From Library Journal
The thought of another legal thriller might make your stomach churn, but Siegel has written an admirable first novel. When Mike Daley gets fired from a prestigious San Francisco law firm, he starts a private practice. His first case is huge--to defend his best friend and former colleague, who's accused of killing two people at his old firm. Working to prove his friend's innocence, Daley uncovers the dirty secrets of his former partners and begins to question the legal system itself. The first quarter of the book introduces the well-defined and interesting characters; the rest is a compelling courtroom drama. Filled with sparkling court scenes that are a rarity in legal thrillers today, this book is recommended for all public libraries. Readers will be anxious for the next Mike Daley novel.
---Jeff Ayers, Seattle P.L.
Copyright 1999 Reed Business Information, Inc.
From Kirkus Reviews
Yes, its another bulky debut by a lawyer about the intricacies of a murder caseas overlong and overfamiliar as the O.J. trial. It's Mike Daley's penultimate day as a partner at Simpson and Gates, the giant law firm headquartered in San Francisco. He's been fired. The language of termination is polite enough, but the truth is he hasn't pulled his weight, and he knows it. Moreover, he doesn't much care. A former hard-nosed public defender, his style is all wrong for the rarefied corporate atmosphere of S&G, and hiring on there was a mistake he's long privately acknowledged. Now that he's been propelled toward freedom, he plans to open ``the law offices of Michael J. Daley, criminal defense attorney''which, as it happens, gets its first case even before Mike departs S&Gs premises. That very night, a partner and the beautiful associate who was once his lover are found shot to death in the partner's office, and a third S&G lawyer is subsequently charged with the double-murder. At first the case against Joel Friedman, Mikes best friend, seems ersatz indeed, circumstantial evidence hastily cobbled together by an ambitious though not particularly competent D.A. The case gains credibility, however, when Joel is caught in several damaging lies. By then, even Mike has moments of disconcerting doubt. Joel hires his old buddy to defend him; Mike assembles a motley team that includes his ex-wife as second chair; and the ill-assorted crew prepares to take on powerful enemies in and outside the courtroom. Naive to the point of fecklessness, Joel has done an impeccable job of stacking the deck against himself, but Mike, of course, is equal to the challenge and gets an exhaustive, lovingly detailed 200-page trial in which to prove it. Not the worst legal thriller a lawyer-novelist ever generated, but all those pages between rewards may make readers yearn for a continuance. -- Copyright ©2000, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved.
Review
"A rousing legal thriller."
— Chicago Sun-Times
"A page-turner of the finger-burning kind."
— San Francisco Chronicle
"An A+ first novel."
— The Philadelphia Inquirer
"A poignant, feisty tale ... characters so finely drawn you can almost smell their fear and desperation. The dialogue is taut and tangy."
— USA Today
"By the time the whole circus ends up in the courtroom, the hurtling plot threatens to rip paper cuts into readers' hands."
— San Francisco Chronicle
Don't miss Sheldon Siegel's latest legal thriller featuring Mike Daley:
Incriminating Evidence
Available in hardcover July 31, 2001, wherever Bantam Books are sold
From the Paperback edition.
From the Inside Flap
Book 1 of the NY Times and Amazon best-selling legal thriller series.
From the Back Cover
"A rousing legal thriller."
— Chicago Sun-Times
"A page-turner of the finger-burning kind."
— San Francisco Chronicle
"An A+ first novel."
— The Philadelphia Inquirer
"A poignant, feisty tale ... characters so finely drawn you can almost smell their fear and desperation. The dialogue is taut and tangy."
— USA Today
"By the time the whole circus ends up in the courtroom, the hurtling plot threatens to rip paper cuts into readers' hands."
— San Francisco Chronicle
Don't miss Sheldon Siegel's latest legal thriller featuring Mike Daley:
Incriminating Evidence
Available in hardcover July 31, 2001, wherever Bantam Books are sold
About the Author
Sheldon Siegel, a graduate of the University of California at Berkeley's Boalt Law School, has been in private practice in San Francisco for over fifteen years. He lives in Marin County with his wife and twin sons and is at work on his second novel.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
A LICENSE TO PRINT MONEY
"Founded in 1929 and headquartered in San Francisco, Simpson and Gates is the largest full-service law firm based west of the Mississippi. With over nine hundred attorneys in eighteen offices on four continents, Simpson and Gates is recognized as an international leader in the legal profession."
