Winner of the 2011 INTERNATIONAL BOOK AWARDS, and Amazon.com #1 bestselling author Joshua Graham’s Barnes & Noble #1 bestselling novel BEYOND JUSTICE is taking the world by storm, one reader at a time. Many of his readers blame him for sleepless nights, arriving to work late, neglected dishes and family members, and not allowing them to put the book down.

BEYOND JUSTICE, THE ACCIDENTAL EXORCIST, THE ACCIDENTAL HERO, THE ACCIDENTAL HEALER, and DEATH AND TAXES, have reached the top of multiple bestseller list on Barnes & Noble topping titles by John Grisham, Linda Fairstein, Scott Turrow and James Lee Burke, Ted Dekker and Steven James. Soaring to the top of the Barnes & Noble lists, BEYOND JUSTICE recently hit #1 in the Legal Thriller and Christian Thriller categories, topping by John Grisham, Joel C. Rosenberg, and Michael Connelly. It has also remained on the Amazon.com top 100 bestselling Kindle bestseller list months after its release.

Suspense Magazine listed BEYOND JUSTICE in its BEST OF 2010, alongside titles by Scott Turrow, Ted Dekker, Steven James and Brad Thor.

His short story THE DOOR’S OPEN won the HarperCollins Authonomy Competition (Christmas 2010.)

Publishers Weekly described BEYOND JUSTICE as:

“…A riveting legal thriller…. breaking new ground with a vengeance… demonically entertaining and surprisingly inspiring.”

DISCLAIMER
No items that I receive
are ever sold…they are kept by me,
or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com,
Barnes & Noble and/or any other retail/wholesale
outlets either online and/or elsewhere.
I am providing this link solely for visitors
that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.
I do not receive any monetary compensation from any parties

As Wil walked up his front path, he heard the gate open behind him and a voice ask, “Mr Jackson?”
He turned. “Yes, that’s right, how can I help you?”
The person asking the question was tall and well-built, although it looked all muscle, not a streak of fat. But for the pink polo shirt and linen trousers over deck shoes, the guy would look quite frightening, as he filled the gateway on his way through it.
“I’m Detective Chief Inspector Price, Metropolitan Police. I’d like to talk to you about a Mr Arthur Trent. Do you know Mr Trent?”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t say that I actually ‘know’ him, as such. I interviewed him a couple of days ago for a piece I’m writing for a website. What’s this all about?”
“It would be better if we spoke inside, Mr Jackson – the situation is a little delicate at this moment in time.”
“Sure, come around to my office; we can talk there. Follow me.”
Wil led the Inspector around the side of his end terrace and through another gate, taking him into the back garden and towards his living-ark office. He unlocked the door and slid it to one side. The cool air from the inside washed across them.
“Seems like it would be more comfortable to talk in there,” Price said. “Air-conditioning?”
“No, it’s all part of the design. Stays warm in the winter and cool in the summer, perfect for working in, an office away from home, although not quite. Pretty geeky too, isn’t it? Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Err…yes.”
Wil raised an eyebrow in enquiry.
“Sorry. Yes to the tea, and your shed. Milk no sugar, please.”
“Come in and take a seat.” Wil waved towards a smart red leather sofa centre-piecing a wall of his office. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
Price relaxed into the plush sofa and had a good look around the interior. It was clearly, first and foremost, an office of sorts, although from the outside, it looked a little like something out of a science fiction movie. One wall contained a work bench with monitors, telephone, computers and a printer, as well as a disarray of paperwork scattered across the surface. The side where Price was sitting was mostly taken up by the sofa but also had some bookshelves with a mixture of what looked to be science fiction novels crossed with text books and other works of non-fiction. Price watched Wil as he moved towards the back corner of the room, where there was a kettle and a coffee maker. As with the computer hardware and other paraphernalia in the room, these looked rather sedate, but apparently functional. There were a further two doors on the back wall; Price guessed that one probably led to some kind of bathroom, but had no idea what might lie behind the other. In between th! em stood a wood burning stove with a polished, galvanised chimney, which rose to the ceiling; it was showing some blueing from heat at the joins.
Price continued to watch Wil; he didn’t look to be a very likely murder suspect, more like an out of place schoolboy. Somewhere between nerd and geek, he hardly looked capable of blowing someone up – although appearances could be deceptive, and judging by the amount of technology and other bits and pieces in this one room alone, he wouldn’t be at all surprised if Wil Jackson had more than one skeleton in his closet.
Wil turned from his tea making duties with a cup of steaming brew in his hand, which he passed to Price. After taking a second cup, he settled into his office chair at the work bench.
“Now, what’s all this about Arthur Trent?” Wil asked, raising an eyebrow.
“When you saw Mr Trent, was it in his office, Mr Jackson?”
“It was, down in the Docklands. That big tower, owned by the bank he worked for – great view from forty-four floors up. I still don’t understand what I can help you with, though, Inspector, err, Price, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s right, Gavin Price. Mr Trent is dead, sir – murdered by the looks of things, and we’re trying to establish who he saw in the last few days of his life. That’s why I need to speak to you. It seems as though you were one of the last people to actually see him alive.”
Suddenly it all made sense to Wil; the news report, and now the policeman on his doorstep asking questions.

