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Interpreting Guilt: A Gripping Triple-Case Legal Thriller (Small Town Lawyer Book 3)

“It’d be easier if we could find some way of proving that couple lied.” The couple I was referring to had been down under the bridge,…

cheating on their spouses, when the crash occurred. They’d both identified my client as the driver. “Unless they were wearing night-vision goggles,” Terri said, “I don’t see how they could be sure from that far away.” “When they heard the kids’ names,” I said, “I’m sure their memories got real clear all of a sudden.” Three boys and a girl had gone boating that night. Only two of the boys had come back, and only one of them—the one who was not my client—was the son of the circuit solicitor. The prosecutor, in other words. The man in charge of meting out justice over all six counties and 3,400 square miles of our judicial circuit. The Ludlow name went a long way in these parts. We walked on, silent. I could hear the water lapping on the shore. Terri must’ve sensed my mood, because her voice was gentle when she asked, “You getting used to it yet? Being on the wrong side of the law all the time?” We rounded a stand of palmettos, and I saw, a ways off yet, the yellow-lit windows of the crab shack. Ten or twelve people were inside enjoying themselves. “I’m not on the wrong side of the law,” I said. To me, the law was a higher order, better than all of us. But I knew what she meant. I’d spent most of my adult life as a prosecutor up in Charleston, until my own failings had cost me that career, and the only way to keep my son and myself afloat was to move back to my dirt-cheap hometown and turn to criminal defense. “I guess what I’m on the wrong side of now is the lawman.” “Mm. Well, you know, down here, that’s the same thing.”

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