Hate Crime (Ben Kincaid Series #13)

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"In Tulsa, Ben Kincaid has built a national reputation as a stalwart defense attorney who will fight tirelessly for his clients. In Evanston, Illinois, Johnny Christensen has built a national reputation as a sadistic bigot who beat and stabbed a gay man and left him to die. When Johnny's mother comes to Ben and begs him to defend her son, he has one secret reason for saying no." "But while Ben turns down the case, his younger beautiful partner, Christina McCall, does not. Traveling to Chicago and facing an explosion of controversy and deadly
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New York 2003 Hardcover Second Printing. 370 pages. Hardcover with dustjacket. Brand new book. FICTION. A thrilling story of love, hate, and the power of a courtroom to separate ... deception from the truth. (Key Words: Hate, Crimes, William Bernhardt, District Attornies, Tulsa, Oklahoma, Love Stories, Murder Mysteries). Read more Show Less

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Hate Crime (Ben Kincaid Series #13)

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Overview

"In Tulsa, Ben Kincaid has built a national reputation as a stalwart defense attorney who will fight tirelessly for his clients. In Evanston, Illinois, Johnny Christensen has built a national reputation as a sadistic bigot who beat and stabbed a gay man and left him to die. When Johnny's mother comes to Ben and begs him to defend her son, he has one secret reason for saying no." "But while Ben turns down the case, his younger beautiful partner, Christina McCall, does not. Traveling to Chicago and facing an explosion of controversy and deadly violence surrounding the trial, Christina steps into a case that is already nearly lost. Her client's only defense is his claim that he left his victim bludgeoned but alive. To prove that someone else committed the actual murder, Christina needs a little bit of evidence - and a good motive to go with it." When unforeseen circumstances force Ben Kincaid to enter the trial, the defense attorney sees only one way to prove Johnny's innocence. But Ben's plan means luring a killer out of the woodwork - even though he may kill again.
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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Bernhardt sticks to his tried-and-true formula in his 13th novel to feature Tulsa defense attorney Ben Kincaid. An odious criminal defendant is foisted on Kincaid's practice: Johnny Christensen, a hate-filled frat boy accused of beating a gay man to death outside a singles bar in a Chicago suburb. Despite Kincaid's reluctance to take the case (at first, he flat-out refuses, for reasons he keeps hidden), he and partner Christina McCall put up the best criminal defense they can, allowing Bernhardt to explore issues of justice and contemporary mores while keeping the tension high. The well-paced plot weaves the hate crime of the title together with an Oklahoma kidnapping, Kincaid's romantic past, another grisly unsolved murder and a detective gone bad. In between, Bernhardt introduces readers to a straight male prostitute named Charlie the Chicken, a poetry-reciting homicide cop, a Christian social organization that opposes homosexuality above all else and a gay activist group that dabbles in courtroom executions and terrorism. Bernhardt places a premium on the plot twists, and his characters sometimes act in unlikely ways in service to the surprise. It should also be noted that the primary villain proves as eager to provide exposition of the scheme once nabbed as the typical Scooby Doo bad guy. That said, Bernhardt offers another good read, full of courtroom fireworks, double-crosses and even a bit of romance. (Feb.) Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
Crusading defense attorney Ben Kincaid has reasons beyond the obvious for refusing to take the case of a bigot who stabbed a gay man and then abandoned him to die. Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Nobody takes more can't-win cases than windmill-tilter Ben Kincaid. So why won't he touch this one? All Ben's friends are mystified. Not only is the case impossible, but there's no money in it-attributes that in the past have proved catnip to the quixotic Tulsa lawyer (Criminal Intent, 2002, etc.). The defendant is a 17-year-old horror only a mother could love. John Christensen is the son of engaging widow Ellen Christensen, once the girlfriend of . . . but that would be telling. Unlovely John stands accused of beating to death decent, likeable Tony Barovick for the crime of being gay. Insisting that he's innocent of homicide, Johnny cops to the beating ("Why does everyone care so much about a goddamned fag?"), acknowledges that he stabbed the victim 12 times and broke both his knees, but swears Tony was still alive when he left him bloody and beaten. Reluctantly, Christina McCall, Ben's partner, agrees to handle the defense alone. She's smart, inexperienced, and painfully aware of the empty adjoining chair. To gain Ben's help, however, she must first solve the mystery of his uncharacteristic behavior. Once she does, Ben joins the defense. They're splendid together, of course, but the prosecution's airtight case will take a miracle to defeat. So, bring on that staple of Bernhardt plotting, the deus ex machina. Lively courtroom scenes, as usual, but the rest is midgrade pulp. Agency: William Morris
From the Publisher

