CHAPTER 1

Thomas Chandler walked out of the courtroom in the Windham County Courthouse in downtown Brattleboro, Vermont; he was doing the best he could to stifle a grin. His strides were long, and the attorney held his head high. It was the second time in a week that he had convinced a judge to dismiss a case based upon his extraordinary ability to decipher the law.

Like every other lawyer in the land, he had one of the most important rules pounded into his brain over and over again during law school—anticipating the offense is most certainly the key to a great defense. As he worked his way through the crowded hallway he thoughtGood thing I did my homework. Another satisfied client, another case closed. His reputation as one of the finest criminal defense lawyers in New England was well earned, based on the hard work he did for his clients.

At six-foot-two, two hundred twenty pounds, Thomas was still in great shape for his age at thirty-seven. He had been a linebacker on the University of Oklahoma football team, before going on to law school at Boston College and graduating at the top of his class in 2001. A Cherokee Indian by birth, the crew cut he wore reflected his heritage.

Avoiding the elevator, he took the stairway and methodically made his way to the next floor as he savored his victory. Running three to four miles every morning gave him both the wind and the strength to take the stairs two at a time. Upon reaching the top, the attorney opened the door and entered the corridor. Making his way along the stone-floored hallway, he headed for the door to room 515—the official kingdom of Judge Stanley Lynde.

Before opening the heavy oak door to the courtroom, he peered through the small window set in the door and took notice that court was still in session. Doing his best not to make a sound, Thomas silently entered the almost empty courtroom. Before taking a seat, he quickly scanned the room for his client, to no avail. But none of his classes at Boston College Law School could ever have prepared him for what came next.

“Is there a problem, counselor?” Judge Lynde inquired from his throne.

“No, your honor. Just looking for my client,” Thomas responded politely.

“Either sit down or get out of my courtroom, Mr. Chandler,” the judge demanded.

“Yes, your honor,” the attorney replied, as he sat down on the hard wooden bench next to him.

With a quick glance at his watch, Thomas realized that he was nearly thirty minutes ahead of schedule. Halfway past his early morning breakfast and heading toward lunchtime, his stomach grumbled as he thought about getting a snack in the first-floor coffee shop. No, he decided—since he was already here, he might as well stay put. No sense in raising the ire of the robed man with the God complex at the front of the room.

This courtroom was like every other courtroom in the building. Originally built in 1865, and renovated in the mid-seventies to preserve its historic feeling, the ceilings were high, the windows grand, and floors uncovered to proudly display the hardwood. The public gallery seats were made to be functional first, and comfortable second. Like the pews in an old church, it hurt to sit on them for more than fifteen minutes.

Thomas was thankful that it was early spring, as buildings like this weren’t able to hold the heat in the colder months, nor be kept cool enough in the middle of