DISCLAIMER

I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me,

in exchange for my honest review.

No items that I receive

are ever sold…they are kept by me,

or given to family and/or friends.

ADDENDUM

I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com,

Barnes & Noble and/or any other retail/wholesale

outlets either online and/or elsewhere.

I am providing this link solely for visitors

that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

I do not receive any monetary compensation from any parties

Chapter One

The furor in the media had just died down when Solly’s call came that rainy midweek day. I’d been hiding from the wolves of the fourth estate for nearly three weeks, holed up in my book-filled condo/prison in Charlestown, unable even to slip outside for a breath of fresh air without some cookie-cutter reporter, with a paint-by-numbers smile, sticking a microphone in my face and asking me the same tired question: “What was it like?”
As if the whole of my experience could be quantified in a sound bite.
Truth was I was avoiding everyone, even Julia and her earnest attempts to help me sort through the miasma of doubt and pain.
Sweet Julia.
We’ve been on-and-off again for the last five years. And I hadn’t seen her for the better part of a year. I¬¬ guess she thought now was as good a time as any to mend fences. Christ, if she only knew….
And what was worse, the book I’d promised my publisher, the one that was supposed to chronicle all I’d been through, lay like a beached whale on the shore of my imagination. I was standing at the bay window overlooking the harbor, watching the rain sluice down the glass, wondering if I would ever have the courage to write again, when my gaze shifted to the pile of DVDs lying in a scattered heap on the teakwood coffee table.
My eyes filled with tears yet again.
“I’m so sorry, Maddy,” I groaned, knocking my forehead against the cool glass. “I’m so goddamned sorry.”
“You have a call,” the computer intoned in a quiet contralto, making me wince. Even the goddamned computer’s voice reminded me of Madeleine.
“Who is it?” I asked, expecting to hear it was yet another call from the Globe. Hometown reporters were the worst, the most ravenous.
And then I remembered I’d instructed the computer to screen all calls, allowing access to only a select few.
“The caller has an Identity Block in place. Shall I take a message?”
I sighed.
To hell with it. I had to rejoin the human race at some point, even if I felt as if I no longer belonged in it.
“Put it through,” I said, making my way over to the sleek MacBook Pro sitting atop my writing desk. The screen came to life and Solly Rubens’ round face filled the screen. His saturnine looks were etched with concern, an expression that somehow looked ominous on him.
“Hey, Hughes, you okay? How are you holding up?”
The tiny “picture-in-picture” in the upper left-hand corner of the screen showed me what Solly was seeing, rendering his question moot.
I looked as if I’d taken the cook’s tour of Hell: blue eyes¬¬–red-rimmed and puffy–surrounded by dark circles, sandy hair greasy and disheveled, three-day growth of a patchy red-flecked beard, and the same clothes I’d worn since Monday. I looked sixty-two, instead of forty-two. All in all, I presented a picture about as far as one could get from what Boston magazine had called: “The World’s Most Eligible Author.”
“How the hell do you think I’m holding up?” I said, staring back at Solly. His eyes blinked rapidly and I debated whether or not to instruct the MAC to disconnect, when he spoke again.
“Aw, man, I’m sorry. I really put my foot in it, didn’t I?” he said, trying to appear contrite. “Listen, I know we’ve never been the best of pals, but we had some good times back in school, didn’t we? I mean, Christ, we’ve been through a hell of a lot since Harvard. You a hotshot writer. Me hittin’ the big time. I still can’t believe it’s been a year–”
“What do you want, Solly?”
His porcine eyes darted somewhere off-screen, then riveted onto mine.
“Ken and I thought you should get out of the house, maybe meet us at the Harvard Club. What do you say?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You gotta talk about it sometime,” he said, his Brooklyn tenor rising in pitch. “You’ve been avoiding us for weeks, you look like crap, and everybody–and I mean everybody’s–been trying to find out what the hell happened out there. And what about Julia? You shutting her out? You treatin’ her like dirt, too?”
I resented him bringing her name up, only because I knew he was using her as leverage, and not out of any real concern for her feelings.
Not that I was any better.
“She’s none of your business, Solly. Leave her out of this.”
“All right, I’m sorry. But you know I’m right. You gotta get on with your life, for Christ’s sake. If you’re not gonna do it for yourself, do it for Harlan.”
I leaned forward, my nose practically touching the screen. “Where were you when Harlan needed the three of us? Huh? Where the hell were you when the chips were down? Taking Karen to another Broadway show?”
Solly’s lips compressed into a thin angry line. “Okay, I deserved that. But Ken and I have a right to know what happened.”
So, that was it. Like everyone else, they wanted to know the truth about Harlan’s death–wanted to know all the gory details. Christ, they were no better than the goddamned muckrakers slinking around my front door. And why was it so important to Ken and Solly, anyway?
Would it bring Harlan back? Would it bring any of them back? Why the hell couldn’t they just leave me alone?
And then, all at once, the anger passed, as if someone had thrown a switch inside me. Suddenly, I wanted very badly to tell someone–anyone. And perhaps it was more than fitting to do it where it all began.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll meet you guys at the club, Friday night at six.”
Solly cracked a grin, revealing crooked yellow teeth. “It’ll do you good, Hughes, you’ll see.”
“Maybe…. But drinks and dinner are on you.”
He chuckled.
“My pleasure. See you there.”
The screen went dark, and I sat there for a long moment, wondering if I shouldn’t blow them off. And then I realized Harlan would want me to go. I doubted very much, however, once they heard the whole story, it would be any pleasure for any of us….