“Electrifying...a must read...kudos to Bernhardt for daring to go where angels fear to tread.”
Tulsa World

“[Hate Crime] has it all...[it's] a page-turner and is definitely William Bernhardt at his best."
Times Record News

“[Bernhardt is] master of the legal thriller."
–Abilene Reporter-News

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780345451477
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 2/3/2004
  • Series: Ben Kincaid Series, #13
  • Pages: 384
  • Product dimensions: 6.42 (w) x 9.34 (h) x 1.37 (d)

Meet the Author

William Bernhardt is the author of many books, including Primary Justice, Double Jeopardy, Silent Justice, Murder One, Criminal Intent, and Death Row. He has twice won the Oklahoma Book Award for Best Fiction, and in 2000 he was presented the H. Louise Cobb Distinguished Author Award “in recognition of an outstanding body of work in which we understand ourselves and American society at large.” A former trial attorney, Bernhardt has received several awards for his public service. He lives in Tulsa with his wife, Kirsten, and their children, Harry, Alice, and Ralph.

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Read an Excerpt

1

I should feel something more, Mike thought, as he squeezed one eye closed and pressed the other against the scope. Some twinge of reluctance, or regret. A tightening in my gut, a chill at the base of my spine. A tingling beneath the short hairs on the back of my neck. But . . .

All he felt was the strong and unmitigated desire to complete his mission, to do what he had come to do.

If the man would just come a little closer to the window, I could blow his head off, he mused. And would. With pleasure.

Major Mike Morelli of the Tulsa PD Homicide Division pulled his eye away from the reticle and wiped his brow. The world was a different place, viewed through a sniperscope. After three hours of micro-scrutinizing the apartment walls, the windows, the shadowy figures that passed just out of range, he saw everything from a new perspective. It was all deceptively larger, closer, and, as a result, it conveyed an urgency that Mike was having difficulty subduing. He wanted those bastards so badly. If he could rip out their jugulars with his teeth, he would.

The cloud cover barely allowed the sun passage. Here on the street, behind the barricade, there was a distinct coolness in the air, one Mike felt in the marrow of his bones. He had not expected this sort of weather and had not dressed for it. Even his trademark trench coat, a carryover from his younger days when he thought it gave him the stature and credibility his youthful face did not, was insufficient to warm him. It was a gloomy Oklahoma day, the perfect mirror for what he was feeling inside.

With something between a grunt and a sigh, Mike returned his eye to the scope and prayed for a clear shot. C’mon, Mr. Kidnapper, give me a chance. Come to the window for a breath of fresh air, just a tiny bit closer. I’ll give you a view you’ll never forget.

“Move back!” a man shouted from the darkness of the apartment, his electronically amplified voice sounding more desperate with each word. “Move back or I kill the kid!”

He’d been shouting like that off and on since the siege began, always frenzied, always violent, and always just out of range.

“I mean it! If you’re not on the other side of the street in one minute, I’ll ventilate him!”

