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Summary
Summary
David Sloane and his new partner, Tom Pendergrass, win a malpractice case centered on the death of a young child. But on the heels of victory, an unlikely character - toy designer Kyle Horgan - comes forward to tell Sloane that he's the one truly responsible for the boy's death and possibly others, not the pediatrician Sloane has just proven guilty. When Sloane tries to follow up, he finds Horgan's apartment ransacked, and Horgan missing.
Author Notes
Robert Dugoni graduated Phi Beta Kappa from Stanford University with a degree in journalism and clerked as a reporter for the Los Angeles Times before obtaining his doctorate of jurisprudence from the University of California at Los Angeles School of Law.
He practiced as a civil litigator in San Francisco and Seattle for 17 years. In 1999 he left the full-time practice of law to return to writing.
He is the author of the popular David Sloane series of books and the Tracy Crosswhite series.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (4)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Dugoni offers an awkward union of classic revenge tale and courtroom drama in his third legal thriller to feature Seattle attorney David Sloane (after Wrongful Death). When eccentric toy designer Kyle Horgan claims that he was responsible for a young child's death in a wrongful death case, not respected pediatrician Peter Douvalidis, against whom Sloane is about to win a massive judgment, Sloane has cause for serious concern. Already conflicted about elements of the case, Sloane becomes alarmed at the revelation of a second child's death eerily similar to the one blamed on Dr. Douvalidis and more so when Horgan vanishes. Sloane's link with Horgan and his reputation as "the lawyer who doesn't lose" make him and his family a target for an ex-CIA assassin, Anthony Stenopolis. Effective courtroom scenes compensate only in part for Sloane's covert search for Stenopolis, which is a fitfully competent assembly of familiar thriller cliches. 7-city author tour. (May) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
*Starred Review* Attorney David Sloane wins a malpractice case with his new partner and doesn't even have time to celebrate the victory before a man approaches and tells him he's convicted the wrong person. Kyle Horgan, a toy designer, proves to Sloane that the doctor he just convicted is not at fault in the death of a little boy. Instead, the guilty party is the manufacturer of a new toy that has just hit the market. When Horgan disappears and it appears that more children might be at risk, Sloane decides to uncover the truth, regardless of the consequences. As the case gets personal, he learns that with millions of dollars at stake, his life is merely collateral damage for the corporation intent on capturing the biggest piece of the toy market. Dugoni has been knocking on the legal-thriller door for a while, and his latest firmly establishes him in the top echelon of the genre. Tense and shocking from the beginning to the surprising end, this is Dugoni's best book yet. Prior knowledge of his other David Sloane novels is not necessary, but they will be eagerly sought out by new readers who finish this one.--Ayers, Jeff Copyright 2010 Booklist
Kirkus Review
Attorney David Sloane (Wrongful Death, 2009, etc.) makes a satisfying return in a toy story for adults.Around Seattle, legal folk have gotten in the habit of referring to Sloane as "the attorney who never loses." As he awaits the verdict in his latest casea malpractice suit against a pediatricianSloane takes pardonable pride in an unbroken string of 22 victories. Make it 23, when the jury returns in favor of Sloane's clients, the McFarlands, grieving parents of Austin, a little boy who's dead. Another victory, yes, but then why is Sloane feeling so much less than triumphant? For two reasons: (1) niggling doubts as to whether the pediatrician's performance was as lackluster as Sloane had made it appear, and (2) a bizarre encounter outside the courtroom just prior to the verdict, the memory of which he can't seem to shake. Toy designer Kyle Horgan, unkempt, smelling slightly of booze, obviously distraught, had accosted Sloane, stopping him long enough to point an accusing fingerat himself. The doctor was being mistakenly accused, a blatant miscarriage of justice. In explanation, he had thrust a manila folder at Sloane, swearing it would prove irrefutably exculpatory. Later, Sloane better understands the young man's agitation. He had designed a good toy, but greedy hands were manufacturing it into a child murderer, hence Austin's tragic death. Unsettled, Sloane is eager for further disclosure, but by now Horgan can't be located. Happenstance? Hardly. Someone has secrets, so dark that keeping them buried amounts to a life and death issue. To that end, enter a world-class professional killer. As efficient as he is amoral, and aimed directly at Sloane, he's been charged by his employers to inflict maximum bodily harm. The ending's a bit pat, but it's still a well-told story that manages to be both harrowing and moving.]] Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Library Journal Review
Attorney David Sloane (The Jury Master, Wrongful Death) is on the verge of winning a huge medical malpractice judgment against a pediatrician whose patient died. But as Sloane heads into court, a crazed young man, Kyle Horgan, thrusts a folder into his hands claiming he's the one who killed the child. Perplexed, Sloane finds in the folder a design for a toy that is in preproduction testing. He also becomes the target of an ex-CIA agent-turned-assassin and suffers a devastating personal loss that leaves him with vengeance on his mind. Horgan disappears, the toy company stonewalls Sloane trying to protect its potential moneymaker, and then another child dies, probably from the same toy. Verdict An intriguing premise incorporated with lots of action makes this a real page turner, but the courtroom is where the heart of this story lies. The combination of legal, corporate, and even some political thrills will appeal to fans of Richard North Patterson and Joseph Finder.-Stacy Alesi, Palm Beach Cty. Lib. Syst., Boca Raton, FL (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
