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Excerpt: Blood on the Table by Gerry Spence

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Blood on the Table brings to life the same powerful emotions and riveting excitement that Gerry Spence evoked from juries when the blood was real.

Blood on the Table is a blend of darkness, sex, and violence, with characters who are far from perfect and often are their own worst enemies. Spence takes the reader to savage—back country Wyoming, where an eleven-year-old boy must take the witness stand against a vicious prosecutor, corrupt police, and a prejudiced judge, to keep his family safe.

Blood on the Table will be available on March 2, 2021. Please enjoy the following excerpt!


CHAPTER 1

Laramie, Wyoming, Winter, 1947

Ringo felt something hard poking him in the ribs. He couldn’t remember where he was. When he pulled his head out from under his bedroll, he was attacked by a blinding light.

“Get out of there,” a harsh voice demanded. “I said, get out of there!”

When the cop prodded him again, Ringo bolted straight up. He grabbed for his hat and stood up in the pickup bed, naked, all that belonged to him in plain view. He tried to cover it with his hat.

“Whatcha doin’ here?”

“I was sleepin’,” Ringo said.

“I could run you in for sleepin’,” the cop hollered.

A scruffy tramp stumbled up in a dirty gray overcoat with a gray woolen cap pulled over his ears. “Ain’t no law in Laramie, Wyoming, against sleepin’,” the tramp said. The bottoms of his ragged pants were dragging on the sidewalk.

“Get your ass down the street, or I’ll haul you in, too,” the cop yelled at the tramp.

“Been  tryin’  to  get  one  of  you  cops  to  haul  me  in  for  three days,” the tramp said. His thick whiskers held his face together. “It’s  colder  than  a  well  digger’s  ass  in  January  out  here.”  He walked over to where the cop was standing. “And I’m hungry. I could eat the ass off a skunk.” He stood huddled, his hands in his coat pockets.

“Get down out of there,” the cop ordered Ringo. He reached for his pants, but the cop started at him with his stick again. “I said, get out of there.” Ringo slid down from the back of the pickup onto the street in his bare feet. His toes recoiled from the cold, rough pavement, and he tried to balance himself on his heels.

“Turn around.” The cop prodded him with his stick. Ringo jumped and spun around. “Stand up against that pickup door and don’t move, or I’ll shoot your ass off.”

“Ain’t  much  to  shoot  off,”  the tramp said.“Anyways,  you’d probably miss.”

The cop climbed into the pickup bed. He shook Ringo’s bedroll, and, satisfied it contained no illegal contraband, he began to untie the rope that held Ringo’s old suitcase closed.

“Hand down this boy’s clothes,” the tramp ordered the cop. “It’s cold out here, in case you didn’t notice.”

“He ain’t gonna run no place without no clothes,” the cop said. “Well, you can deputize me. I’ll watch him. Hand down his clothes.”

“Get the fuck out of here,” the cop said. He began rummaging through the suitcase and scattering its contents across the length of the pickup bed—two pairs of socks, a pair of old boots, a couple pairs of patched Levi’s, and a faded western shirt, town pants and boots. The cop ripped open Ringo’s old lunch bucket and dumped out a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a bar of soap, along with a small box of Ex-Lax his mother insisted he take “just in case.” Finding nothing of interest, the cop jumped down from the pickup and walked over to Ringo, who, by this time, had begun to shiver in spasms.

The tramp stuck his whiskers in the cop’s face. “I am hereby orderin’ you in the name of the law to give this boy his clothes. If  you don’t, I’m makin’ a citizen’s arrest and turnin’ you in for cruel and unusual punishment.”

The cop beamed his flashlight into the tramp’s eyes.

“You are a cruel motherfucker,” the tramp said. “I should take that billy club from you and stick it up your fat ass.”

The cop raised his nightstick, and the tramp backed off, telling the cop, “You lay a hand on me and I’ll sue your fat ass plum off you. My brother’s a lawyer in this town.”

“Yeah? Who’s your brother?” the cop asked. “Christopher Hampton. Ever hear of him?”