Mike heard the personal radios surrounding him crackle to life, and a few moments later they were all moving back. Again. Hour twelve of the Sequoyah Heights siege. Progress made: zero. Mike’s finger rested ever so gingerly on the trigger guard, never past the safety. But if he thought he had a shot, he’d pull that trigger so fast the SOT team and their professional sharpshooters wouldn’t know what happened. He knew he could do it. He could sense the electricity surging through the stock into his shoulder. He could feel the cold steel and smell the leather strap. He had the power of life and death in his hands. But the only part that interested him at the moment was death. He wanted to pull that trigger so badly. Just give me half a chance, he murmured to himself. Just half a chance.

“Are you checked out for that weapon, Major?”

Mike eased away from the rifle, laying it on its side. Party’s over.

“Yes, Special Agent Swift, I am. As a matter of fact, I’m checked out for about every kind of weapon there is. But I was only using the scope to surveil the apartment.” And if you believe that . . .

“Just making sure. Don’t want any screwups on my watch.”

Her watch? When the hell did this become her watch? That was the problem with Feebies—one of several. They couldn’t cross the street without trying to take charge.

“Our first priority is getting that little boy out alive,” Mike reminded her.

“I’m well aware of that,” Agent Swift replied. She was a petite but strong woman, Mike observed, not for the first time. Dark hair, an almost perfect match to her turtleneck. Gun holstered by shoulder strap, visible when her jacket pulled back. She managed to bring off that no-nonsense, don’t-mess-with-me look without suggesting that she had an ax to grind. “But if one of my men gets a shot at one of the kidnappers, I can damn well guarantee we’re going to take it.”

“Good to know. Of course I wouldn’t dream of interfering.”

She gave him a long look. “I’ve always prided myself on my ability to work cooperatively with local law enforcement.” Mike had to grin, both because he knew that was a crock, and because for a moment he was certain she was going to say, “I’ve always depended upon the kindness of strangers.” Swift had come from the Chicago office of the Bureau, but she was originally from the Deep South—an Alabama girl, if he recalled correctly. Mike loved the accent—a pleasant change from the unenunciated drawl you got in Oklahoma the closer you moved to the Texas border. “That’s why you’re here. I wanted to keep the locals involved, but I can’t have you endangering the success of my operation with any hotdog stunts.”

Mike peered at her credulously. “Where would you ever get the idea I might try some hotdog stunts?”

“From everyone who knows you. Including Chief of Police Blackwell.”

Damn him, anyway. Whose side was he on?

“I also know you’re not so crazy about working with FBI agents. I heard what happened during the Lombardi case, so I guess you’ve got your reasons, but I still—”

“You still won’t let me endanger the success of your operation. I got that, Special Agent. I’ll keep my nose clean.”

“Until we catch the kidnappers. Afterward . . .” She cocked her head to one side. “You can try anything you want.”

Now what was that supposed to mean? he wondered, as he watched her move down the line and start in on one of the snipers. Was this FBI agent flirting with him? That would be a gross impropriety. And darned flattering.

He stood and buttoned his rumpled coat around his forty- four-inch chest. All of a sudden he was glad he’d dropped that postsmoking weight. Those trips to the gym might’ve been worth it, too.

But he didn’t need any distractions at the moment, or anything confusing his feelings. Eyes on the prize, he told himself. First we take down the pond scum in that apartment. He surveyed the phalanx of men surrounding him on the street, as well as the similar lineup on the rooftop of the office building just behind. Even if he didn’t particularly care to acknowledge it, Swift had done a first-rate job organizing this detail. She had everyone in place and ready to roll. There was no way those child-abusing monsters were going to escape this net. It was just a matter of time, a thought which filled him with a strange warmth. If only there was some way to accelerate the process.

Off to the left, he spotted two familiar faces moving in his direction.

“Stand at attention, Special Agent,” he said, raising his voice so she could hear. “The parents.”

Two well-dressed adults arrived at about the same time she did. The man was wearing a tailored suit and a starched white shirt. The woman wore a dark dress and clutched a DK handbag. At first blush, Mike read the man as angry, which meant guilt-ridden, and read the woman as angry, which meant terrified. But he supposed he could be wrong. He had been wrong before. Once.

“I’m Harrison Metzger. Which one of you is in charge?”

