Attorney Grady Fletcher didn’t necessarily believe in heaven, but
suppose such a place existed and he was eligible for entry when his time came? He
expected it’d look like a courtroom where he won appeals for deserving people.
The mobster’s daughter, Tori Rourke, took Morningstar
as her surname. She’d run from the Irish mob but couldn’t hide. With no
patience for those who leave its ranks, the mob had framed her. She’d spent a decade at Gladstone.
His most recent client, Tyrone Marquis, black and poor,
worked at a poultry plant where he’d plucked, hacked, and processed thousands
of chickens. Marquis had written a bad check and had committed a petty theft.
The court had handed him a twenty-year prison sentence. When Grady believed in the falsely accused or excessively
sentenced, he fought hard from a deep pit. He won this man’s appeal.
Poor and black did not describe Tori, born into an
Irish crime family but in essence was marginalized and excluded. Society detests
any mobster association.
His cousin, Finbar Donahue, managed the trust accounts
for the Rourke offspring. In spite of Finn’s hostile relationship with the mob,
he’d followed Tori’s murder trial.
Finn had guilted Grady into appealing her case. “She’s
a fringe relative. Okay. Not by blood, but come on.” Finn’s words landed like
punches, sapped his resistance.
The closer he got to the maximum-security complex, the
more his heart pounded with blood pressure exploding like a grenade. Thump
thump. How safe will she be when freed? He
scrambled for his game face.
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