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Zusatztext No one is above the law. "A great thriller: breakneck pacing! electrifying courtroom scenes! and a cast of richly crafted characters." --People "A well-paced legal thriller...one of the best in this flourishing genre to come along in a while." --The Washington Post Book World "Begin [Guilt] over a weekend...if you start during the work week! you will be up very very late! and your pleasure will be tainted with! well! guilt." --The Philadelphia Inquirer Informationen zum Autor John Lescroart is the New York Times bestselling author of numerous legal thrillers and mysteries, most of them set in contemporary San Francisco. Among his novels are The Fall , The Keeper , The Ophelia Cut , The Hunt Club, The Second Chair, The First Law, Nothing but the Truth, and Dead Irish, as well as two novels featuring Auguste Lupa, the reputed son of Sherlock Holmes. Klappentext Influential San Francisco attorney Mark Dooher is affluent! powerful! totally in control! and used to getting what he wants. When he meets a beautiful young attorney! he decides he wants her too. But Dooher is a married man! and as legal counsel for the Archdiocese of San Francisco! divorce isn't exactly on his agenda. Then Dooher's wife is murdered! and he becomes a suspect in the case. Even then! there's no cause for alarm. The woman he wants is close by his side. His best friend! the ever-loyal Wes Farrell! is his defense lawyer. Nothing! not past crimes! current scandals! or future desires! is going to stop him. Except perhaps the truth. Mark Dooher couldn't take his eyes off the young woman who had just entered the dining room at Fior d'Italia and was being seated, facing them, at a table ten feet away. His companion for lunch was, like Dooher, an attorney. His name was Wes Farrell and he generally practiced in a different stratum--lower--than Dooher did. The two men had been best friends since they were kids. Farrell glanced up from his calamari, his baleful eyes glinting with humor, trying to be subtle as he took in the goddess across the room. "Too young," he said. "My foot, Wes." "All parts of you, not just your foot. Besides which," Farrell went on, "you're married." "I am married." Farrell nodded. "Keep repeating it. It's good for you. I, on the other hand, am getting divorced." "I can never get divorced. Sheila would never divorce me." "You could divorce her if you wanted to... "Impossible." Then, amending: "Not that I'd ever want to, of course, but impossible." "Why?" Dooher went back to his pasta for a moment. "Because, my son, even in our jaded age, when ninety percent of your income derives from your work as counsel to the Archdiocese of San Francisco, when you are in fact a prominent player in the Roman Catholic community, as I am, a divorce would play some havoc with your business. Across the board. Not just the Church itself, but all the ancillary..." Farrell broke off a bite-sized piece of Italian bread and dipped it into the little dish of extra virgin olive oil that rested between them. "I doubt it. People get divorced all the time. Your best friend, for example, is getting divorced right now. Have I mentioned that?" "Lydia's divorcing you, Wes. You're not divorcing her. It's different. God," he said, "look at her." Farrell glanced up again. "She looks good." "Good?" Dooher feasted for another moment on the vision. "That woman is so far beyond 'good' that the light from 'good' is going to take a year to get to her." "At which time, you'll be a year older and forever out of her reach. Pass the butter." "Butter will kill you, you know." Farrell nodded. "Either that or something else. This calamari milleottocentoottantasei , for example." "Or pr...
