CELTICLADY'S REVIEWS: Defense of an Other by Grace Mead Blog Tour! @fayerogersuk, @authoright @gracemead2015 #DefenseofanOther

Summary:

Defense of an Other begins in the French Quarter with a day in the life of a young lawyer named Matt Durant gone horribly awry. After a few beers, Matt works up the courage to visit a gay bar, where he meets a stranger named Joey Buckner. When Matt and Joey duck into an alley behind the bar to take a leak, three drunks target them for a hate crime and beat up Joey, which forces Matt to attack and kill one of the men. Matt is then arrested for murder, thrown in Orleans Parish Prison and calls his boss for help, forcing him out of the closet. The novel then follows the course of his trial and explores its consequences.

Information about the Book

Title: Defense of an Other

Author: Grace Mead

Release Date: 13th November 2018

Genre: Legal Thriller

Page Count: 312

Publisher: Clink Street Publishing

Goodreads Link: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/42328283-defense-of-an-other

Amazon Link: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Defense-Other-Grace-Mead-ebook/dp/B07G4P389P

Author Information

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Grace is a practicing lawyer born and raised in Louisiana who graduated from Dartmouth College and then became the Editor-in-Chief of The University of Chicago Law Review. Her 17-year career has included a one-year clerkship for the appellate court with jurisdiction over Louisiana federal trial courts and 16 years of civil litigation.

Website: https://www.defenseofanother.com/

Twitter: http://twitter.com/GraceMead2015

Adult Language

Read an Extract!

Movement drew Matt’s attention beyond Joey, where the street’s light painted the alley’s mouth in twilight. Three figures lurched toward them, and the largest, funneled closer by the brick walls, cast a shadow even in the alley’s depths. Then he loomed over Joey.

“I told you we’d find a couple of faggots back here,” said the massive man. “Hard to believe such little faggots would have cocks big enough to do anything to each other so far apart.” He shifted to a soft but ungentle drawl. “So, tell me, little man, are you a faggot ’cause you got a tiny cock?”

“Why? You interested?” Joey approached him and alarmed Matt; by closing the distance, Joey had narrowed their options.

“I could say we’re gonna beat the shit out of y’all because of that smart-assed comment. But we’ve been plannin’ to beat the shit out of some fag all night.”

His two companions grabbed Joey and pinned his arms behind his back. Matt zipped up. He considered going for help, but the men stood between him and the club door and behind him a large U-Haul truck and a dumpster choked off the exit to the street. He probably couldn’t weave his way to either without being caught.

Cornered, outnumbered, and outsized, Matt’s adrenaline spiked. Fear tinged with panic and fury spurred him to seize every advantage—rather than dropping the bottle, he dropped the hand holding it to his thigh, tilted it down so the dregs gurgled out, and then pushed it against his leg until he gripped the fat, slick barrel. He steadied himself and started toward the men. “You’ve had your fun,” he said. “Why don’t you let him go now? He was just taking a leak, like every other drunk in the Quarter tonight.”

“We haven’t had our fun. Our fun involves more’n just scarin’ your girlfriend here.”

The largest man turned toward Joey, pulled back a gargantuan fist, and unloaded it. Joey’s nose exploded and he sagged against the men restraining him.

“Tell you what,” Joey’s assailant said to Matt. “Why don’t you just hide over there by that dumpster for a while and we’ll think about cutting you some slack.”

“Sorry. Can’t do that,” Matt said.

One of the smaller men dropped Joey’s arm and he slumped to the ground. The man stepped out to meet Matt; his right hand went into his pocket; and there was a glint of steel—a four-inch blade. Matt had to act.

As the runt approached, he said: “Last warning. Why dont’cha be smart and get outta here? Maybe you’ll get lucky and we won’t chase you.”

Matt closed the distance and delivered a right uppercut to the body. As the man fell back a half-step, Matt pulled back, rotated his hips, and the muscles in his shoulder blade transformed his mediocre jab into a snapping left hook. Matt slipped it behind the smaller man’s guard, pointed the neck of the beer bottle toward the him, and concentrated on punching through his head.

The bottle tip crumpled the smaller man’s right temple. On instinct, Matt doubled up and swung again with the same left hook, which came harder. The man’s left temple collapsed, the neck of the beer bottle buried in his skull. Matt didn’t let go fast enough—inky blood coated his hand before the falling body tore the bottle from his grasp.

Matt rushed past the man’s two companions, who were standing stunned. He stuttered to a stop, pulled open the back door, and yelled, “Three rednecks are out here beating the shit out of Joey.”

The woman in the gold dress rushed out with a Louisville Slugger, a crowd of patrons surging behind her. The assailants bent over their friend on the ground.

The large man screamed, “Call 911! I think he’s dead.”

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