--Simpson and Gates attorney recruiting brochure.
"For three hundred and fifty dollars an hour, I'd bite the heads off live chickens."
--J. Robert Holmes Jr., chairman, Simpson and Gates corporate department.
Welcoming remarks to new attorneys.
For the last twenty years or so, being a partner in a big corporate law firm has been like having a license to print money. At my firm, Simpson and Gates, we've had a license to print a lot of money.
At six-fifteen in the evening of Tuesday, December 30, the printing press is running at full speed forty-eight floors above California Street in downtown San Francisco in what our executive committee modestly likes to call our world headquarters. Our 320 attorneys are housed in opulent offices on eight floors at the top of the Bank of America Building, a fifty-two-story bronze edifice that takes up almost an entire city block and is the tallest and ugliest testimonial to unimaginative architecture in the city skyline.
Our two-story rosewood-paneled reception area is about the size of a basketball court. A reception desk that is longer than a city bus sits at the south end of the forty-eighth floor, and I can see the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz Island and Sausalito through the glass-enclosed conference room on the north wall. The gray carpet, overstuffed leather chairs and antique coffee tables create the ambiance of a classic men's club, which is entirely appropriate since most of our attorneys and clients are white, male and Republican.
Even in the evening of the customarily quiet week between Christmas and New Year's, our reception area is buzzing with a higher level of activity than most businesses see in the middle of the day. Then again, most businesses aren't the largest and most profitable law firm on the West Coast.
Tomorrow is my last day with the firm and I am trying to shove my way through three hundred attorneys, clients, politicians and other hangers-on who have gathered for one of our insufferable cocktail parties. I hate this stuff. I guess it's appropriate I have to walk the gauntlet one last time.
In the spirit of the holiday season, everybody is dressed in festive dark gray business suits, starched monogrammed white shirts and red power ties. A string quartet plays classical music in front of the blinking lights of our tired-looking twenty-foot Christmas tree. The suits have gathered to drink chardonnay, eat hors d'oeuvres and pay tribute to my soon-to-be ex-partner, Prentice Marshall Gates III, the son of our late founding partner Prentice Marshall Gates II. Prentice III, one of many lawyers in our firm with Roman numerals behind his name, is known as Skipper. He is also sailing out of the firm tomorrow. The circumstances of our respective departures are, shall I say, somewhat different.
After my five years as an underproductive partner in our white-collar criminal defense department, our executive committee asked me to leave. I was, in short, fired. Although the request was polite, I was told that if I didn't leave voluntarily, they would invoke Article Seven of our partnership agreement, which states, and I quote, that "a Partner of the Firm may be terminated by the Firm upon the affirmative vote of two-thirds (2/3) of the Partners of the Firm, at a duly called and held meeting of the Partners of the Firm." In the last three years, fourteen of my partners have been Article Sevened. I have graciously agreed to resign. On Monday, I'll open the law offices of Michael J. Daley, criminal defense attorney, in a subleased office in a walk-up building in the not-so-trendy part of San Francisco's South of Market area. Welcome to the modern practice of law.
Skipper's story is a little different. After thirty years as an underproductive partner in our real estate department, he spent three million dollars of the money he inherited from his father to win a mean-spirited race for district attorney of San Francisco, even though he hasn't set foot in a courtroom in over twenty years. My partners are thrilled. They have never complained about his arrogance, sloppy work and condescending attitude. Hell, the same could be said about most of my partners. What they can't live with is his four-hundred-thousand-dollar draw. He has been living off his father's reputation for years. That's why all the power partners are here. They want to give him a big send-off. More importantly, they want to be sure he doesn't change his mind.
The temperature is about ninety degrees and it smells more like a locker room than a law firm. I nod to the mayor, shake hands with two of my former colleagues from the San Francisco Public Defender's Office and carefully avoid eye contact with Skipper, who is working the room. I overhear him say the DA's office is his first step toward becoming attorney general and, ultimately, governor.
In your dreams, Skipper.