“I am,” they both answered, Swift, because she was, and Mike, because he had the irresistible urge to give her ego a tweak. They exchanged a pointed look.

“I’m a homicide detective for Tulsa PD,” Mike explained. “I’m in charge of the homicide case. This is Special Agent Swift with the FBI’s Child Abduction Task Force. She’s in charge of the kidnapping case.”

Metzger turned to Agent Swift. They always went to the Fed, Mike noted. The Oklahoma inferiority complex. Anyone from out of town had to be smarter than a local. “I want to know what’s being done to save my son. Looks to me like you’re all just sitting around on your asses.”

To her credit, Swift remained unruffled but not unsympathetic. “Mr. Metzger—”

“Dr. Metzger.”

“Doctor,” she corrected. “I’ve had my public relations liaison brief you every hour. I think you know everything we do. We’re waiting for an opportunity—”

“Who are these people, anyway?”

“The kidnappers? We don’t know their names. We believe there are four of them, working together. The one who keeps speaking into the bullhorn is obviously male. The others, we’re not sure.”

“I don’t understand why this is taking so long. You know where my boy is. Go in and get him!”

“Sir, I can assure you that—”

“Before, your excuse was that you didn’t know where they were. Now you’ve got them surrounded, and you’re still not doing anything!”

Mrs. Metzger stayed a safe distance behind her husband. Mike had the sense that she was embarrassed by her husband’s tirade, but she knew better than to interfere.

“We don’t think it would be prudent to storm the apartment. We know they’re armed—”

“Aren’t your people armed?”

“Of course.”

“So what’s the problem? Show some balls, girl.”

Agent Swift paused barely a beat before responding. “Sir, I can assure you that when the time is right for action, we will take it. But at the moment, our top priority is getting your son out safely, which means avoiding, if possible, an exchange of fire that might endanger—”

“This is what happens when you put a woman in charge.” He shifted his gaze to Mike. “Is there something you can do, Major?”

“I’m just here to support Agent Swift, sir. Whether you realize it or not, she’s playing this by the book. And doing a first-rate job of it.”

“Do you people know how long my son has been their captive?” His confrontational mask cracked a fraction. “There’s no telling what . . . what they might have done to him!”

“I understand your concern, Mr. Metzger—”

“Dr. Metzger.”

Mike drew in his breath. The man was a Ph.D., which, to his mind, barely counted and certainly didn’t justify constant correction. But this was not the time to digress. “Dr. Metzger, from the start, we have moved as quickly as possible. And that hasn’t changed. But what’s most important is that we get Tommy out alive. Remember, the ransom demand came in almost immediately, and you paid it according to their directions. We have no reason to believe the boy has been molested.”

That, of course, was a lie, statistically speaking, anyway. As Mike knew all too well, more than 90 percent of all noncustody- related child kidnappings involved some form of molestation. But in most cases the child turned up again relatively soon, after the kidnapper had taken what he wanted. When the child was held for longer than twenty-four hours, the statistics became far more grim. Less than 50 percent of those kids ever made it home again.

Tommy Metzger had been gone for eight days.

“What about poison gas?” Metzger continued. “What about a flamethrower? I want those men laid low! I want them to pay for what they’ve done to my family!”

On the other side of the street, Mike saw that a minicam reporter had spotted them and was recording the whole scene. Probably had one of those ultrapowerful spy mikes that can pick up conversations from miles away. Odds were this argument would be rehashed on the six o’clock news.

Read More Show Less

First Chapter

1

I should feel something more, Mike thought, as he squeezed one eye closed and pressed the other against the scope. Some twinge of reluctance, or regret. A tightening in my gut, a chill at the base of my spine. A tingling beneath the short hairs on the back of my neck. But . . .

All he felt was the strong and unmitigated desire to complete his mission, to do what he had come to do.

If the man would just come a little closer to the window, I could blow his head off, he mused. And would. With pleasure.

