【预订】The Local
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广东广州
认证卖家担保交易快速发货售后保障
作者Joey Hartstone
出版社Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
ISBN9780593315194
出版时间2023-06
装帧平装
定价118元
货号YB-86099
上书时间2024-06-28
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A freewheeling, small-town attorney takes on a national murder trial when an out-of-town client is accused of killing a federal judge in Texas.
“A spectacular courtroom thriller that kept me turning pages like the best of Grisham or Turow." —Michelle King, co-creator of The Good Wife, The Good Fight, and Evil
The town of Marshall, Texas, is the epicenter of intellectual property law in the US—renowned for its speedy trials and massive payouts. One of its best lawyers is James Euchre. His newest client, Amir Zawar, is a CEO forced to defend his life’s work against a patent infringement claim. But when a beloved hometown hero is murdered, all signs point to Zawar, an outsider with no alibi. With the help of a former federal prosecutor and a local PI, Euchre hopes to uncover the truth. In his first criminal case, the stakes couldn’t be higher. Euchre fears either an innocent man will be sent to death row, or he’ll help set a murderer free. The Local is a small-town thriller crackling with courtroom tension right up to the final verdict.
一名随心所欲的小镇律师接受了全国谋杀案审判，一名外地客户被指控杀害德克萨斯州的一名“联邦法官”。
“一场壮观的谋杀案法庭惊悚片让我像格里沙姆或图罗的最佳作品一样不断翻阅。”米歇尔·金，《傲骨贤妻》、《傲骨之战》和《邪恶》的联合创作者/i>
德克萨斯州马歇尔镇是美国知识产权法的中心，以其快速审判和巨额赔偿而闻名。詹姆斯·尤克 (James Euchre) 是该镇最好的律师之一。最新客户阿米尔·扎瓦尔 (Amir Zawar) 是一名首席执行官，被迫为自己毕生的工作辩护，反对专利侵权索赔。但当一位心爱的家乡英雄被谋杀时，所有迹象都指向扎瓦尔，一个没有不在场证据的局外人。在前任的帮助下联邦检察官和当地的 PI，尤克希望揭露真相。在他的第一起刑事案件中，赌注再高不过了。尤克担心要么一个无辜的人会被送进死牢，要么他会帮助释放一个凶手《本地》是一部小镇惊悚片，法庭气氛紧张，直至最终判决。
作者简介
Joey Hartstone is a film and television writer. He has written two feature films, LBJ (2016) and Shock and Awe (2017), which were both directed by Rob Reiner. He wrote on the first two seasons of the legal drama The Good Fight. He is currently a writer on the Showtime series Your Honor. Joey lives in Los Angeles with his family.
精彩内容
• One •
Small towns are defined by their secrets. Some are even haunted by them. There is a communal consciousness that remembers everything no matter how hard people may try to forget. You can’t keep a secret in a place like this, at least not forever.
Marshall is only forty miles from the state’s eastern border but still deep in the heart of Texas. Folks live and die with the Mavericks on Friday nights and seek salvation in church on Sundays. Since World War II, the population has remained unchanged at twenty-three thousand souls. It’s almost as if there’s no incentive to come here, but people can’t find a good reason to leave either.
We have an equal number of white and Black citizens, but the scars of inequality run deep. The ghosts of slavery and segregation still roam our streets. To this day, a statue of a Confederate soldier casts a shadow over the town square.
Behind the bronzed effigy of Johnny Reb stands the old Harrison County Courthouse. Its bright yellow facade, marble columns, and domed top make it our unofficial capitol building. Lawyers love a good courthouse the way players love a good ballpark. It makes us believe that our lot in life is more important than it probably is. The best lawyers in these parts, however, don’t work in this building.
Just beyond the hand-laid redbrick parking lot of the old county courthouse stands another building, another courthouse. It’s a simple beige-and-brown rectangle, thirty feet high, with small columns in front. Its demeanor suggests you need not notice it at all. This is the Sam B. Hall Jr. Federal Building, home to the US District Court. For the past twenty years, the Eastern District of Texas has been the epicenter of intellectual property law in the United States. It is Marshall’s best-kept secret.
For some reason that morning, as I sat at the plaintiff’s table with my client and a team of lawyers from the Chicago law firm of Rosewood & Barkman, I was overcome with a feeling of awe. It was the final day of my final trial for the calendar year, and I found myself in a moment of reflection. As I looked up at Judge Gardner’s wrinkled face, I couldn’t shake the idea that the kingdom he had built was as impressive as it was improbable, and that we all owed him a debt of gratitude.
