Attorney Dismas Hardy is called to defend the least likely suspect of his career: his longtime, trusted assistant who is suddenly being charged as an accessory to murder in this instant New York Times bestseller from “the undisputed master of the courtroom thriller” ( The Providence Journal ). Dismas Hardy knows something is amiss with his trusted secretary, Phyllis. Her strange behavior and sudden disappearances concern him, especially when he learns that her convict brother—a man who had served twenty-five years in prison for armed robbery and attempted murder—has just been released. Things take a shocking turn when Phyllis is suddenly arrested for allegedly being an accessory to the murder of Hector Valdez, a coyote who’d been smuggling women into this country from El Salvador and Mexico. That is, until recently, when he was shot to death—on the very same day that Phyllis first disappeared from work. The connection between Phyllis, her brother, and Hector’s murder is not something Dismas can easily understand, but if his cherished colleague has any chance of going free, he needs to put all the pieces together—and fast. A whip-smart, engrossing novel filled with shocking twists and turns, “ The Rule of Law is vintage Lescroart, drawing on parallels between real-life and hot-button issues while also providing top-notch entertainment” ( The Real Book Spy ). “No one, attorney or not, can write a trial scene better than John Lescroart.” — New York Journal of Books “[Lescroart’s writing] unfolds like a classic Law & Order .” — Entertainment Weekly “A master of legal suspense.” —Associated Press “Deserves to be considered alongside Turow and Grisham.” — Chicago Sun-Times John Lescroart is the New York Times bestselling author of twenty-nine previous novels, including the The Rule of Law , Poison , and Fatal . His books have sold more than ten million copies and have been translated into twenty-two languages. He lives in Northern California. Chapter 1 1 “PLUS ÇA CHANGE, plus c’est la même chose.” “I hate it when he does that,” Wes Farrell said. Gina Roake nodded. “He knows that, and that’s about half the reason he does it.” “Seven-eighths of the reason, to be precise,” Dismas Hardy said, “and precision is my middle name.” “Dismas Precision Hardy,” Roake said. “It doesn’t exactly sing.” “He just wants to rub it in that I don’t speak French.” “That hardly qualifies as French,” Hardy replied, “since anyone with even half an education should have run into that phrase somewhere and figured out what it meant.” “Well, I didn’t.” “Tant pis pour toi.” Farrell threw his hands up. “I rest my case.” Then, to Roake: “Maybe this isn’t going to work out after all.” “It means ‘The more things change, the more they stay the same.’?” “Thank you so much,” Farrell said, “whatever the hell that means.” On this late Tuesday morning in early January—a clear and crisp day outside—the three of them sat around the large mahogany table in the circular conference room of the stately Freeman Building on Sutter Street in downtown San Francisco. Because of its domed glass ceiling that rose to a height of fourteen feet above their heads, the space had earned the nickname of the Solarium. The room also featured a forest of assorted indoor plants at its periphery. Dismas Hardy, the nominal host and managing partner of the law firm Hardy & Associates, leaned over and filled Farrell’s wineglass with Jordan Cabernet Sauvignon. “That should ease some of your pain. Meanwhile, I’ll try not to lapse into French again, since you’re so sensitive about it. Although, to be honest, I don’t seem to remember sensitivity as your most shining virtue.” “That was before I was the district attorney. Now I’m sensitive about everything. Do you know how many sensitivity training classes I’ve taken in the last eight years?” “Twelve?” Gina guessed. Farrell shook his head. “Seventeen. I counted.” Hardy snorted. “I don’t think I even realized there were seventeen things to be sensitive about. I mean, after gender and poverty and the homeless, the list shortens up real quick, doesn’t it? Oh, except, of course, women…” “Watch it, buster,” Roake said, but leavened things with a smile. Farrell swallowed some wine. “Add at least four subsets under each of those, you’re still not really close. You didn’t even mention animal rights, and those subsets, too. Grandparents’ rights. Left-handers’ rights. Fish.” “Fish?” Hardy asked. Farrell shrugged. “Probably. I tell you, the sensitivity epidemic is out of control.” “Hey,” Roake said. “Our firm could have a motto. ‘Sensitive about everything.’?” “That would bring in a lot of work, that’s for sure.” Hardy sipped at his own wine. “But way to bring us back to the point, Gina.” “Which was…? Oh yeah, the new firm.” “Are we really going to do it?” Farrell asked. “Up to you,” Hardy said. Ten years before, these three attorneys, plus one, made up the core