Prodded by his father, Glitsky asks the new homicide lieutenant about the case, but the brass tells him in no uncertain terms to stay out of it. Guided by the Patrol Special ' a private police force supervised by the SFPD that is a holdover from San Francisco's vigilante past-the police have already targeted their prime suspect: John Holiday, proprietor of a run-down local bar, and a friend and client of Dismas Hardy.
While Dismas Hardy has built a solid legal practice and a happy family, John Holiday has not followed the same path. Despite this, Hardy has remained Holiday's attorney and confidant, and with Glitsky's help, Hardy finds ample reason to question Holiday's guilt. Hardy's case falls on hostile ears, however, and to avoid arrest, Holiday turns fugitive. The police now believe three things: that Hardy is a liar protecting Holiday, that Holiday is a cold-blooded killer, and that Glitsky is a bad cop on the wrong side of the law.
As the suspense reaches fever pitch, Hardy, Glitsky, and even their families are caught in the crossfire and directly threatened. The police won't protect them. The justice system won't defend them. Shunned within the corridors of power, and increasingly isolated at every turn, Hardy and Glitsky face their darkest hour. For when the law forsakes them, they must look to another, more primal law in order to survive.
Showing 1-1 of the 1 most recent reviews
1 . good
Posted June 09, 2010 by Diana , San Diegogood. not great. But very good. unfortunately I read this book out of sequence so dang it I knew somethings that would happen, maybe that made it less of a read for me.
But very good anyways. Like this author very much.
January 06, 2004
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Excerpt from The First Law by John Lescroart
Ten o'clock, a Wednesday morning in the beginning of July.
John Holiday extended one arm over the back of the couch at his lawyer's Sutter Street office. Today he was comfortably dressed in stonewashed blue jeans, hiking boots, and a white, high-collared shirt so heavily starched that it had creaked when he lowered himself into his slouch. His other hand had come to rest on an oversize silver-and-turquoise belt buckle. His long legs stretched out all the way to the floor, his ankles crossed. Nothing about his posture much suggested his possession of a backbone.
Women had liked him since he'd outgrown his acne. His deep-set eyes seemed the window to a poet's soul, with the stained glass of that window the odd whitish blue of glacier water. Now, close up, those eyes revealed subtle traces of dissolution and loss. There was complexity here, even mystery. With an easy style and pale features-his jaw had the clean definition of a blade-he'd been making female hearts go pitter-patter for so long now that he took it for granted. He didn't much understand it. To him, the prettiness of his face had finally put him off enough that he'd grown a mustache. Full, drooping, and yellow as corn silk, it was two or three shades lighter than the hair on his head and had only made him more handsome. When his face was at rest, Holiday still didn't look thirty, but when he laughed, the lines added a decade, got him up to where he belonged. He still enjoyed a good laugh, though he smiled less than he used to.
He was smiling now, though, at his lawyer, Dismas Hardy, over by the sink throwing water on his face for the third time in ten minutes.
"As though that's gonna help." Holiday's voice carried traces of his father's Tennessee accent and the edges of it caressed like a soft Southern breeze.
"It would help if I could dry off."
"Didn't the first two times."
Hardy had used up the last of the paper towels and now stood facing his cupboards in his business suit, his face dripping over the sink. Holiday shrugged himself up from the couch, dug in the wastebasket by the desk, and came up with a handful of used paper, which he handed over. "Never let it be said I can't be helpful."
"It would never cross my mind." Hardy dried his face. "So where were we?"
"You're due in court in forty-five minutes and you're so hungover you don't remember where we were? If you'd behaved this way when you were my lawyer, I'd have fired you."
Hardy fell into one of his chairs. "I couldn't have behaved this way when I was your lawyer because I didn't know you well enough yet to go out drinking with you. Thank God."
"You're just out of practice. It's like riding a horse. You've got to get right back on when it tosses you."
"I did that last night. Twice."
"Don't look at me. If memory serves, nobody held a gun to your head. Why don't you call and tell them you're sick? Get a what-do-you-call-it . . ."
"Continuance." Hardy shook his head. "Can't. This is a big case."
"All the more reason if you can't think. But you said it was just dope and some hooker."
"But with elements," Hardy said.