Susan Sorella is a tough criminal defense lawyer in Boston. She doesnât always play by the rules. The FBI agents and cops pitted against her donât either. When danger threatens, she calls on her friend Boston mob boss Frank Romano for reinforcements.
Susanâs client is facing first degree murder charges for the death of a major league baseball umpire. Witnesses say the defendant objected to calls against the Red Sox and screamed âKill the Ump!â Not uncommon in Boston bars, but nasty evidence when the murder weapon is found in the defendantâs garage. He has no alibi because heâs suffering from dissociative amnesia for the night of the murder. To make things worse, Susan starts falling for the good-looking homicide detective in charge of the case, saddling her with an ethical dilemma.
Bodies pile up while Susan follows a dangerous trail through the streets of Boston and along the beaches of Tampa Bay, hunting for someone else who might have pulled the trigger. She unearths a steroid conspiracy that might be linked to major league baseball, but on the eve of trial she still doesnât have a suspect other than her client to offer to the jury.
Susan Sorella is a tough criminal defense lawyer in Boston. She doesnât always play by the rules. The FBI agents and cops pitted against her donât either. When danger threatens, she calls on her friend Boston mob boss Frank Romano for reinforcements.
Susanâs client is facing first degree murder charges for the death of a major league baseball umpire. Witnesses say the defendant objected to calls against the Red Sox and screamed âKill the Ump!â Not uncommon in Boston bars, but nasty evidence when the murder weapon is found in the defendantâs garage. He has no alibi because heâs suffering from dissociative amnesia for the night of the murder. To make things worse, Susan starts falling for the good-looking homicide detective in charge of the case, saddling her with an ethical dilemma.
Bodies pile up while Susan follows a dangerous trail through the streets of Boston and along the beaches of Tampa Bay, hunting for someone else who might have pulled the trigger. She unearths a steroid conspiracy that might be linked to major league baseball, but on the eve of trial she still doesnât have a suspect other than her client to offer to the jury.
Attorney Susan Sorellaâs freshly ironed white blouse stuck to her back as she hurried to the courthouse.
Her boss had given Susan her first felony to try. It was the third day of jury deliberations, a sunny day in early July, and past time for a verdict. She needed a not guilty.
At the food truck in front of the Boston Superior Court building, the barista with the handlebar mustache and upcycled apron served her a latte. She took a couple of sips, poured out the rest, tossed the cup in a trash bin, and made for the door. For once there was no line at the metal detector. Susan dropped her bag on the conveyor belt, flashed her bar card at the officer, hustled through the machine, and strode to the elevator.
Upstairs, Susan found an unoccupied bench in the corridor. She spread her files and briefcase beside her so she could have it to herself. She stared across at the blank wall and replayed the evidence from the trial in her mind for the hundredth time.
At a convenience store in Dorchester late at night, a man in a Joker mask stormed up to the counter, yanked a pistol out of his pants, and fired three shots into the cigarette display. Tobacco flew everywhere. In a matter of seconds, he was out the door with the cash from the register. Despite the mask, the Vietnamese clerk sat in the witness box and pointed his finger at Sullivan as the perp. He claimed he could identify the defendant from the sound of his voice and the way he walked. The cops didnât find the mask or any money in the defendantâs apartment. His mother testified he was watching TV with her at the time of the robbery. Not the best alibi, but something. Mom, a plain woman in her fifties with gray hair and a heavy Boston accent, made a good impression on the witness stand.
Susan had put the likelihood of the jury buying the ID at less than the chance the lottery ticket in her purse would pay off. Sullivan was dumb enough to rob a store where he was a frequent customer, but the jury didnât know that. Susan kept him off the stand so his nerves wouldnât give him the jitters. Jittery defendants looked guilty. He had a record, but since he didnât testify the jury didnât find out about that. They should have been back quickly with a not guilty. Instead, theyâd been talking for three days. Something must have gone wrong. Susan closed her eyes. She pictured the jury returning to the box, the foreman standing and in a deep baritone declaring, âWe find the defendant guilty as charged.â She shook her head to drive the thought away.
There arenât many ways a lawyer can occupy herself while waiting for a verdict. None that work well. Susan carried recent court decisions she needed to catch up with in her briefcase. Today she couldnât get past the first page. Her heart and soul were in limbo waiting for the jury to return.
The day dragged on. Susan grabbed a croissant from the bakery around the corner for lunch then went back to waiting in the deserted corridor. At four in the afternoon, her boss Jane Friley came barreling down the hall, her hair flying from side to side, huffing and puffing. She took a few seconds before speaking.
âLetâs go,â she gasped. âThe clerk didnât realize you were here and called the office to say the jury had a verdict.â
Susanâs heart sank. It was over. Waiting there, sheâd held out hope the verdict would go her way. Now a certainty that the jury had found her client guilty drove all confidence from her mind. She stumbled through the courtroom door in a fog of trepidation, as though she were entering the hospital room of a terminal patient. Jane took her elbow and steered her to the defense table.
The court officers arrived with Sullivan and removed his handcuffs. He wore the same cheap gray suit heâd dressed in for the entire trial, wrinkled and soiled from conditions in the lockup. He looked at Susan.
