The Suspect by John Lescroart is a murder mystery and courtroom thriller set in contemporary San Francisco, with main characters familiar from both the author's Dismas Hardy and Hunt Club mystery series: Gina Roake, Dismas Hardy, Wyatt Hunt, homicide detective Inspector Devin Juhle.
“Truth is the cry of all, but the game of few.” —GEORGE BERKELEY
Stuart Gorman's wife, a super-achiever orthopedic surgeon, wants a divorce. He's furious; for years he has put up with her arrogant controlling personality and many crises with their high-maintenance bipolar daughter. He takes off for his cabin in the mountains near Lake Tahoe, to relieve his anger. It doesn't work; so he drives home. At home, he finds her dead in the hot tub.
He calls the police. Tells them everything he knows about the last few days - how he was furious and stormed away. Little does he realize that being up-front and wholly candid with the police makes him the prime suspect! The police don't need or want to dig deep and find another; they have adequate circumstantial evidence for a case.
Gina Roake is still recovering from the death of her beloved David. She had been a defense lawyer for decades, but has never tried a murder case. She takes on Stuart's case primarily because she liked his book and believes he's innocent (despite experienced legal friends' best advice). She makes a few more costly mistakes; he's arrested without chance of bail.
The prosecution must prove beyond reasonable doubt that the death was murder and that Stuart committed it. The press already has him guilty beyond any doubt. For his defense, Gina doesn't have to prove someone else did it, but she does have to present a reasonable case supporting that possibility.
it wasn’t uncommon for an associate to put in twelve hours on the clock in order to bill eight of them.
She's so busy reviewing case material, she doesn't have a chance to investigate the victim's business, her new invention, a quality control crisis a "whistleblower" reports to Stuart, shortly before her death. Stuart investigates, but can't get far before he's jailed.
for her lunches a couple of small loaves of San Francisco sourdough, a block of cheddar cheese, a chub of Italian dry salami. Heaven.
It's frustrating and suspenseful to see the prosecution push a circumstantial case against Stuart, willfully choosing to ignore evidence pointing away from the easy suspect. Has Gina been away from the law too long, lost her edge as a defense attorney?
The law is not about the fact of guilt or innocence. It’s about the settlement of disputes.
She was back in the game with that rara avis, the innocent client. This was going to be fun.
This book is listed as a standalone novel in GoodReads and on the author's website, but apparently Gina and David (David's death) are from book 9 of the Dismas Hardy mystery series.
Freeman didn’t appear to be joking when he said that he liked to think of himself as mythically ugly. During the six months she had lived with him, she couldn’t think of a more attractive man of any age. Objectively, he was a frog, but she could see only the prince.
Lou’s wife, Chui, sought on a daily basis to meld the disparate culinary cultures of her own China and her husband’s Greece with original and, it must be admitted, creative dishes such as Sweet and Sour Dolmas, or Pita Stuffed Kung Pao Chicken, or mysteries such as the famous Yeanling Clay Bowl. Whatever a yeanling was. Often edible, but just as often not, the food was not why people gathered at Lou’s.
“In what way exactly have you not been the perfect husband?”
San Francisco’s homicide rate—with about two killings every week—was not comparable, say, to Oakland’s, eleven miles across the bay, with its two hundred and twenty murders a year.
The ambient temperature in the medical examiner’s lab was fifty-five degrees. Since this was very close to the average San Francisco temperature regardless of season or time of day or night, most of the time visitors to the morgue were dressed in enough layers of clothing that they didn’t notice the chill.
“I thought under the rules we were supposed to look older as time went by.”
Solitude without loneliness. That was exactly what she felt when she went up to the mountains. Because Stuart's books shared the same philosophy, Gina believed in his innocence.
“You see much else in life that works the way it’s supposed to, let me know, and I’ll buy stock in it.”
It was warm today, but you never knew. This was San Francisco, and it could be midwinter by dinnertime.
why, she wondered, was it always these guys with a kind of slippery personal morality who got drawn to high-level politics? And, all too often, elected?
But she consoled herself with the fact that at least Abrams hadn’t simply brought his case before the grand jury, when no defense attorneys, and no judges even, were allowed to be present. It was a truism that by using the grand jury, a district attorney could “indict a ham sandwich.”
[the medical examiner] Over the course of his forty-year career he'd probably spent a total of a full year actually testifying while sitting on the hard wooden chair in the witness box. The inherent drama of the situation—pronouncing upon the exact cause of a violent death—had long since clearly lost its power over him to enthrall. Looking at him now as he took the oath, Gina thought that if he were any more relaxed, they’d have to wake him up.
But as he liked to say, this was his favorite sort of problem: somebody else’s.
She had the feeling that the pursuit of Stuart did not spring from any sense of justice, but from a belief that he was vulnerable, convictable, and that was all that mattered—he’d be another notch in the belt, that was all. Justice was nice. Something everyone hoped for and even usually attained. But it was fundamentally a by-product of a system designed effectively to settle disputes short of clan warfare. If a conflict could be resolved by a conviction, and that was apparently the case here, then a warm body who could be convicted was all the system demanded. And once those wheels were set in motion, they inexorably rolled on.
She couldn’t let this case be about conflict resolution, a simple verdict. It was going to have to be about the truth. And so Gina risks her life to get the police to finally pay attention to the facts.
TODAY’S SPECIAL AT LOU THE GREEK’S was Salt-Baked Merides—oven-roasted baby smelt over rice, served with a searingly spicy sweet red sauce on the side. The consensus at Gina’s table—herself, Hardy, Farrell and Jeff Elliott in his wheelchair—was that possibly because she had done essentially nothing to a fresh and delicious single ingredient, Chui had conceived and executed her best-ever Greek/Chinese meal. The novelty of the unexpectedly excellent food brought the table to silence for a moment.
Kymberley was whining again, still wound up and endlessly needy. He [her boyfriend] might have to try to talk her into taking some of the lithium, although it brought her down and got her off her high, when she’d get as boring as she was exciting now. But this was the thing, he knew, that made her so difficult at certain times and so kind of fascinating at others. You just never knew what her reality was going to be. Gina thought that there was no winning with this young woman.
Gina wasn’t going to let herself get sucked into that negative thinking. She might be alone here, all right, but she was a damned competent lawyer who’d beaten many a man before. And, she told herself, this time she had the truth on her side. Okay, guys, she thought, I’m ready. Bring it on.
Like most other of his fellow professionals in the field of criminal justice, Hunt found that his sympathy over any one person’s individual misfortune—Stuart’s, Bethany’s, Juhle’s—usually got subsumed in the pure joy of the absurdist theater of it all.