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Amazon.com Review

Amazon Exclusive: Daniel Silva on Writing _ Portrait of a Spy_ with a Pencil

While on book tour, I’ve been surprised to find that readers are fascinated by how writers actually write. Most readers hold in their mind an idealized image of the novelist at work—a figure in a trendy urban coffeehouse, a solitary figure walking along an empty beach. The truth, however, is seldom so romantic.

Before going any further, let us stipulate that, much like the hero of my novels, the art restorer and spy Gabriel Allon, I am something of a creature of habit. I work seven days a week, from early in the morning until six thirty in the evening, when I stop to watch the evening news. My work clothing never varies: gray sweatpants by Russell Athletic, a long-sleeve T-shirt by L.L. Bean, fleece Acorn moccasins, and discount cotton socks from Marks & Spencer in England. Occasionally, visitors to our house will catch a glimpse of this outfit, but, for the most part, my wife and children tend to shield me from public view. As a rule, I don’t answer the telephone—unless it is a family emergency of some sort—and I don’t read e-mail. I nibble rather than eat. Portrait of a Spy, like all the Gabriel Allon novels, was fueled largely by McVitie’s digestive biscuits.

I have a computer, of course, but I really do most of my actual writing in longhand, on yellow legal pads. I prefer to work while lying on the floor rather than at my desk. This annoys my wife because she took a great deal of time and effort to have a desk custom made to fit my office. When I showed her a photograph of Muriel Spark, one of her literary heroes, writing in longhand stretched across a floor, she was only partially mollified. Sometimes we talk about living somewhere other than Georgetown. Secretly, the very idea terrifies me. After writing 14 books in the same room of the same house, I am afraid I have lost the ability to work anywhere else.

As for my writing instrument of choice, it is unquestionably the pencil. There is something about the sound it makes scratching across the page that, for me, is the essence of composition. The pencil is the antithesis of all things cyber and e, a means of returning, however briefly, to a world that is unconnected and unwired. A pad and pencil do not freeze or crash. There are no viruses or error messages. If a thunderstorm knocks out the power, the words will still be there when the lights come on again. And then, there is the satisfying natural rhythm of the work itself—the turning of the completed page, the sharpening of the dulled point, the fortnightly disposal of the fluffy wooden shavings.

Lately, I have been hoarding pencils. I’m not sure precisely when it began; I suspect it had something to do with the death of the typewriter. An irrational fear gripped me, a fear that pencils were next. If the typewriter could go extinct, how could the lowly, environmentally hostile pencil possibly hope to survive in the brave new world? I now order my favorite brand—the Paper Mate Mirado Black Warrior No. 2—by the case. I am reasonably confident I now have enough pencils on hand to see me through the next several novels—though, if I happen to misplace a pencil, I will search the house thoroughly before removing a new one from its special drawer and sharpening it for the first time. To sharpen a virgin pencil is, in a sense, to commit an act of assisted suicide. It saddens me.

I wish it were not so. I wish I could write on a computer while traveling on an airplane or sitting in a strange hotel room, but I cannot. I have become a prisoner of my office. I need my floor, and my Mirado Black Warrior No. 2 pencils, and my McVitie’s digestive biscuits. I hoard them, too. I keep them on a special shelf in the storage room, next to my socks from Marks & Spencer.

Copyright © Daniel Silva 2011. All Rights Reserved.

Product Description

Gabriel Allon has been hailed as the most compelling creation since “Ian Fleming put down his martini and invented James Bond” (_Rocky Mountain News_). A man with a deep appreciation for all that is beautiful, Gabriel is also an angel of vengeance, an international operative who will stop at nothing to see justice done. Sometimes he must journey far in search of evil. And sometimes evil comes to him.

In a dangerous world, one extraordinary woman can mean the difference between life and death. . . .

For Gabriel and his wife, Chiara, it was supposed to be the start of a pleasant weekend in London—a visit to a gallery in St. James’s to authenticate a newly discovered painting by Titian, followed by a quiet lunch. But a pair of deadly bombings in Paris and Copenhagen has already marred this autumn day. And while walking toward Covent Garden, Gabriel notices a man he believes is about to carry out a third attack. Before Gabriel can draw his weapon, he is knocked to the pavement and can only watch as the nightmare unfolds.

Haunted by his failure to stop the massacre of innocents, Gabriel returns to his isolated cottage on the cliffs of Cornwall, until a summons brings him to Washington and he is drawn into a confrontation with the new face of global terror. At the center of the threat is an American-born cleric in Yemen to whom Allah has granted “a beautiful and seductive tongue.” A gifted deceiver, who was once a paid CIA asset, the mastermind is plotting a new wave of attacks.