Major Mike Morelli of the Tulsa PD Homicide Division pulled his eye away from the reticle and wiped his brow. The world was a different place, viewed through a sniperscope. After three hours of micro-scrutinizing the apartment walls, the windows, the shadowy figures that passed just out of range, he saw everything from a new perspective. It was all deceptively larger, closer, and, as a result, it conveyed an urgency that Mike was having difficulty subduing. He wanted those bastards so badly. If he could rip out their jugulars with his teeth, he would.

The cloud cover barely allowed the sun passage. Here on the street, behind the barricade, there was a distinct coolness in the air, one Mike felt in the marrow of his bones. He had not expected this sort of weather and had not dressed for it. Even his trademark trench coat, a carryover from his younger days when he thought it gave him the stature and credibility his youthful face did not, was insufficient to warm him. It was a gloomy Oklahoma day, the perfect mirror for what he was feeling inside.

With something between a grunt and a sigh, Mike returned his eye to the scope and prayed fora clear shot. C'mon, Mr. Kidnapper, give me a chance. Come to the window for a breath of fresh air, just a tiny bit closer. I'll give you a view you'll never forget.

"Move back!" a man shouted from the darkness of the apartment, his electronically amplified voice sounding more desperate with each word. "Move back or I kill the kid!"

He'd been shouting like that off and on since the siege began, always frenzied, always violent, and always just out of range.

"I mean it! If you're not on the other side of the street in one minute, I'll ventilate him!"

Mike heard the personal radios surrounding him crackle to life, and a few moments later they were all moving back. Again. Hour twelve of the Sequoyah Heights siege. Progress made: zero. Mike's finger rested ever so gingerly on the trigger guard, never past the safety. But if he thought he had a shot, he'd pull that trigger so fast the SOT team and their professional sharpshooters wouldn't know what happened. He knew he could do it. He could sense the electricity surging through the stock into his shoulder. He could feel the cold steel and smell the leather strap. He had the power of life and death in his hands. But the only part that interested him at the moment was death. He wanted to pull that trigger so badly. Just give me half a chance, he murmured to himself. Just half a chance.

"Are you checked out for that weapon, Major?"

Mike eased away from the rifle, laying it on its side. Party's over.

"Yes, Special Agent Swift, I am. As a matter of fact, I'm checked out for about every kind of weapon there is. But I was only using the scope to surveil the apartment." And if you believe that . . .

"Just making sure. Don't want any screwups on my watch."

Her watch? When the hell did this become her watch? That was the problem with Feebies—one of several. They couldn't cross the street without trying to take charge.

"Our first priority is getting that little boy out alive," Mike reminded her.

"I'm well aware of that," Agent Swift replied. She was a petite but strong woman, Mike observed, not for the first time. Dark hair, an almost perfect match to her turtleneck. Gun holstered by shoulder strap, visible when her jacket pulled back. She managed to bring off that no-nonsense, don't-mess-with-me look without suggesting that she had an ax to grind. "But if one of my men gets a shot at one of the kidnappers, I can damn well guarantee we're going to take it."

"Good to know. Of course I wouldn't dream of interfering."

She gave him a long look. "I've always prided myself on my ability to work cooperatively with local law enforcement." Mike had to grin, both because he knew that was a crock, and because for a moment he was certain she was going to say, "I've always depended upon the kindness of strangers." Swift had come from the Chicago office of the Bureau, but she was originally from the Deep South—an Alabama girl, if he recalled correctly. Mike loved the accent—a pleasant change from the unenunciated drawl you got in Oklahoma the closer you moved to the Texas border. "That's why you're here. I wanted to keep the locals involved, but I can't have you endangering the success of my operation with any hotdog stunts."

Mike peered at her credulously. "Where would you ever get the idea I might try some hotdog stunts?"

"From everyone who knows you. Including Chief of Police Blackwell."

Damn him, anyway. Whose side was he on?

