflection in the window glass. His face looked purple, and it frightened
him. Am I going to fucking die in front of this whore’s house?
He realized
the blow to his crotch may have hit the vagus, the cranial nerve that wandered
all the way to the gut. It was sensitive enough that bowels, lungs, everything
could shut down.
The
courtyard around Kristen’s townhouse swirled.
He had to
get a grip.
Breathe.
After a
minute, Tony opened the door and tried to sit in his Porsche without his balls
touching the seat. That proved impossible. The pain shot from his groin into
his belly. He feared he might throw up all over the beautiful leather, so he
faced his head out the window.
His throat
threatened to close. The spit he tried to swallow stayed mostly in his mouth.
While his good hand held up his smashed balls, his bad one searched around his
Adam’s apple. The worst pain seemed left of dead-on. He probably wouldn’t die.
Probably. Some air reached his lungs, but the distress made him retch. He
coughed out something disgusting, but somehow managed to start the car with his
left claw.
As he did
often when he had to use his left arm, he cursed his parents, in Jakarta
chasing oil deals when Tony was born, leaving the delivery in the hands of an
incompetent Indonesian obstetrician. Erb’s Palsy they called it, meaning the
shoulder got stuck in delivery. Pulling his head out of the birth canal had
ripped nerves from his spine. He hid his atrophied hand, when he could, and
blamed his greedy parents, too busy to fly to Australia for a real doctor.
More
retching carried a disgusting mix of booze, gastric juice, and coffee. He spat,
tried not to swallow, but feared he could aspirate crap into his lungs. A
pulmonary arrest outside a hospital would be fatal. Even if he didn’t quit
breathing, he could get a nasty pneumonia. With his luck it would be resistant
staph and he’d die of sepsis next week. At this point, almost something to look
forward to.
After a few
more breaths of dry Texas winter air, his brain cleared enough to weigh his
options. Crawl back to Kristen’s door and beg for help? More likely she’d
hammer him again just because he’d seen her tits. Or find an emergency room?
Methodist Hospital wasn’t far, but they would ask questions. Lots of questions.
The truth
could eventually get him charged with attempted rape. She had said “No.”
And he sure didn’t want to complain about getting beat up by a girl. If that
got out, he’d be a laughing stock for years.
The ER would call the police, regardless of
the story he invented. Even if he claimed to have been mugged in some random
parking lot, the cops might press him for details, where he’d been, who he had
been with. A hospital sounded like a bad idea.
He could
drive home, ice his nuts, and hope tomorrow would bring some relief. If she
hadn't called the police and they showed up at his door. Her torn bra and the
scratch on her ear might be enough to get him arrested or at least questioned.
Again not good for the rep.
One more
alternative. His sister, a nurse at Texas Medical Center. She might have a drug
stash. She lived way up the Central Tollway, north of the LBJ. It would take
half an hour, but she’d be with him, if things got worse.
Jennifer
was the only reason he stayed in Texas. Whenever her brother got knocked down,
she was there to pick him up. His mom chased gigolos in exotic lands. Dad had
returned to Britain after churning money in Houston. England had been the low
point of Tony’s life. Boys at Harrow, sons of earls and MPs, had teased him
without mercy about his hand and ineptitude at sports. More than one had pulled
his pants down and bent him over. College in Houston was better only because he
knew nobody and kept to himself.
He managed
to hit the number for Jennifer on his phone. Voice mail. More crap burbled up
into his throat, scaring him. He wasn't able to choke out a message. He could
drive there anyway, but if she wasn't home it would be a waste of time.
The
downstairs lights went off in Kristen’s townhouse. She was going to bed while
he flirted with death. The thought of hiring some gangbangers to rape her in a
parking garage floated by. Squeezing off a clip from the Beretta he kept in the
glove box sounded like fun. Right through her living room window, but he would
be suspect number one, since he’d flapped about his hot date to everyone in the
firm. Too bad.