Gabriel and his team devise a daring plan to destroy the network of death from the inside, a gambit fraught with risk, both personal and professional. To succeed, Gabriel must reach into his violent past. A woman waits there—a reclusive heiress and art collector who can traverse the murky divide between Islam and the West. She is the daughter of an old enemy, a woman joined to Gabriel by a trail of blood. . . .

Set against the disparate worlds of art and intelligence, Portrait of a Spy moves swiftly from the corridors of power in Washington to the glamorous auction houses of New York and London to the unforgiving landscape of the Saudi desert. Featuring a climax that will leave readers haunted long after they turn the final page, this deeply entertaining story is also a breathtaking portrait of courage in the face of unspeakable evil—and Daniel Silva’s most extraordinary novel to date.

About the Author

A former news reporter and retired private detective, Linnea Sinclair has managed to use all her college degrees (journalism and criminology) but hasn't soothed the yearning in her soul to travel the galaxy. To that end she's authored several science fiction and fantasy novels, including Finders Keepers, GABRIEL'S GHOST and An Accidental Goddess (all of which Spectra will reprint). When not on duty with some intergalactic fleet she can be found in Fort Lauderdale, Florida with her husband and their two thoroughly spoiled cats.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

Only fools boast they have no fears. I thought of that as I pulled the blade of my dagger from the Takan guard's throat, my hand shaking, my heart pounding in my ears, my skin cold from more than just the chill in the air. The last rays of light from the setting sun filtered through the tall trees around me. It flickered briefly on the dark gold blood that bubbled from the wound, staining the Taka's coarse fur. I felt a sliminess between my fingers and saw that same ochre stain on my skin.

"Shit!" I jerked my hand back. My dagger tumbled to the rock-strewn ground. A stupid reaction for someone with my training. It wasn't as if I'd never killed another sentient being before, but it had been more than five years. And then, at least, it had carried the respectable label of military action.

This time it was pure survival.

It took me a few minutes to find my blade wedged in between the moss-covered rocks. After more than a decade on interstellar patrol ships, my eyes had problems adjusting to variations in natural light. Shades of grays and greens, muddied by Moabar's twilight sky, merged into seamless shadows. I'd never have found my only weapon if I hadn't pricked my fingers on the point. Red human blood mingled with Takan gold. I wiped the blade against my pants before letting it mold itself back around my wrist. It flowed into the form of a simple silver bracelet.

"A Grizni dagger, is it?"

I spun into a half crouch, my right hand grasping the bracelet. Quickly it uncoiled again--almost as quickly as I'd sucked in a harsh, rasping breath. The distinctly masculine voice had come from the thick stand of trees in front of me. But in the few seconds it took me to straighten, he could be anywhere. It looked like tonight's agenda held a second attempt at rape and murder. Or completion of the first. That would make more sense. Takan violence against humans was rare enough that the guard's aggression had taken me--almost--by surprise. But if a human prison official had ordered him . . . that, given Moabar's reputation, would fit only too well.

I tuned out my own breathing. Instead, I listened to the hushed rustle of the thick forest around me and, farther away, the guttural roar of a shuttle departing the prison's spaceport. I watched for movement. Murky shadows, black-edged yet ill defined, taunted me. I'd have sold my soul then and there for a nightscope and a fully charged laser pistol.

But I had neither of those. Just a sloppily manipulated court martial and a life sentence without parole. And, of course, a smuggled Grizni dagger that the Takan guard had discovered a bit too late to report.

My newest assailant, unfortunately, was already forewarned.

"Let's not cause any more trouble, okay?" My voice sounded thin in the encroaching darkness. I wondered what had happened to that "tone of command" Fleet regs had insisted we adopt. It had obviously taken one look at the harsh prison world of Moabar and decided it preferred to reside elsewhere. I didn't blame it. I only wished I had the same choice.

I drew a deep breath. "If I'm on your grid, I'm leaving. Wasn't my intention to be here," I added, feeling that was probably the understatement of the century. "And if he," I said with a nod to the large body sprawled to my right, "was your partner, then I'm sorry. But I wasn't in the mood."

A brittle snap started my heart pounding again. My hand felt as slick against the smooth metal of the dagger as if the Taka's blood still ran down its surface. The sound was on my right, beyond where the Taka lay. Only a fool would try to take me over the lifeless barrier at my feet.