I'm trying to get to our reception desk to pick up a settlement agreement. Ordinarily, such a document would be brought to me by one of our many in-house messengers. Tonight, I'm on my own because the kids who work in our mailroom aren't allowed to come to the front desk when the VIPs are around. I sample skewered shrimp provided by a tuxedoed waiter and elbow my way to the desk, where four evening-shift receptionists operate telephone consoles that have more buttons than a 747. I lean over the polished counter and politely ask Cindi Harris if she has an envelope for me.
"Let me look, Mr. Daley," she replies. She's a twenty-two-year-old part-time art student from Modesto with long black hair, a prim nose and a radiant smile. She has confided to me that she would like to become an artist, a stock-car driver or the wife of a rich attorney. I have it on good authority that a couple of my partners have already taken her out for a test drive.
A few years ago, our executive committee hired a consultant to spruce up our image. It's hard to believe, but many people seem to perceive our firm as stuffy. For a hundred thousand dollars, our consultant expressed concern that our middle-aged receptionists did not look "perky" enough to convey the appropriate image of a law firm of our stature. In addition, he was mortified that we had two receptionists who were members of the male gender.
At a meeting that everyone adamantly denies ever took place, our executive committee concluded that our clients--the white, middle-aged men who run the banks, insurance companies, defense contractors and conglomerates that we represent--would be more comfortable if our receptionists were younger, female, attractive and, above all, perkier. As a result, our middle-aged female and male receptionists were reassigned to less-visible duties. We hired Cindi because she fit the profile recommended by our consultant. Although she's incapable of taking a phone message, she looks like a model for Victoria's Secret. S&G isn't known as a hotbed of progressive thinking.
Don't get me wrong. As a divorced forty-five-year-old, I have nothing against attractive young women. I do have a problem when a firm adopts a policy of reassigning older women and men to less-visible positions just because they aren't attractive enough. For one thing, it's illegal. For another thing, it's wrong. That's another reason I got fired. Getting a reputation as the "house liberal" at S&G isn't great for your career.
Cindi's search turns up empty. "I'm sorry, Mr. Daley," she says, batting her eyes. She flashes an uncomfortable smile and looks like she's afraid I may yell at her. While such wariness is generally advisable at S&G, it shows she doesn't know me very well. Jimmy Carter was in the White House the last time I yelled at anybody. "Let me look again," she says.
I spy a manila envelope with my name on it sitting in front of her. "I think that may be it."
Big smile. "Oh, good," she says.
Success. I take the envelope. "By the way, have you seen my secretary?"
Deer in the headlights. "What's her name again?"
"Doris."
"Ah, yes." Long pause. "Dooooris." Longer pause. "What does she look like?"
I opt for the path of least resistance. "It's okay, Cindi. I'll find her."
I start to walk away. She grabs my arm. I turn and look into her perplexed eyes. "Mr. Daley," she says, "are you really leaving? I mean, well, you're one of the nice guys. I mean, for a lawyer. I thought partners never leave."
Cindi, I'm leaving because I have more in common with the kids who push the mail carts than I do with my partners. I was fired because my piddly book of business isn't big enough.
I summon my best sincere face, look her right in her puppy eyes and make believe I am pouring out my heart. "I've been here for five years. I'm getting too old for a big firm. I've decided to try it on my own. Besides, I want more time for Grace." My ex-wife has custody of our six-year-old daughter, but we get along pretty well and Grace stays with me every other weekend.
Her eyes get larger. "Somebody said you might go back to the public defender's office."
I frown. I worked as a San Francisco PD for seven years before I joined S&G. The State Bar Journal once proclaimed I was the best PD in Northern California. Before I went to law school, I was a priest for three years. "Actually, I'm going to share office space with another attorney." Without an ounce of conviction, I add, "It'll be fun." I leave out the fact I'm subleasing from my ex-wife.
"Good luck, Mr. Daley."
"Thanks, Cindi." It's a little scary when you talk to people at work in the same tone of voice you use with your first-grade daughter. It's even scarier to think I'll probably miss Cindi more than I'll miss any of my partners. Then again, she didn't fire me.
I know one thing for certain. I'll sure miss the regular paychecks.
It’s amazing how otherwise rational people can turn into jerks when emotions run amok.Highlighted by 304 Kindle readers