He tapped
the gear paddle into drive, still unsure what to do, where to go. Sometime
between blows he had figured out she was just using him to get info -- likely
been told by Pete McGee to go out with him. Polite rejection would not have
been surprising. She had every incentive to string him along, but why go raving
nuts over a little tit-grabbing? "Little" certainly applied to the
bitch. An A cup for sure, though she had nice erect nips. She had looked like a
crazy Amazon warrior, all buff and topless. The image and the sound replayed in
his head caused a shiver along his spine.
He decided
to head home. Call it a temporary setback. Two hundred bucks down the drain.
He’d taken the bitch to the Mansion on Turtle Creek, had bragged to the guys at
the firm about his anticipated conquest. And it had been quite a boast, since
nobody he knew had had any luck with the standoffish, loner Kristen Kerry.
Assuaging a twinge of guilt, he assured himself the lonely girl would’ve been
disappointed if he hadn’t tried something.
From his
firm, Tony only got trash nobody wanted to do. Kristen had already made partner
at McGee’s. She tried cases on her own. She was a rising star. But Caswell
figured she had sucked her way to success and was too stupid to appreciate his
sophistication. Tony doubted she’d even been to Paris, let alone lived on the Left
Bank. Still, if things had sparked, it would have been a coup to have Kristen
next to him in the bars frequented by lawyers after work.
He loosed a
half-smile. Had Tony seduced Kristen, the joke would have been on her. Although
he was the senior assigned associate on the case, Tony had no idea about
Stern’s plans on Layne. Stern treated him like a dog begging for scraps,
blocking his partnership.
Caswell had
noticed Stern eyeballing Kristen at the first Layne hearing, licking his
chops. That over-dressed redneck thought getting laid as important as winning
the case. If Stern nailed Kristen, Tony would be humiliated. Glancing at his
deformed hand, he wished he was Stern -- tall, rugged, and confident.
He coughed
up coffee and stomach acid he’d already aspirated. Crap, his chest hurt. Like
somebody had performed an esophagus exam with barbed wire. Maybe he should get
to a hospital.
Tony pushed
the car faster. He tried to concentrate on something other than his distress.
Perhaps the Layne case offered the opportunity to hammer both Stern and Kristen
without risk to him. A crushing loss would take the shine off their careers.
Feed inside information to the plaintiff’s lawyer? Or he could even conduct his
own investigation into the disastrous night Brook Layne spent at Adventist
Hospital. Dr. Galway’s story made no sense, although obviously Kristen’s nurses
were guilty. They had put Layne in a coma by their negligence. But he had
practiced law long enough to know not to believe your own client.
He made it
another mile when the burn in his balls worsened. He hadn’t thought that
possible. His bladder demanded relief. Tony pulled behind a dark Safeway.
Unable to get out -- at least not quickly -- he rotated in the driver’s seat
and eased the zipper down on his slacks. His crotch screamed. He aimed just
outside the door frame. The first squirt felt like a red-hot nail driven up his
urethra. To his horror, piss streamed a dull red.
Shit. I could lose my testicles.
Caswell
hacked another blob of gunk, zipped up, swiveled back in, slammed the car door,
and tapped the shifter. Despite the torment in his crotch -- or maybe because
of it -- he jammed the accelerator and sped for Methodist.
He’d read
every Raymond Chandler and Agatha Christie story. The perfect murder long
intrigued him. He often thought he would’ve made a great detective, strolling
the streets of 1930 L.A. or the villages of Devon.
Every
criminal makes a stupid mistake. One stupid mistake that gets him caught.
But Tony
was smart.
About the Author
Steve
Clark has practiced medical law for over thirty years. He is a Fellow of the American College of Trial Lawyers and
listed in Best Lawyers in America.
Steve was
an English and history major at the University of Oklahoma, where he also earned
his law degree. “I’ve always been a voracious
reader and lover of books that I buy faster then I can read them.” The author
has attended the Book Passage Mystery Writers Conference in Marin County and
taken writing classes at the University of Central
Oklahoma and Rose State College.
Steve is currently working on the next two books in the Kristen Kerry
suspense series.
His latest book is the suspense novel, JUSTICE
IS FOR THE LONELY.
For
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