Dallas lawyer Casey Jordan takes on illegal immigrants and abuse of power in this legal thriller written by Tim Green.
It begins when a U.S. senator from Texas shoots an undocumented worker and fakes the death as a hunting accident. Casey, who practices law from an abandoned gas station, takes the widow's case.
Read an excerpt from "Above the Law" below and head to the "GMA" Library to find more good reads.
HEADLIGHTS CREPT UP THE WALL BEFORE JETTING ACROSS the ceiling and blinking out. Elijandro stiffened at the familiar purr of the engine and clatter of rocks off the undercarriage
as the white Range Rover descended the hillside lane. He left the sagging bed and the warmth of his young wife's body, skirted past the crib, and eased open the front door, letting himself out into the dark of predawn.
Elijandro clutched himself and stepped gingerly across the dirt yard until he stood shivering beside the Range Rover. The hills and the thick clouds above glowed in the orange flare from some distant lightning. Damp ozone floated on the small breeze. The new leaves on the lone willow tree shifted restlessly and the window hummed down, muffled now by the rumble of the approaching front. White teeth shone out at Elijandro, but the spade-cut smile and the familiar face of not the wife, but her husband and his boss, staggered him.
"You come good to the call," his boss said, grinning like a mask.
"The call?" Elijandro said.
"Like a tom turkey," the boss said, grinning, then clucking like a hen with a puck, puck, puck. "The sound of this Range Rover. The sound of my wife."
Elijandro stuttered until the boss interrupted.
"Screw her. Get your camo on, Ellie," he said. "Kurt said you put a flock to bed in the oaks out on Jessup's Knob and there was a big bird in with them. That right?"
Elijandro nodded eagerly and could see now that the boss wore camouflage from the neck down.
"Then let's go get his ass," the boss said. From the passenger seat he raised a bottle of Jack Daniel's and took a good slug before smacking the cork home with the palm of his hand.
Elijandro peered at the western sky. "Rain coming."
"So we'll get wet," the boss said. "Bird'll come to the call rain or shine. Lightning gets 'em excited. Go on."
Elijandro turned for the tenant house, scratching the stubble on his head, hopping barefoot through the stones, picking his way until he reached the porch.
The house had been built along with two dozen other shacks for migrant workers some sixty years ago. Like them, it sagged wearily under its rumpled tin roof, propped up off the dirt and more or less leveled on four cinder-block stacks. Being drenched in weather and heat for all those years had rendered each of the houses gray and had shrunken the slat-board siding like an old man's bones. Unlike the others, theirs squatted in the lowland by the Trinity River, where cattle inevitably got bogged down in the muck and had from time to time to be roped and dragged free with a mule. The boss's father was the one who had this shack sledged away from the company of its brethren by a team back in '67. By tradition, the place went to the top Mexican, a worker trusted enough to quickly shepherd the livestock free from the muck as soon as they began to bray and before they could do harm to themselves.