AUTHOR’S NOTE
(This part is true.)In late 1999 a woman from Vienna, Virginia, a suburb ten miles from the White House as the crow flies, called the CIA. The woman, a fifty-something mother of three, phoned to report what she referred to as potential terrorists living across the street from her middle-class home. She went on to explain what she had been seeing in her otherwise quiet neighborhood: Strange men of seemingly Middle-Eastern descent using their cell phones in the yard. Meetings in the middle of the night with bumper-to-bumper curbside parking, expensive cars rubbing ends with vans and common Japanese imports. A constant flow of young men, some who seemed to stay for long periods of time without introducing themselves to anyone in the neighborhood. The construction of a six-foot wooden fence to hide the backyard from the street only made the property more suspicious.Upon hearing a layperson’s description of suspicious behavior, the CIA promptly dismissed the woman and her phone call. (Ironically, the woman lived less than a quarter of a mile from a CIA installation, though it was not CIA headquarters as was later reported.)

In the days and weeks following 9/11, the intelligence community in the U.S. began to learn the identities of the nineteen hijackers who had flown the planes into the World Trade Towers and the Pentagon. In the process of their investigation they discovered that two of the hijackers, one on each of the planes that hit the World Trade Towers, had listed a particular house in Vienna, Virginia as a place of residence.

The FBI and various other agencies swooped in on the unassuming neighborhood and began knocking on doors. When they reached the house of a certain mother of three, she stopped them dead in their tracks. She was purported to have said, “I called the CIA two years ago to report that terrorists were living across the street and no one did anything.”

The CIA claimed to have no record of a phone call.

The news networks set up cameras and began broadcasting from the residential street. ABC, NBC, FOX. The FBI followed up with further inquiries. The woman’s story was later bounced around the various post 9/11 committees and intelligence hearings on Capitol Hill. (Incidentally, after 9/11, the CIA closed its multi-story facility in the neighborhood where the terrorist reportedly lived. In 2006 the empty building was finally torn down and, as of early 2011, was being replaced with another office building).

There has been much speculation about what the government should have or could have known prior to 9/11. The answer is not simple. There have been anecdotal stories of people in Florida and elsewhere who claimed to have reported similar “terrorist” type activities by suspicious people prior to 9/11. None of these stories have been proven.

