By James Patterson and Peter de Jonge
Published by Little Brown & Company
June 2002; 0446612545; 464 pages
THE SUMMER ASSOCIATE
EVEN BY THE HEADY NORM of millennial boomtown Manhattan, where master craftsmen paint frescoes on subway walls, the new law offices of Nelson, Goodwin and Mickel were over the top. If the great downtown courthouses around Broadway were palaces of justice, the gleaming fortyeight- story tower at 454 Lexington Avenue was a monument to winning.
My name is Jack Mullen, and as a summer associate at Nelson, Goodwin, I guess I was winning, too. Still, it wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I entered Columbia Law School at the advanced age of twenty-six. But when a second year student with $50,000 in college loans is offered a summer position at the most prestigious firm in the city, he doesn't turn it down.
The phone started ringing the instant I stepped into my small office.
I picked up. Female operator on tape: "You have a collect call from Huntsville, Texas, from..."
Male voice, also recorded: "The Mudman." Female operator again on tape: "If you wish to accept, please say yes or push the number-"
"Yes, absolutely," I interrupted. "Mudman, how are you?"
"Not bad, Jack, except maybe for the fact that the state of Texas is pissing its pants at the thought of putting me down like a dog."
The surprisingly high-pitched voice at the other end of the line belonged to outlaw biker Billy "Mudman" Simon, and it was coming from the pay phone in Huntsville Prison's death row. Mudman was there waiting for the lethal injection that would put him to death for murdering his teenage girlfriend nineteen years earlier.
Mudman is no saint. He admits to all manner of misdemeanors and an occasional felony during his run in the Houston chapter of the Diablos. But killing Carmina Velasquez, he says, wasn't one of them.
"Carmina was a great woman," the Mudman told me the first time I interviewed him. "One of my best friends in this miserable world. But I was never in love with her. So why would I kill her?"
His letters, trial transcripts, and records of repeated failed attempts to win a new trial were dropped on my desk three days after I started working for the firm. After two weeks decoding every wildly misspelled word, contorted phrase, and hundreds of footnotes painstakingly transcribed in tiny block letters that looked as if they had come from the unsteady hand of a grade-schooler, I was convinced he was telling the truth.
And I liked him. He was smart and funny, and he didn't feel sorry for himself, despite a truckload of reasons why he should. Ninety percent of the convicts on death row were as good as screwed the day they were born, and Mudman, with his deranged junkie parents, was no different.
Nevertheless, he had no enthusiasm for blaming them for what had happened.
"They did their best, like everyone else," he said the one time I mentioned them. "Their best sucked, but let 'em rest in peace."
Rick Exley, my supervisor on the project, couldn't have cared less about Mudman's character or my rookie intuition. What mattered to him was that there were no witnesses to Velasquez's murder and that the Mudman had been convicted completely on the basis of blood and hair samples from the crime scene. That all happened before the forensic breakthrough of DNA testing. It meant we had a reasonable chance to be granted our request that blood and hair samples be taken to confirm that they matched the DNA of the physical evidence held in a vault somewhere in Lubbock.
"I'd hate to get your hopes up for nothing, but if the state lets us test, we could get a stay of execution."
"Don't ever worry about getting my hopes up for nothing, Jack. Where I'm at, insane hope is welcome anytime. Bring 'em on."
I was trying not to get too excited myself. I knew this pro bono project, with the pompous name of "the Innocence Quest," was primarily a PR stunt and that Nelson, Goodwin and Mickel didn't build forty-eight stories in midtown by looking out for the innocent poor on death row.
Still, when the Mudman was cut off after his allotted fifteen minutes, my hands were shaking.Copyright © 2002 by SueJack, Inc.
Reprinted with permission. (back to top)
James Patterson and Peter de Jonge have written a searing summer thriller-an unstoppable tale of love and vengeance among the superrich and superruthless.
Jack Mullen is in law school in New York City when the news comes that his brother, Peter, has drowned in the ocean off East Hampton. Jack knows his brother practically grew up in the water, and that this couldn't be an accident. Someone must have wanted his brother dead.
But the police say otherwise. As Jack tries to uncover details of his brother's last night, he confronts a maddening barricade of lawyers, police, and paid protectors who separate the wealthy summer residents from local workers like Peter. Motivated by a hundred forms of grief, Jack rallies his hometown friends to help him find the truth of Peter's death-no matter how rich or corrupt the people who stand in their way.
Jack's relentless crusade puts him into a head-on collision with one of the most powerful and ruthless men in New York, a man who wipes out resistance with a snap of his fingers. As it unfolds that his brother was involved with some of the richest women and men in America-in ways Jack never imagined-his dream of justice fades. Only if he can somehow beat the rich at their own game will he be able to avenge his brother.
The Beach House is a breathtaking legal thriller of deceit and revenge-with a finale so shocking, it could only have come from the mind of James Patterson.
James Patterson is one of the top-selling novelists in the world today. His debut novel, The Thomas Berryman Number, won the Edgar Award for the best first mystery novel. It was published by Little, Brown in 1976 when he was just twenty-seven years old, after being turned down by more than two dozen other publishers.
He has since written a string of major national bestsellers that includes the seven books in the series featuring detective/psychologist Alex Cross and the two novels in the "Women's Murder Club" series. (See review.)
Patterson grew up in Newburgh, New York. He graduated summa cum laude with a B.A. in English from Manhattan College and summa cum laude with an M.A. in English from Vanderbilt University.
James Patterson lives in Palm Beach County, Florida, with his wife and their young son.Peter de Jonge has written several articles on golf for the New York Times Magazine and other international publications. This is the second novel that he as co-authored with James Patterson.