PROLOGUE GUANGZHOU, CHINA It hurt to blink. The light stabbed at his eyes, shooting daggers of pain to the back of his skull. When he shut them an aurora of black and white spots lingered. Albert Payne had never been one to partake liberally in alcohol; not that he was a complete teetotaler either. He'd been hungover a handful of times during his fifty-six years, but those few occasions had been the result of unintended excess, never a deliberate intent to get drunk. So although he had little experience with which to compare it, his pounding head seemed a clear indicator that he had indeed drunk to excess. He'd have to accept that as so, because he could remember little about the prior evening. Each factory owner, along with the local officials in China's Guangdong Province, had insisted on a reception for Payne and the delegation, no doubt believing their hospitality would ensure a favorable report. Payne recalled sipping white wine, but after three weeks the receptions had blurred together, and he could not separate one from the other. Coffee. The thought popped into his head and he seemed to recall that caffeine eased a hangover. Maybe so, but locating the magic elixir would require that he stand, dress, leave his hotel room, and ride the elevator to the lobby. At the moment, just lifting his head felt as if it would require a crane. Forcing his eyelids open, he followed floating dust motes in a stream of light to an ornate ceiling of crisscrossing wooden beams and squares of decorative wallpaper. He blinked, pinched the bridge of his nose, then looked again, but the view had not changed. A cold sweat enveloped him. The ceiling in his room at the Shenzhen Hotel had no beams or wallpaper; he'd awakened the previous three mornings to a flat white ceiling. He shifted his gaze. Cheap wood paneling and a dingy, burnt-orange carpet: this was not his hotel room and, by simple deduction, this could not be his bed. He slid his hand along the sheet, fingertips brushing fabric until encountering something distinctly different, soft and warm. His heart thumped hard in his chest. He turned his head. Dark hair flowed over alabaster shoulders blemished by two small moles. The woman lay on her side, the sheet draped across the gentle slope of her rounded hip. Starting to hyperventilate, Payne forced deep breaths from his diaphragm. Now was not the time to panic. Besides, rushing from the room was not an option, not in his present condition, and not without his clothes. Think! The woman had not yet stirred, and judging by her heavy breathing she remained deep asleep, perhaps as hungover as he, perhaps enough that if he didn't panic, Payne might be able to sneak out without waking her, if he could somehow manage to sit up. He forced his head from the pillow and scanned along the wall to the foot of the bed, spotted a shoe, and felt a moment of great relief that just as quickly became greater alarm. The shoe was not his brown Oxford loafer but a square-toed boot. Payne bolted upright, causing the room to spin and tilt off-kilter, bringing fleeting, blurred images like a ride on a merry-go-round. The images did not clear until the spinning slowed. "Good morning, Mr. Payne." The man sat in an armless, slatted wood chair. "You appear to be having a difficult start to your day." Eyes as dark as a crow, the man wore his hair parted in the middle and pulled back off his forehead in a ponytail that extended beyond the collar of his black leather coat. "Would you care for some water?" Not waiting for a response, the man stood. At a small round table in the corner of the room he filled a glass from a pitcher, offering it to Payne. If this were a bad dream, it was very real. Payne hesitated, no longer certain that his hangover was alcohol induced. The man motioned with the glass and arched heavy eyebrows that accentuated the bridge of a strong forehead. Dark stubble shaded his face. "Please. I assure you it's clean, relatively speaking." Payne took the glass but did not immediately drink, watching as the man returned to the chair, and crossed his legs, before again pointing to the glass. This time Payne took a small sip. The glass clattered against his teeth and water trickled down his chin onto the sheet. When the man said nothing, Payne asked, "What do you want?" "Me? I want nothing." "Then why are you--" The man raised a single finger. "My employer, however, has several requests." "Your employer? Who is your employer?" "I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to divulge that information." The woman emitted a small moan before her chest resumed its rhythmic rise and fall. Payne looked back to the man, an idea occurring. "I've been married for more than twenty years; my wife will never believe this." The man responded with a blank stare. "Believe what?" Payne gestured to the woman. "Her. It's not going to work." "Ah." The man nodded. "You believe that I am here to blackmail you with photographs or videotapes of the two of you fornicating." "It isn't going to work," Payne repeated. "Let me first say that it is refreshing to hear in this day when more than fifty percent of all marriages end in divorce that yours remains strong. Good for you. But look around you, Mr. Payne; do you see a camera or a video recorder anywhere in the room?" Payne did not. "Now, as I said, my employer has several requests." For the next several minutes the man outlined those requests. Finishing, he asked, "Do we have an understanding?" Confused, Payne shook his head. "But you said you weren't here to blackmail me." "I said I was not here to blackmail you with photographs or videotapes. And as you have already educated me, such an attempt would not be productive." "Then why would I do what you're asking?" "Another good question." The man pinched his lower lip. His brow furrowed. "It appears I will need something more persuasive." He paused. "Can you think of anything?" "What?" "Something that would make a man like you acquiesce to my employer's demands?" "There's nothing," Payne said. "This isn't going to work. So if I could just have my clothes back." "Nothing?" The man seemed to give the problem greater consideration, then snapped his fingers. "I have it." Payne waited. "Murder." The word struck Payne like a dart to the chest. "Murder? I haven't murdered anyone." With the fluidity of a dancer the man stood, a gun sliding into his extended left hand from somewhere beneath his splayed black coat, and the back of the woman's head exploded, blood splattering Payne about the face and neck. "Now you have." © 2010 La Mesa Fiction, LLC Excerpted from Bodily Harm by Robert Dugoni All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