The first of Moabar's three moons had risen in the hazy night sky. I glimpsed a flicker of movement, then saw him step out of the shadows just as the clouds cleared away from the moon. His face was hidden, distorted. But I clearly saw the distinct shape of a short-barreled rifle propped against his shoulder. That, and the fact that he appeared humanoid, told me he wasn't a prison guard. Energy weapons were banned on Moabar. Most of the eight-foot-tall Takas didn't need them, anyway.

The man before me was tall, but not eight feet. Nor did his dark jacket glisten with official prison insignia. Another con, then. Possession of the rifle meant he had off-world sources.

I took a step back as he approached. His pace was casual, as if he were just taking his gun out for a moonlit stroll. He prodded the dead guard with the tip of the rifle, then squatted down and ran one hand over the guard's work vest as if checking for a weapon, or perhaps life signs. I could have told him the guard had neither. "Perhaps I should've warned him about you," he said, rising. "Captain Chasidah Bergren. Pride of the Sixth Fleet. One dangerous woman. But, oh, I forgot. You're not a captain anymore."

With a chill I recognized the mocking tone, the cultured voice. And suddenly the dead guard and the rifle were the least of my problems. I breathed a name in disbelief. "Sullivan! This is impossible. You're dead--"

"Well, if I'm dead, then so are you." His mirthless laugh was as soft as footsteps on a grave. "Welcome to Hell, Captain. Welcome to Hell."

We found two fallen trees, hunkered down, and stared at each other, each waiting for the other to make a move. It was just like old times. Except there was the harsh glow of his lightbar between us, not the blackness of space.

"I never pegged you for an easy kill," I told him. Which was true. The reports of his death two years ago had actually surprised me more than his reappearance just now. I balanced the dagger in my hand, not yet content to let it wrap itself around my wrist. "When I heard what happened at Garno, I didn't buy it." I shrugged and pushed aside what else I'd thought, and felt, when I'd heard the news. My feelings about the death of a known mercenary and smuggler mattered little anymore.

He seemed to hear my unspoken comment. "It wasn't planned to fool anyone with a modicum of intelligence. Only the government. And, of course, their newshounds. But tell me the news of my passing pained
you," he continued, dropping his voice to a well-remembered low rumble, "and I'll do my best to assuage your fears."

A muted boom sounded in the distance, rattling through the forest. Another shuttle arriving, breaking the sound barrier on descent. He turned toward it, so I was spared answering what I knew to be a jibe. Regardless, I had no intention of telling him about my pain.

Patches of light and shadow moved over his face. Sullivan's profile had always been strong, aristocratic, dominating the Imperial police bulletins and Fleet patrol advisories. He had his father's lean jawline, his mother's thick dark hair. Both were more than famous in their own right, but not for the same reasons as Sully. They'd been members of the Empire's elite; he was simply elusive.

The lightbar reached full power. It was almost like shiplight, crisp and clear. He turned back to me, his lips curved in a wry smile, as if he knew I'd been studying him.

He'd aged since I last saw him, about six months before his highly publicized demise. The thick, short-cropped black hair was sprinkled with silver. The dark eyes had more lines at the corners. The mouth still claimed its share of arrogance, though--as if he knew he'd always be one handsome bastard.

All the more reason to ignore his attempt at taunting me. His existence had been far more troublesome to me than his purported passing. "What went down on Garno? You cut a deal?" Moabar or death had been offered to a lot of people, but not to me. Most chose death. I hadn't had that luxury.

He snorted and raised the rifle almost to my nose. "What's this look like? How long have you been here, three weeks?"

I knew what it was. Illegal. Damn difficult to come by. A rifle didn't wrap around your wrist like my dagger, or fit in the sole of a boot.

A thought chilled me. Maybe the Taka weren't the only guards the prison authorities used.

"Yeah, three weeks, two days, and seventeen hours. Time flies, you know." I held his gaze evenly. His eyes were dark, like pieces of obsidian, unreadable. "That's a Norlack 473 rifle. Sniper model. Modified, it appears, to handle illegal wide-load slash charges."

He laughed. "On point as ever, Bergren. Dedicated captain of a peashooter squad out in no-man's land. Keeping those freighters safe from dangerous pirates like me. And even when they damn you and ship you here, every inch of you still belongs to Fleet Ops." He shook his head. "Your mama wore army boots, and so do you."

"What do you want, Sully?" I jerked my chin toward the dead Taka. "You cleaning up after him? Or finishing what he didn't?"