The cop poked his nightstick into Ringo’s belly. “Whatcha doin’ in Laramie?”

“Goin’ to school, the university.”

“Don’t give me no bullshit,” the cop said. “You ain’t no schoolkid.

Where you from?”

“West of town at Bear Creek.”

“More bullshit. Just a bunch of rich ranchers live out there.” The cop stuck his nightstick under Ringo’s testicles and gave it a small, quick, but hard upward lift. Ringo jumped, and when he did, he grabbed the cop’s nightstick and pulled it loose from his hand.

Ringo hollered at the tramp. “Get my clothes.” He stood waving the stick in front of the cop. “Don’t be goin’ for your gun. Throw it down there on the pavement, or I’ll break your head wide open.” “Go ahead and smack him,” the tramp said. “He’s got it comin’.

And there ain’t nothin’ inside his head but donkey shit. That’s why we call him ‘Shithead Henry.’” The tramp picked up the cop’s service revolver and handed Ringo his pants and shirt.

“You hold his gun on him while I get dressed,” Ringo said.

“If you do, I’m charging you with aidin’ and abettin’ a crime,” the cop said to the tramp.

“Finally!” The tramp pointed the gun at the cop’s nose. “I admit it take me in.” The tramp started to shiver. “I’m gonna make you a deal. Number one: You let this kid go. He’s goin’ to school. See here?” The tramp picked up a copy of Ringo’s registration from the hodgepodge the cop had spilled over the truck’s bed.

“Number  two:  You gotta haul me in for vagrancy. It’s too fuckin’ cold out here. Okay?”

The cop thought about it for a minute. “Okay, but don’t tell nobody about this.”

“Right.”

“You a man of your word?” the cop asked the tramp.

“Yeah, just like you.” He handed the cop his pistol and his nightstick. “Take me in, Officer,” the tramp said.

“And you ain’t gonna tell Chistopher Hampton?”

“Naw,” the tramp said. “I was just shitin’ you. I don’t even know him. I just heard he was a pretty good lawyer, and that he’s got you cops scared to fuckin’ death.”

Copyright © 2021 by Gerry Spence

Pre-order Blood on the Table—available on March 2, 2021!

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$2.99 eBook Sale: Court of Lies by Gerry Spence

The ebook edition of Court of Lies by Gerry Spence is on sale now for only $2.99! Download your copy now before Gerry Spence’s next book Blood on the Table comes out on March 2nd!

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About Court of Lies:

From Gerry Spence, one of America’s greatest trial attorneys and the New York Times bestselling author of How to Argue and Win Every Time, comes an explosive courtroom thriller of murder, passion, and the twists and treachery of law and justice.

Gerry Spence is one of the greatest trial lawyers of our time. He has not lost a jury trial in fifty years and has never lost a criminal or a capital case. He has also represented many celebrated defendants and appeared on countless national TV talk shows.

Spence now presents us with beautiful Lillian Adams, who is going on trial for the murder of her wealthy husband before Judge John Murray. The prosecutor, Haskins Sewell, however, is consumed by political ambition. He plans to advance his own career by framing Lillian for murder one and by railroading the judge into prison.

A fast-paced, up-all-night courtroom thriller, Court of Lies is also a harsh indictment of today’s legal system. The country has 2.3 million people behind bars and 7.5 million more on parole or probation. A major reason for so much mass incarceration is the dominance of politically motivated prosecutors, who over-sentence defendants for the sake of winning votes in their own elections and advancing their careers.

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This sales end 2/28/2021 at 11:59 pm.

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Mysteries & Thrillers We’re Looking Forward to in 2021

When it’s cold outside, is there a better place to be than warm inside and deep in the pages of a thrilling book you can’t put down? From hot debuts to the return of some familiar favorites, Forge has got something for every mystery fan this season.


January 12th

Image Placeholder of - 50Waiting for the Night Song by Julie Carrick Dalton

Julie Carrick Dalton’s searing debut novel is an exploration of female friendships, a love song to the natural world, and a harrowing portrait of what happens when long-buried secrets are unearthed.