âThey say that when the juryâs out a long time itâs good for the defense.â
She tried to look hopeful. âLetâs hope theyâre right.â
The prosecutor glanced at Susan. He gave her a smug smile look that said he had the case all buttoned up, just like his new Brooks Brothers suit. She sat up straight and nodded back, no smile. Bile rose in her throat. Sheâd never fully understood what dread was until this moment. She mustâve messed up. There were questions she failed to ask. Arguments she overlooked. She didnât even know whether Sullivan had robbed the store. Sheâd never asked him. It wasnât supposed to matter. She thought she could get a not guilty whether heâd done it or not. Now he was going to prison. Her fault. She wanted to start over. A second take. They didnât give you that chance.
The jurors filed in slowly. None of them looked at the defense table. That was a bad sign. Their faces were grim. Susan looked at Mrs. Johnson, Juror No. 9 in the second row. Middle-aged lady in a lavender dress. A clerk at Bloomingdaleâs in the suburbs. Susan had almost rejected her as a juror. But the woman had smiled at Susan all during jury selection and had been carrying a book. Readers were supposed to be good jurors for the defense. How about a smile now? A nod? Nothing. No way to tell what she was thinking.
The judge took the bench and wasted no time. âMembers of the jury, the bailiff informs me that you have a verdict. Is that correct?â
The foreman, a lanky young Black man dressed in a khaki sport coat over a black t-shirt and chinos, stood up. âYes, Your Honor.â He held out a slip of paper. Susan tried to read his face. Nothing.
The clerk retrieved the verdict form and brought it to the bench. The judge scanned it and looked up, frowning.
âMr. Foreman, what say you? On the charge of robbery while armed, is the defendant guilty or not guilty?â
The foreman hesitated. Susan found herself taking Sullivanâs elbow to reassure him. She didnât much like this guy. He had a reputation as a mean bastard. He was crude and more than once had made remarks suggesting he wasnât happy with a woman lawyer. He had six other cases pending. If he didnât go down on this one, heâd go down on something. Still, he was her client.
âNot guilty,â the foreman said.
Susan had been holding her breath since the clerk handed over the verdict slip. She exhaled slowly. She grabbed Sullivanâs hand and shook it. He looked shocked.
âYou did it,â he whispered. âYou got me off.â
In that instant, Susan knew heâd robbed the store. That poor clerk. Sheâd made him look stupid on the stand. She looked around, but he wasnât in the courtroom. Relief eclipsed her feeling of regret. Sheâd had a job to do. And sheâd won.
The court officers cuffed Sullivan and started to take him away. With so many open charges, he had no chance of getting released from custody.
âWait a minute,â he said. He stared at Susan. He started to say something then glanced at the door that led to the lockup, and a dark cloud formed in his eyes. His features settled into an expression of hopelessness. âThank you,â he muttered.
Susanâs eyes moistened. Jane rushed over, shook Susanâs hand, and helped gather her things.
As they left the courtroom, a middle-aged bailiff nodded at Susan.
âNot bad for a rookie,â he said.
She grinned. âYou have any money on it?â
âYou got me. I had fifty on a guilty verdict.â
Susan shook her head. âBetting on jury verdicts is illegal, but I wonât report it if you keep quiet about the fact that my sister was on the jury.â
His eyes widened, then he caught himself and chuckled. âSee you next time.â
Susan and Jane got to the street and started walking toward their office.
âThat was nerve-racking,â Susan said. âThey were out so long I thought for sure they would convict. I could use a drink.â
Jane laughed. âYou deserve one. Iâm buying. Letâs stop at the Parker House. We got a new client while you were tied up with this trial, and I canât wait to tell you what youâll be doing next.â
Author Mike Avery hits a game-winning homer with Murder in Blue, the tale of a major league umpire's death, and an investigation that puts Boston attorney Susan Sorella in the crosshairs of bad guys on both sides of the law.
Baseball umpires come in for their share of abuse, and any baseball fan has likely heard someone, if not themselves, shout "Kill the umpire" during a game. Martin Butler does it in a bar in front of witnesses and finds himself accused of murder when umpire John Monroe is shot to death near his hotel. Later, the murder weapon is discovered in Butler's garage.
Sorella takes the case. The accused is a financial analyst and a solid citizen, making her think Butler has been framed. Later, he is stabbed while in jail, leaving him in critical condition.
From that point, Sorella makes it her mission to uncover the truth, enlisting the help of a sympathetic mob boss to track down the killer. The clues start to fall in place, but not without great peril. As she walks a tightrope between the law and lawlessness, the book speeds to an ending that will surprise readers with its unusual twist.
The book is impressive for its realistic characters whose actions and conversations ring true. Sorella is a compelling character. She pursues the truth with grit and determination but has doubts and fears. She's a brave person but no superhero. That she's not larger than life is refreshing.
I also enjoyed Frank Romano, the mobster with a heart of gold, who helps Sorella in her investigation. He's a tough, wily criminal with his own code of justice. I knew him better than the main character. He seems more complete and nuanced than Sorella. That's an imbalance in the weight of the characters. However, this is a minor complaint.
Avery is an attorney, and his knowledge of the legal system makes the book resonate with authority. His command of the law and his spare, energetic writing make for delightful reading. Avery's characters are easy to remember, and the narrative moves logically from point to point.
I rate this book four stars and recommend it to readers who enjoy mysteries and thrillers. Avery has created a memorable character in the tradition of Robert B. Parker, who brought us Spenser, Jesse Stone, and Sunny Randall. The book is Avery's second in the Susan Sorella mystery series, with the first being The Cooperating Witness. I have yet to read it, but it's definitely on my priority list.