He turned the rifle in his hands. "This isn't prison stock. This is contraband, wasn't that how your orders phrased it? Stolen. Modified." He paused and pinned me intently with his obsidian gaze. "Mine."

We'd had conversations like this before--me, on the bridge of my small patrol ship. He'd be on the bridge of the Boru Karn, his pilot and bridge crew flickering in and out of the shadows behind him. He rarely answered anything directly. He threw words at you, phrases, like hints to a puzzle he'd taunt you to solve. Or like free-form poetry, the kind that always sounded better after a few beers. He loved to play with words.

I didn't. "Okay. So no deal was cut and you're not working for the Ministry of Corrections. Don't tell me you've added Moabar to your vacation plans?"
He laughed again, more easily this time. But not easily enough for me to put my dagger back around my wrist.

"A resort for the suicidal but faint of heart? Don't bother to slit your own throat, we'll do it for you." H...

About the Author

Winner of the prestigious national book award, the RITA, science fiction romance author Linnea Sinclair has become a name synonymous for high-action, emotionally intense, character-driven novels. Reviewers note that Sinclair’s novels “have the wow-factor in spades,” earning her accolades from both the science fiction and romance communities. A former news reporter and retired private detective, Sinclair resides in Naples, Florida with her husband, Robert Bernadino, and their two thoroughly spoiled cats.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

*Chapter One

SHIP'S GYMNASIUM, TRIAD HUNTERSHIP VAXXAR*

"Captain, we have a problem."

It took a moment for Sass, toweling the sweat off her face, to acknowledge the comment voiced by the tall woman striding down the locker room aisle toward her, her black and tan Alliance uniform partly obscured by a blue lab coat, her shoulder-length blond hair uncharacteristically mussed.

Captain. Gods' blessed rumps, after five and a half months of being called "commander," she finally had her rank back. That was the only good news Admiral Branden Kel-Paten gave out during the senior staff meeting earlier–though the definition of "captain" on board the Vaxxar was, in Sass's opinion, still up for grabs.

However, Sass had a feeling that the admiral's announcement–at that same meeting–of the Vaxxar's departure from Lightridge Station within the hour was solely responsible for the grim expression on Doc Eden Fynn's face.

"You've given Lightridge some decent leads–"

"Leads?" Eden came to a halt in front of her, then flung her arms wide in exasperation, narrowly missing smacking her hand on a metal locker door. "People are dying of fright in the space lanes, Tasha. No one knows how or why. And now we have eighty-seven more dead bodies exhibiting abnormally high levels of dopamine and serotonin."

The deaths on the freighter Degun's Luck were the sixth such incident in Triadian space in the past four months. Lightridge had promptly alerted Alliance HQ, requesting a forensic medical team. The Vaxxar, chasing down reports of an Illithian mother ship in the sector, had been diverted to Lightridge, pending the team's arrival. But only temporarily.

Sass draped the towel around her neck. Three of the dead were Zingarans, Eden's people. That only made the incident worse for the CMO. "The med team from HQ arrives in ten hours. They're best equipped to handle this. We're a huntership, Eden. We need to be out there stopping the Illithians from breaching our borders, not sitting on station performing autopsies."

Eden didn't seem to hear her. "I'm the only empathic doctor to come on scene in the first thirty hours after one of these incidents. There are still emanations. But I need time to work with them. Only now he pulls us off Lightridge. All because some damned pirate-turned-informant decided to go on an unscheduled vacation!"

"That damned pirate was gathering intelligence on the Illithians," Sass pointed out. "HQ and the admiral feel it's imperative we locate him." Border breaches and a missing undercover operative did not make for a happy Admiral Kel-Paten. Sass figured that was why he denied Eden's request to stay behind on Lightridge. He needed Eden's expertise when they captured Jace Serafino. Sass just wasn't sure if he was referring to Eden's empathic talents in discerning falsehoods or her medical ones in putting Serafino back together after the admiral wiped the floor with him. Their mutual animosity went back years.

It was years as well since Sass had seen Serafino. He was a charming rogue, always hip-deep in some kind of trouble. According to the staff briefing, he had changed little.

But Tasha Sebastian–the woman Serafino knew as Lady Sass–had changed. Though she prayed he wouldn't remember her. She didn't need Admiral Edmonds's warning ringing in her mind to know that there were parts of her past that the Triad–and especially Kel-Paten–must never know.

"Since he won't grant the medical investigation critical-mission status," Eden was saying, "then I'm asking for a two-week leave of absence. It would take me only six hours to get back there by shuttle."

