– ‘The Magic of Wor(l)ds’ blog is a hobby, reviews and other bookish stuff on this site are done for free. –
Today I’m on the ‘Unsympathetic Victims’ blogtour, organized by Love Books Tour.
To promote this book I have an excerpt, but before I let you read it first some ‘basic’ information.
About the Author :
Laura Snider is a practicing lawyer in Iowa. She graduated from Drake Law School in 2009 and spent most of her career as a Public Defender. Throughout her legal career, she has been involved in all levels of crimes from petty thefts to murders. These days she is working part-time as a prosecutor and spends the remainder of her time writing stories and creating characters.
Laura lives in Iowa with her husband, three children, two dogs, and two very mischievous cats.
When a defense attorney becomes the defendant, one small town is forced to reconsider their ideas of good and evil.
When successful public defender Ashley Montgomery helps acquit yet another client, people in small-town Brine, Iowa are enraged. Following the verdict, a protest breaks out — and the hated defense attorney quickly finds her life in danger.
But little does Ashley know, things are about to get worse — much worse. One of her clients turns up dead, and Ashley is arrested for his murder. As local investigators Katie Mickey and George Thomanson dive into the case, they start to suspect that Ashely is being framed — but by whom?
With Ashley’s freedom at stake, Katie and George are desperate to find out the truth. And soon, they uncover a sinister plot born of corruption, greed, and misplaced loyalty that will leave the whole town reeling — and questioning their faith in the people they trusted most.
Unsympathetic Victims is the first in the Ashley Montgomery Legal Thriller Series. Fans of relatable female protagonists and plot twists that keep you guessing will love Laura Snider’s gripping debut novel.
The truth was supposed to set him free. That was what other inmates had told Arnold while he spent that year incarcerated in the Brine County Jail, waiting for trial. But it wasn’t the truth that resulted in Arnold Von Reich’s eventual acquittal. It was an attorney, Ashley Montgomery. She didn’t care about truth; she cared about winning. Which was to his benefit, considering what he had done to his wife.
He had thought his trial was over, back when the foreperson announced, “Not guilty,” but he was wrong. The jail released him, sending him back into society, and that was when he started a wholly different sentence. It was not incarceration, but it was not freedom either. The Brine townspeople harassed him.
Threatened him. Destroyed his property. He almost preferred prison.
Two of his harassers had been at Mikey’s Tavern all that week, watching him. Erica Elsberry, his late wife’s best friend, and Christopher Mason. They sneered and leered at him, like he did not deserve to breathe the same air as them. Like the atmosphere belonged to them. They were hypocrites, of course, like everyone else in Brine. For they had their own transgres-sions. The only difference was that they just made excuses for their fuckups.
Arnold sniffed, then sneezed, running the back of his hand along his nose. The musty air, a mixture of stale beer and moldy popcorn, inside Mikey’s Tavern played havoc on his allergies.
But he had to bear it. There were three bars in town, and Mikey’s was the only one that would serve him.
His head drooped, and he attempted to focus on his drink.
An amber liquid inside a cheap, heavily scratched glass. There were two of them, his drinks, one solid while the second was its ghostlike twin. He blinked hard, and the two glasses merged into one. Shit. It was nearly empty.
Arnold motioned to the bartender, waving a pale arm back and forth, like an overzealous student who wanted the teacher to call on him. The bartender didn’t see him.
“Hey!” Arnold shouted.
The bartender ran a stained rag along the top of the back bar. He moved pathetically slow. An old man tottering on aging knees. The bartender’s hair was nearly nonexistent, and his back was so stooped that it rivaled that of the Hunchback of Notre Dame.
Arnold hoped he would never make it to such an age, to morph into a weak shell of his former self. He would off himself if it came to that. He was no spring chicken, but he knew his way around a knife. He could hold his own, so long as he was sober enough to see straight. Which he wasn’t anymore—that ship had already sailed. The only thing to do was ride it through to the end of the night. Which reminded him of his empty glass.
The Magic of Wor(l)ds