"I also know you're not so crazy about working with FBI agents. I heard what happened during the Lombardi case, so I guess you've got your reasons, but I still—"

"You still won't let me endanger the success of your operation. I got that, Special Agent. I'll keep my nose clean."

"Until we catch the kidnappers. Afterward . . ." She cocked her head to one side. "You can try anything you want."

Now what was that supposed to mean? he wondered, as he watched her move down the line and start in on one of the snipers. Was this FBI agent flirting with him? That would be a gross impropriety. And darned flattering.

He stood and buttoned his rumpled coat around his forty- four-inch chest. All of a sudden he was glad he'd dropped that postsmoking weight. Those trips to the gym might've been worth it, too.

But he didn't need any distractions at the moment, or anything confusing his feelings. Eyes on the prize, he told himself. First we take down the pond scum in that apartment. He surveyed the phalanx of men surrounding him on the street, as well as the similar lineup on the rooftop of the office building just behind. Even if he didn't particularly care to acknowledge it, Swift had done a first-rate job organizing this detail. She had everyone in place and ready to roll. There was no way those child-abusing monsters were going to escape this net. It was just a matter of time, a thought which filled him with a strange warmth. If only there was some way to accelerate the process.

Off to the left, he spotted two familiar faces moving in his direction.

"Stand at attention, Special Agent," he said, raising his voice so she could hear. "The parents."

Two well-dressed adults arrived at about the same time she did. The man was wearing a tailored suit and a starched white shirt. The woman wore a dark dress and clutched a DK handbag. At first blush, Mike read the man as angry, which meant guilt-ridden, and read the woman as angry, which meant terrified. But he supposed he could be wrong. He had been wrong before. Once.

"I'm Harrison Metzger. Which one of you is in charge?"

"I am," they both answered, Swift, because she was, and Mike, because he had the irresistible urge to give her ego a tweak. They exchanged a pointed look.

"I'm a homicide detective for Tulsa PD," Mike explained. "I'm in charge of the homicide case. This is Special Agent Swift with the FBI's Child Abduction Task Force. She's in charge of the kidnapping case."

Metzger turned to Agent Swift. They always went to the Fed, Mike noted. The Oklahoma inferiority complex. Anyone from out of town had to be smarter than a local. "I want to know what's being done to save my son. Looks to me like you're all just sitting around on your asses."

To her credit, Swift remained unruffled but not unsympathetic. "Mr. Metzger—"

"Dr. Metzger."

"Doctor," she corrected. "I've had my public relations liaison brief you every hour. I think you know everything we do. We're waiting for an opportunity—"

"Who are these people, anyway?"

"The kidnappers? We don't know their names. We believe there are four of them, working together. The one who keeps speaking into the bullhorn is obviously male. The others, we're not sure."

"I don't understand why this is taking so long. You know where my boy is. Go in and get him!"

"Sir, I can assure you that—"

"Before, your excuse was that you didn't know where they were. Now you've got them surrounded, and you're still not doing anything!"

Mrs. Metzger stayed a safe distance behind her husband. Mike had the sense that she was embarrassed by her husband's tirade, but she knew better than to interfere.

"We don't think it would be prudent to storm the apartment. We know they're armed—"

"Aren't your people armed?"

"Of course."

"So what's the problem? Show some balls, girl."

Agent Swift paused barely a beat before responding. "Sir, I can assure you that when the time is right for action, we will take it. But at the moment, our top priority is getting your son out safely, which means avoiding, if possible, an exchange of fire that might endanger—"

"This is what happens when you put a woman in charge." He shifted his gaze to Mike. "Is there something you can do, Major?"

"I'm just here to support Agent Swift, sir. Whether you realize it or not, she's playing this by the book. And doing a first-rate job of it."

"Do you people know how long my son has been their captive?" His confrontational mask cracked a fraction. "There's no telling what . . . what they might have done to him!"

"I understand your concern, Mr. Metzger—"

"Dr. Metzger."