They were still in the inner-system lanes and at sublight speed. A shuttle launch would slow them down twenty, thirty minutes at most.

If Kel-Paten agreed to it. And he might, if Sass couched it in the proper terms. For all of Kel-Paten's aggravating qualities–and they were legion–he encouraged her input. Sass enjoyed testing the depths of his cybernetically perfected mind. His cybernetically perfect form wasn't half bad either, she grudgingly admitted. Except for his attitude and that damned perpetual scowl . . .

But she'd brave that for Eden, even though she wasn't thrilled with the idea of losing her CMO–and closest friend–for two weeks. "Let me see what I can do." Her comm link trilled as if to punctuate her words. It took her a moment to find it under her towel, clipped to the neck of her pink workout shirt. "Sebastian."

"My office. Five minutes." The admiral's familiar deep voice brooked no argument. She wondered what crisis he uncovered–again–to occupy what was left of her free time.

But, hell, she'd just agreed to talk to him on Eden's behalf.

"By your command, sir." Sass clicked off the link and caught Eden's wry grin. "What?"

"Good shirt."

Sass looked down. My name's No, No, Bad Captain! What's Yours? was clearly visible now that she'd removed her towel. She grinned back as she tossed the towel into a nearby hamper, remembering the day her officers on the Regalia gave her the pink T-shirt. Remembering more the wide-eyed expression on Kel-Paten's face the first time he saw her wearing it as she left the Vax's gym. Gods, she so enjoyed rattling his cage.

"Want to try double-teaming him?" she asked, heading for the door.

Eden fell into step with her. "He can dock my pay for the cost of the shuttle fuel if–"

The red-alert sirens erupted as the corridor doors slid open, stopping Eden in mid-sentence.

Damn. What now? Sass flicked on her comm link. "Sebastian to bridge. Status, Mister Rembert."

"Incoming interstellar thermal wave. Eight-point-two on the Graslan scale. McAbian residue readings–"

"On my way! Sebastian out."

Sass bolted down the wide gray corridor for the lifts, her heart pounding. She didn't have to hear the residue reading figures. An 8.2 Graslan wave was more than enough to tear a huntership the size of the Vaxxar apart.

Oh, gods. Tank. She stepped into the lift, gave the command for the bridge deck, and tapped her comm link again. "Sebastian to captain's quarters. Tank. Kennel, now!"

She knew her voice would sound in her quarters. She prayed her black and white fidget wasn't sleeping so deeply he couldn't hear it. No, he'd be awake. The sirens would have accomplished that. Chances were good he'd clambered into the small safety pod even before she barked out the order. The pod was rigged to dispense one of his favorite treats when it sensed his presence inside. The fidget might not understand emergencies, but he was never one to miss a meal.

"Bridge," the tinny autovoice announced.

She lunged out of the lift, almost colliding with a tall, dark-haired man in a black Triad uniform. Kel-Paten. He slanted her one of his infamous scowls before guiding her through the double sliding doors that led to the upper level of the bridge.

The two-tiered, U-shaped command center of the huntership was already frenzied with activity, black-uniformed senior officers moving efficiently from station to station, specialists glued to their chairs but swiveling quickly as new information downloaded to a nearby screen. Voices were terse, commands clipped. Every screen streamed with data.

Kel-Paten released her arm. "You're out of uniform."

She was also off duty, but the possibility they were at death's door prevented her from reminding him of that fact. She offered him a brief "noted" as she headed for the closest scanner station to check incoming data.

What Sass saw on the screens wasn't pretty, but they had time. Five, maybe ten minutes to try some fancy dancing that could either save their lives or send them to their graves in infinitesimal pieces. She glanced over her shoulder. Kel-Paten slid into the left command seat. She watched as, with a practiced familiarity, he thumbed open a small panel covering the dataport in the armrest and linked into the ship's systems through the interface built into his wrist. He frowned slightly, then his eyes flared with that eerie, luminous hue that signaled his cyber systems were at full power. He was spiked in, as much a part of the huge huntership as the drives, scanners, and bulkheads.

Except, unlike the drives, scanners, and bulkheads, he could talk.

She turned back to her console, knowing he could hear her just as well from there as if she were seated next to him.

"Admiral, my data shows a major energy disturbance at oh-five-seven-point-four."

"Oh-five-seven-point-four-three-two," the voice through her comm link stated. "No damage from preliminary residual shock waves. Ship integrity is sound. Secondary waves–"

"Damn!" Sass swore as she was thrust abruptly sideways. She clung to the wide console with both hands and considered sitting down and strapping in.