There had been whispers around the courthouse for months that the judge was contemplating stepping down. People were even speculating that he would announce his retirement that night at the annual Christmas party. I dismissed these rumors as baseless because I believed he would have told me privately if that were his plan. Still, I’d had a sense lately that he was trying to savor certain moments as if they were passing by, never to return. As he glanced in my direction, I wondered if he felt a sense of pride. I was, after all, his protégé. He had crafted me in his image.
“Mr. Euchre?” Judge Gardner drew the court’s attention my way without revealing any affection for me. After I’d spent five days sitting quietly beside my client with nothing to do but ponder the wonders of our universe, the time had come for me to do what I’d been hired to do. I was going to deliver a closing argument.
“Thank you, Your Honor.” I rose to my feet but didn’t button my jacket. I walked toward the eight members of the jury in complete silence. It was the first time they would be hearing from me since they were selected, and I wanted to give them a few more beats. I found my mark and then hesitated, as if unsure of how to begin. Truthfully, I knew every word that was about to come out of my mouth. I was going to deliver my patented “Ford pickup” closing. As a matter of legal fact, a collection of words, such as a speech, cannot be patented but rather copyrighted. Suffice it to say, it was my favorite summation.
“When I was fifteen years old, the widow who lived next door to me decided to sell her late husband’s truck. It was a 1964 Ford F100 with a cracked windshield, missing fender, and dented grill. Its original Rangoon Red paint job, which perfectly matched the high school’s colors, was peeling and had faded under the sun. It was the most beautiful vehicle I’d ever seen.
“I struck a deal with the widow. In one year, I would buy that truck for twenty-four hundred dollars. Bagging groceries at the Piggly Wiggly for three thirty-five an hour wasn’t going to cut it, so I got a paper route and started mowing lawns on the weekends. I took any odd job I could find, and for one year, I didn’t spend a penny unless I absolutely had to. Where most boys would keep a picture of their girlfriends in their wallets, I had a photo of this old truck, a reminder of what all the hard work was for. The best day of my young life was when I emptied out my savings account, handed my neighbor all twenty-four hundred dollars to my name, and became the proud owner of a Ford pickup. When I got behind the wheel, a feeling of achievement washed over me. I’d never felt that way before.
“Two weeks later, I stepped outside my home with the keys in my hand and discovered that the driveway was empty.” I paused here, as if overcome by the memory.
“I’m embarrassed to admit how many minutes passed before I accepted the reality. I’d never owned anything, and now my one possession in the world had been stolen. For weeks, I kept my eyes peeled, hoping I’d spot my Ford abandoned somewhere, just waiting for me to rescue it. Then one day I get a call from Detective Elliot. He says they think they may have found it up in Marion County, but before they go and accuse someone of grand theft auto, they want me to confirm that it is indeed mine.
“So Detective Elliot drives me to Marion, and we pull up to this ratty old house with weeds for a yard, and there, parked right in front for all the world to see, is a 1964 F100 with a cracked windshield, missing fender, and dented grill. I jump out of the cruiser and run up the driveway. Just then, a man in his twenties comes out of the house and hollers at me to get off his porch. I move right to him, fish my wallet out of my pocket, hold the photo of the Ford up in his face like it’s a police badge, and declare, ‘My name is James Euchre, and that is my truck!’
“The man looks at the photo and then back at me and says, ‘That can’t be your truck. Your truck is red. That truck right there is black.’ ” I paused again, allowing the audacity of this comment to infect my listeners.
“Not only had this man taken my vehicle, but now, caught dead to rights with my property in his possession, he had the nerve to deny everything because, after he had stolen my beloved truck, he had covered that original Rangoon Red body with a cheap coat of black paint.”
For all of the flaws in our legal system, the one thing that we got right was entrusting ordinary people to dispense justice. Even in a field as complicated as intellectual property law, we put our faith in common citizens. Patents can be incredibly complex. It often takes an advanced degree in electrical engineering or microbiology to understand how something works, let alone whether or not the idea behind it was taken from someone else’s design. The lawyers from the firms on both sides of this case had spent the past five days asking these jurors to think. In my first five minutes, I had asked them to feel.
Every one of us has a different capacity to understand information based on who we are, what the subject matter is, and how our education and intellect relate to the issue at hand. What makes us alike, what makes us hum
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