Mike drew in his breath. The man was a Ph.D., which, to his mind, barely counted and certainly didn't justify constant correction. But this was not the time to digress. "Dr. Metzger, from the start, we have moved as quickly as possible. And that hasn't changed. But what's most important is that we get Tommy out alive. Remember, the ransom demand came in almost immediately, and you paid it according to their directions. We have no reason to believe the boy has been molested."

That, of course, was a lie, statistically speaking, anyway. As Mike knew all too well, more than 90 percent of all noncustody- related child kidnappings involved some form of molestation. But in most cases the child turned up again relatively soon, after the kidnapper had taken what he wanted. When the child was held for longer than twenty-four hours, the statistics became far more grim. Less than 50 percent of those kids ever made it home again.

Tommy Metzger had been gone for eight days.

"What about poison gas?" Metzger continued. "What about a flamethrower? I want those men laid low! I want them to pay for what they've done to my family!"

On the other side of the street, Mike saw that a minicam reporter had spotted them and was recording the whole scene. Probably had one of those ultrapowerful spy mikes that can pick up conversations from miles away. Odds were this argument would be rehashed on the six o'clock news.

Copyright© 2004 by William Bernhardt
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Sort by: Showing all of 10 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted July 14, 2014

    Tor

    Waits

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 8, 2014

    Djdo

    Sl

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 30, 2013

    Boring

    Almost as boring as Fay Kellerman

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted June 22, 2005

    Just when you think you have solved the case...ANOTHER twist comes into play.

    This novel is about 2 college kids who are on trial for torturing and killing a homosexual because he supposedly 'hit on' 1 of the 2 college kids. This is a pretty graphic book for those who choose to read it also! This is one of the many books that has character Ben Kinkaid in it. There are LOTS and LOTS of twists in this book. If you read this you won't be able to put it down until the end.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 27, 2004

    great book...tough read...

    William Bernhardt's hate crime, had a terrific plot, and many pitfalls of drama. The beginning starts off with a bang, and really hooks the readers. And the ending is also very gripping. But the middle is a little...for lack of a better word... boring. The plot is drawn out to a dull roar.. The characters are well developed and the almighty Ben Kincad returns for yet another great adventure. This is a tale of murder and suspicion, but it was found guilty in my personal favor.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 1, 2004

    A ROLLERCOASTER RIDE FROM BEGINNING TO END!

    The plot superb, the suspense gripping. the mystery enticing, and the characters 3-dimensional! What more can one ask? Just when the climactic point was reached, the denoument seemed rather lengthy...to my surprise, there were more jolts, spins and turns until the very end!

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 17, 2003

    ne surprise after another -Great legal thriller

    Some crimes are more repulsive than others are, as Major Mike Morelli of the Tulsa PD Homicide Division knows very well. He along with the FBI and a swat team are trying to rescue an eight-year-old boy who was kidnapped eight days ago. The police know where they are and plan to neutralize the kidnappers so they will not kill the boy. When they finally make a move, the child is unharmed but the kidnappers are missing........................................ In Chicago, two homophobic college men beat a gay bartender within an inch of his life but they leave him alive when they walked away. His body was found in the perpetrator¿s fraternity house very much dead. When one of the defendants and his lawyer is killed in open court, the remaining defendant¿s mother asks lawyer Ben Kincaid to defend him. He declines for personal reasons but his partner agrees to take the case not realizing everyone connected to the case is in danger because it is linked back to the kidnapping in Tulsa.............................................. William Bernhardt is one of the best writers of legal thrillers in today¿s competitive sub-genre. His protagonist is a vulnerable champion of the underdog who believes everyone has the right to an attorney. The reason he refuses the case involving a relationship he had with the suspect¿s mother that ended badly and gives the reader a glimpse into his battered soul. When he becomes involved in the case, he does not let his personal feelings interfere with the job and readers will root for him to prevail even though they detest the person he represents...................................... Harriet Klausner

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 9, 2003

    good author

    i always read his books. they are always good. hope he continues the writing.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 4, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted March 4, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

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