"Forward shields down to eighty-five percent," a crewmember's voice announced below her.

She opted to remain standing, working at the console. Kel-Paten was no doubt eons ahead of her calculations in his inner journey through the data, but he looked for the known, correlating and synthesizing, while she looked for the unexplainable. Granted, his cybernetically enhanced thought processes were a million times faster than hers, but he was linear, where her analysis tended to do pirouettes and somersaults.

"Tell me what we don't have, Kel-Paten," she said tersely under her breath, forgetting for a moment that–spiked in–he could hear her. The huntership shuddered as ano...

Amazon.com Review

Getting military sci-fi right is tricky. As with any genre fiction, there are certain rules to be followed. When you pick up a book with a cover depicting a sword-wielding Roman-type firing a primitive cannon under the shadow of a swirling nebula, you have certain expectations and woe unto any author who fails to meet them. Fortunately, S.M. Stirling and David Drake are both decorated vets (Stirling for the bestselling Anne McCaffrey collaboration The City Who Fought and Drake for the well-loved Hammer's Slammers series, about "the meanest bunch of mercs who ever nuked a world for pay.")

The Reformer continues their Raj Whitehall series, with its intriguing schtick of the cloned consciousnesses of a military commander (Raj) and a battle computer (Center) becoming voices in the head of a would-be hero on a primitive world who is trying to coax humanity back--one planet at a time--to the level of progress it had acheived before a crippling galactic civil war. In The Reformer, Raj and Center are guiding a clever, scrappy philosopher named Adrian and his studly soldier brother Esmond, helping them introduce gunpowder and civic order (eventually) to the quasi-Roman civilization on Hafardine. Fast-paced, but not quite as meaty as earlier installments in the series, Reformer still gets the job done with believable battle scenes and knowing descriptions of early weapons and technology. --Paul Hughes

From Publishers Weekly

Military SF experts Stirling and Drake move into hardcover for the seventh entry in their General series (The Chosen, etc.), about soldier-statesman Raj Whitehall and the sentient computer, Center, influencing the course of civilization in a far-future galaxy. This time, the discarnate minds of man and machine do their good work on a planet that has regressed to a level of technology resembling that of the Roman Empire; there's even an equivalent to Rome (Vanbert), which has conquered the local version of Greece (Emerald, with its capital of Solinga standing in for Athens). Aided by Whitehall and Center, Adrian Gellert, a Solingian law clerk working in Vanbert, becomes involved in a rebellion, along with his warrior brother, Esmond. Before they have to flee, they introduce gunpowder grenades to Vanbert. They also equip King Casull of the Isles with arquebuses, cannon and steam-driven ironclad rams. The climax, occupying a third of the novel, involves the Islanders' assault on Vanbert's coastal city of Preble, and is told with the knowledge of military tactics and hardware, and the vividly described action, that readers expect from Stirling and Drake. There's not much originality on display here, and the ending is indecisive, but devotees of military SF should enjoy themselves nonetheless.
Copyright 1999 Reed Business Information, Inc.

From Publishers Weekly

This lucid and moving sequel to Expert Testimony explores racial tension and litigation in an Arkansas town.
Copyright 1993 Reed Business Information, Inc.

From Library Journal

Arkansas lawyer Gideon Page returns ( Expert Testimony , Summit Bks., dist. by S. & S., 1991) as defender of a likable and sophisticated black psychologist accused of murdering his white lover's retarded child during electroshock therapy. Interracial love, child abuse, and family secrets add volatility to the case and send Page scurrying for mitigating evidence; meanwhile, he worries about solo practice, true love, and middle age. Courtroom tactics, case details, and legal explanations flesh out this steadily involving drama for legal eagles.
Copyright 1992 Reed Business Information, Inc.

Review

"Grif Stockley Delivers Another Gripping Thriller that is rich with humor, local color (accentuated now that our president comes from that state), vivid characterization and intrigue."

-- Mostly Murder

"Very Difficult To Put Down...

Told with a keen sense of humor, the book is both a cleverly crafted detective yarn and a touching nontraditional love story."

-- Business First

"Involving...The ethical and religious dilemmas are well handled."

-- Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine -- Review

Product Description

From the author of Probable Cause and Expert Testimony comes a new spine-tingling legal thriller. Arkansas attorney Gideon Page takes on a murder trial that involves the hot issue of religious fundamentalism. HC: Simon & Schuster.