 

January 26th

Poster Placeholder of - 29The Paradise Affair by Bill Pronzini

Mystery Writers of America Grand Master Bill Pronzini’s next Carpenter & Quincannon mystery is here! The Paradise Affair takes a favorite mystery-solving husband and wife team all the way to Honolulu for an unforgettable adventure.

 

February 9th

Image Place holder  of - 18Comes the War by Ed Ruggero

Ed Ruggero’s blistering follow-up to Blame the Dead follows Lieutenant Eddie Harkins on another murder investigation set against the backdrop of World War 2. This time he’s on the case in Britain and finds himself tied up in a web of Soviet secrets.

 

February 16th

Place holder  of - 83Margaret Truman’s Murder on the Metro by Jon Land

Jon Land’s first entry in Margaret Truman’s New York Times bestselling Capital Crimes series is a thrill-ride from beginning to end. When Robert Brixton uncovers a terrorist plot with unimaginable consequences, it’s a race against time to save the lives of millions.

 

March 2nd

Placeholder of  -53Blood on the Table by Gerry Spence

New York Times bestselling author and trial attorney Gerry Spence’s newest thriller takes us to backcountry Wyoming where an 11-year-old boy takes the witness stand against a vicious prosecutor, corrupt police, and a prejudiced judge to keep his family safe.

 

The Eagle & The Viper by Loren D. Estleman

Multiple award-winning novelist Loren Estleman’s newest thriller is set in a world of terrorist training camps, international assassins, civilians in danger… and a threat against Napoleon. It’s Paris in 1800 and Estleman reveals just how close our world came to total war.

 

March 16th

Gathering Dark by Candice Fox

#1 New York Times bestselling author Candice Fox takes you from the gleaming mansions of Beverly Hills to the gritty streets of Compton in her newest standalone thriller. Four “bad girls” – a convicted killer, a gifted thief, a vicious ganglord and a disillusioned cop are a missing girl’s only hope. 

 

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Excerpt: Court of Lies by Gerry Spence

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Image Placeholder of - 93Gerry Spence is one of the greatest trial lawyers of our time. He has not lost a jury trial in fifty years and has never lost a criminal or a capital case. Now, in Court of Lies, Spence gives us an explosive courtroom thriller of murder, passion, and the twists and treachery of law and justice.

The beautiful Lillian Adams has been accused of the murder of her husband. The honorable Judge John Murray is presiding over the trial. But the prosecutor, Haskins Sewell, doesn’t plan to let justice run its course. Consumed by political ambition, Sewell plots to advance his own career by framing Lillian for murder and railroading Judge Murray into prison…

New York Times bestselling author Gerry Spence’s new novel, Court of Lies, will be available February 19th. Please enjoy this excerpt.

Excerpt

Every workday morning, the town fathers gathered at the Big Chief Café for breakfast. Hardy Tillman claimed the joint hadn’t been hosed out since the big fire in ’47. “This place even smells like the old West, and I mean the old West,” Hardy said. He ran the Main Street filling station in Jackson Hole. He sported a budding beer belly, but everybody in those parts admitted Hardy was tough. Nobody tried Hardy Tillman.

Generations of spiders had spun their webs between the horns of mounted elk heads that stared down with glass eyes from the once whitewashed walls, now smoke-stained and, near the kitchen, darkened to bay-horse brown from the blowout of scorched pans and flaming grills. Under half an inch of dust and grease, a rusted musket lay across the antlers of a mule deer head, the trophy of a forgotten hunter.

Posters of current movies starring Doris Day as Calamity Jane, and the fast-gun hero, John Wayne in Hondo, curled at their corners as if struggling to roll up in slumber. The floor was covered with linoleum that was mopped daily, and the hard boots of working men had worn away its original red brick design except in the far corners of the café.

Each morning two waitresses, Mary Johnson and Molly Hocks, rushed the men’s orders to the kitchen, bounced back to fill their coffee cups, empty or not, and shortly, like gastronomic midwives, delivered their breakfasts steaming hot and laden with grease.

