Penned by a practicing criminal defense attorney, Blood Perfect is a uniquely authentic tale that probes the subconscious mind and depicts an unfiltered view of the modern criminal justice system. Below is an excerpt from the novel:

PROLOGUE

Closing argument had always been my favorite part of a jury trial. Some attorneys relished the cross examination of a hostile witness, but I found it unpleasantly confrontational. Direct examination of my client was fraught with disaster—like the time my client accused of drunk driving began slurring his words on the stand.

But closing arguments were just me, selling my case to the jury. The stifling rules about mischaracterizing evidence were put on hold in the closing, and it was always the most relaxing and enjoyable part of the trial.

All of this made what was happening to me at this very second quite unthinkable.

My closing had begun well enough. I’d spoken about the prosecution’s burden of proof and was making good eye contact with some of the jurors. I was commenting on my client’s upbringing in Oakland and his various means of employment when it happened.

Until that instant, so much of the case had baffled me and I’d had the distinct impression that there were forces at work unknown to me. But just then, my own words jostled the jigsaw puzzle in my brain, and a stray piece settled perfectly into place. The puzzle now complete, its image shook me to my core.

I stopped in mid-sentence and felt a wave of heat flush my face. Reaching for the railing of the jury box, the floor began to undulate under my feet. I turned toward the judge to request a recess, but all at once the courtroom’s lights rapidly dimmed.

And now I lay face down in the courtroom. I feel hands patting my shoulders and taste blood on my bottom lip.

CHAPTER 1

Four Days Ago, August 25, 2021

“Who is Roger Moore?” Yellow teeth crunched an apple slice as he settled back into a cracked leather sofa. A brown tweed sweater sagged from his arms. “Who fucking knows,” he sighed, loosening his belt a notch.

He stared at the shiny flat screen on the wall of his cramped apartment, the television a gift from his granddaughter. She acted like she had given him a rocket ship. He didn’t like the glare.

At sixty-five, he had taken the job as caretaker of this crap hotel called the Islander. His brother-in-law had made it seem more like an ocean front resort than a seedy flophouse in west Oakland. He snorted at the absurdity.

“Who is Joe DiMaggio.” He smiled at the memory, his bald spot cooled by the worn leather. “Joe D.,” he sighed. “That wop could hit.” A toe pried off one shoe, then the other, the leather loafers falling to an oval rug he had purchased on a reservation in Arizona.

“Who is, uh. . . Neil Armstrong. . .John Glenn. Okay Alex, so fucking smart with the answers in your hands.”

He exhaled and shifted his shoulders, melding into his spot. Today had been the first day of the month and that made it his least favorite. Everyone had an excuse. I got laid off, I got robbed, my mom died. One tenant’s mom died every three or four months.

But no matter how lame the excuse, he was the bad guy. If you can’t pay the freight, just say so, or better yet, move out. But stop with the lying excuses. Try working a day in your miserable life. And no, I’m not going to lend you fifty bucks so you can buy dope, and no, you can’t use the office phone.

He wouldn’t be in this shithole much longer though, thanks to his brother’s half-wit son, Denny. The kid couldn’t be trusted behind the front desk, but damn if he couldn’t play the ponies. It was like that retard in the movie who could count cards. Kid spent every waking hour down at the stables, shoveling shit, feeding them carrots and placing bets. Claims he conversates with the horses somehow. Loopy fucker can think what he wants if he keeps bringing in seven hundred a week. The kid don’t even care that he keeps the winnings. Give him a twenty once in a while and keep him in carrots and he’s happy as a pig in slop.

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