What we do know is that with the exception of the flight school instructor in Minnesota who questioned the motive of a student who was interested in flying an aircraft without learning how to land, and an unheeded warning from actor James Woods who was on a plane from Boston with several of the purported terrorists while they were doing a trial run, the woman from Vienna, Virginia was the country’s best chance to prevent 9/11. To date, there has been no verification of any other pre-9/11 warnings from the general public so far in advance of that fateful day in September.

For me, there is no doubt as to the validity of the claims of the woman in Vienna.

She lived in the house where I grew up. She is my mother.

Mark Gilleo. October, 2011. Washington DC.

* * *

Ariana turned on the nightlight and closed the door to her daughter’s room. She walked down the carpeted hall towards the light stretching out from the plastic chandelier over the dining room table. Her husband’s chair was empty and she quietly called out his name. No response. As Ariana turned the corner to the kitchen and reached for the knob on the cabinet over the counter, eight hundred pages of advertising crashed into her rib cage, sucking the wind from her lungs. As his wife doubled over, Nazim raised the thick Yellow Book with both hands and hit her on her back, driving her body to the floor.

“Don’t you ever disobey me in front of others again.”

Ariana coughed. There was no blood. This time. She tried to speak but her lips only quivered. Her thick-framed glasses rested on the floor, out of reach. Her brain fought to make sense of what happened, what had set her husband off. It could have been anything. But every curse had its blessing, and for Ariana the blessing was the fact that Nazim didn’t hit her in front of Liana. A blessing that the child didn’t see her mother being punched. The reason was simple. Nazim was afraid of his daughter. Afraid of what she could say now that she could speak.

The curse was that Ariana never knew when she had crossed the line. She never knew when the next blow was coming. She merely had to wait until they were alone to learn her fate for past indiscretions.

Ariana gasped slowly for air. She didn’t cry. The pain she felt in her side wasn’t bad enough to give her husband the satisfaction.

“When I say it is time to leave, it is time to leave. There is no room for negotiation in this marriage.”

Ariana panted as her mind flashed back to the Christmas party. She immediately realized her faux pas. “I didn’t want to be rude to Maria. She spent days making dessert. She is old. Do we not respect our elders anymore?”

Nazim pushed his wife onto the floor with his knee, a reaction Ariana fully expected. “You are my wife. This is about you and me. Our neighbor has nothing to do with it.” Nazim looked down at Ariana sprawled on the linoleum and spit on her with more mock than saliva.

“Maria is my friend.”

“Well, her son is coming home and she doesn’t need you.”

Nazim dropped the yellow book on the counter with a thud and went to the basement. Ariana gathered herself, pushing her body onto all fours and then pulling herself up by the front of the oven. She looked at the Yellow Book and her blood boiled. It was like getting hit by a cinderblock with soft edges. When it hit flush, it left very little bruising. As her husband intended. For a man of slight build, Nazim could generate power when a beating was needed.

Ariana took inventory of herself, one hand propping herself up on the counter. She had been beaten worse. Far worse. By other men before she met her husband. Her eyes moved beyond the Yellow Pages and settled on the knife set on the counter, the shiny German steel resting in its wooden block holder. She grabbed the fillet knife, caressed the blade with her eyes, and then pushed the thought from her mind.

Her husband called her from the basement and she snapped out of her momentary daze. “Coming,” she answered, putting the knife back in its designated slot in the wood. She knew what was coming next. It was always the same. A physical assault followed by a sexual one. She reached up her skirt and removed her panties. There was no sense in having another pair ripped, even if robbing Nazim of the joy would cost her a punch or two.

Christmas, the season of giving, she thought as she made her way down the stairs into the chilly basement.

DISCLAIMER

I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me,

in exchange for my honest review.

No items that I receive

are ever sold…they are kept by me,

or given to family and/or friends.

ADDENDUM

 I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com,

Barnes & Noble and/or any other retail/wholesale

outlets either online and/or elsewhere.

I am providing this link solely for visitors

that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

I do not receive any monetary compensation from any parties

   My Thoughts and Opinion:  Where do I begin?  OK..let’s start off by me proving myself wrong again with first impressions.  I’m thinking this book is going to be another international espionage spy novel (not high up on my favorite read lists), 438 pages (great….this will take me weeks to read…. will probably seem like a lot more because of what I just mentioned) and it’s a debut novel!!!   OK….Let’s get this read.

Tour planned approximately end of January/beginning February thru April