“How’s my darling doing? I dreamed about you all night, honey,” Molly Hocks cooed.

“Don’t give that line again, honey,” Harry Halstead, part-time mountain guide and part-time bartender, said. “That’s what you told me yesterday and I tipped you the last two dimes in my pocket, which’ll have to do you for today since you’re still giving me that same old dream.”

Peaks of hilarity bounced off the café walls and comingled with the jangle of pans and kettles from the kitchen and the hollering of the cooks and waitresses—the racket reaching the raging uproar of an orchestra gone mad.

A potpourri of appetizing aromas escaped from the kitchen—of ham, bacon, and frying sausage, of fresh coffee and pancakes hot off the griddle. The odor of workmen in their overalls of dirt and sweat mixed with the scent of a few business types, their hair shiny in Brylcreem and radiating a smell akin to lilacs and bug spray. As each waitress whisked by, she was trailed by a wake of fragrance perhaps attributable to a dab of something called Seven Winds, “for the woman who wants to be loved,” or a spray of Nostalgia, that “turns my lamb into a wolf.”

Over the ruckus and racket, the men at Lester McCall’s table were talking in high shouts about Lillian Adams. She’d been charged with the murder of her husband, Horace Adams III. His friends called McCall “Too Tall McCall.” He was six and a half feet tall, and he said, “I don’t give a damn what they call me as long as they call me for supper.” His voice reverberated from the walls like the um-pah-pah of a bass horn in a high school marching band.

“Well, I knew Lillian as a kid,” McCall bellowed through the tumult. “She always did whatever she damn well pleased and got whatever she damn well wanted. But it sounds like she went a little too far this time. Old Adams had more money than I got gravel in my gravel pit, and, at that precise moment before she pulled the trigger he was all that was standin’ between her and it.”

“I don’t think she did it,” Harold Farmer, the town’s mayor said. His head was bald, but he displayed an undisciplined beard in order to show some hair, of some kind, someplace. “She wasn’t the kind to go killing for money. When we were kids in high school, I took her rabbit hunting one Saturday. I wasn’t figuring to just hunt rabbits. I wanted to bag me a bunny, if you get my meaning.” He laughed. “But she wouldn’t let me shoot even a cross-eyes jackrabbit. She said, ‘I’m on the rabbit’s side.’ But I will say one thing for her: She sure could outshoot me.”

“Don’t have to be much of a shot to hit somebody with your gun shoved up against his head,” Harv Bailey said as he took a big bite out of a glazed doughnut and a swig of coffee to help wash it down. He owned the local men’s store, with his typewriter shop in the back. He was wearing the latest banded jacket, jodhpurs, and hiking boots that laced up to just below the knees. He wore his mop of black hair in a cowlick, the product of a careful application of hair coloring that contrasted with a sprinkle of white in his three-day-old beard. He took out a pack of Lucky Strikes and offered one to Ben Mays, the Teton County Assessor.

“I’m trying to quit,” Mays said as Bailey lit their cigarettes. Some called him “Magpie” Mays. His habitual plumage was a black suit, a white shirt and black tie—put a person in mind of a magpie. “The judge should’ve taken himself off of the case. She isn’t related to him by blood, I’ll give you that, but the judge and Betsy haven’t got any kids except her, and they always saw her as belonging to them. I know for a fact the Adams dame had the judge’s number couple of times in the past. And I hear she’s still pretty much running things up there in the courtroom.”

“I wonder how come old Judge Murray let her outta jail with practically no bond at all. Fifty thousand is nothing to her,” Henry Green said. “Should’ve been ten mil at least. She probably had a little meeting with the judge in his chambers, if ya know what I mean.”

“You’re full a shit,” Hardy Tillman said. He and Judge Murray had been best friends since grade school. Hardy stood up and spit his words into Henry Green’s face again. “I said you’re full a shit.”

Henry Green looked down, blew on his coffee and sat tight in his chair.

Copyright © 2019

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