House Witness

By Mike Lawson

Edgar Award Finalist: Someone may be tampering with witnesses to protect the powerful in this “thoroughly involving” thriller (Booklist, starred review).

John Mahoney, Minority Leader of the House and Joe DeMarco’s longtime employer, has kept more than one secret from his wife over the years, but none so explosive as this: He has a son, and that son has just been shot dead in a bar in Manhattan. Mahoney immediately dispatches DeMarco to New York to assist prosecutor Justine Porter, but with five bystanders willing to testify against the rich-kid killer, the case seems like a slam-dunk. That is, until Porter begins to suspect that someone is interfering with those witnesses, and that this may be connected to a pattern of cases across the country. Is someone getting witnesses out of the way when the fate of a wealthy defendant is on the line?

With the help of Porter’s intern, as outrageously smart as she is young, veteran DC fixer DeMarco becomes determined to follow that question through to its violent resolution in House Witness, “one of the best in a superior series” (Deadly Pleasures).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Feb 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9780802165602

Mike Lawson

Mike Lawson is a former nuclear engineer who turned to full-time writing in May 2003. He lives with his family in the United States.

Book preview

Prologue

Mahoney disconnected the call, then just stood there staring out the window.

From his apartment in the Watergate complex, he could see a portion of the Kennedy Center, the broad black ribbon that was the Potomac River, and the lights of Northern Virginia. Had it been daylight, he would have been able to see some of the white headstones in Arlington National Cemetery, a view, that when he was in his cups, often brought tears to his eyes.

Tonight there were tears in his eyes, but not because he’d been contemplating the final resting place of so many valiant Americans. The tears had welled up after the call he’d received.

His wife said, John, is something wrong? Who was that?

Mary Pat could tell the call had stunned him, but he couldn’t tell her why. No way could he tell her why.

He wiped a big hand across his face to brush away the tears, and finally turned to face her. She was standing in the living room doorway, in a robe. She’d been about to go to bed when he’d received the call. Her face was scrubbed free of makeup, and he thought: Geez, she looks old. But then, if Mary Pat—who, unlike himself, didn’t drink or smoke and exercised daily—looked old, he knew he must look like the walking dead. He supposed it was the call that had made him think about what little time they both had left on this capricious planet.

He said, I gotta … I gotta go out for a bit.

At this time of night?

It was almost midnight.

Yeah, I need to …

He didn’t finish the sentence. He couldn’t tell her that it felt as if the walls were closing in on him. He needed air. He couldn’t breathe. And he was afraid he might burst into tears—and then he wouldn’t be able to explain to her why.

He headed for the door, and Mary Pat said, I hope you’re not planning to drive anywhere. You’re in no shape to be driving.

That was probably true. He’d been drinking since he got home from work, but he always drank when he got home from work—and usually drank while he was at work. He was an alcoholic. But he wasn’t planning to drive. He just needed to be alone.

He said, I’m not driving. I just need some fresh air.

John, what’s wrong?

I’ll tell you tomorrow. Go to bed.

Now he was going to have to make up something to tell her. He didn’t know what; he’d figure it out later. He opened the door, and she said, John! Put on a coat. You’ll freeze out there.

She was right. It was March. It wasn’t raining at the moment, but the temperature was in the low forties, and he was wearing only the suit pants he’d worn to work and a white dress shirt. He grabbed a trench coat off a hook near the door and shrugged it on. Mary Pat was saying something as he closed the door, but the words couldn’t penetrate the fog surrounding his brain.

John Mahoney had just been told that his son had been killed—and his wife didn’t know that he had a son.

Mahoney stepped outside the building and started walking in the direction of the Lincoln Memorial, a couple of miles away. The wind whipped the trench coat around his legs and stung his cheeks, but he didn’t notice.

Mahoney was a handsome, heavyset man, broad across the back and butt. His most distinctive features were sky blue eyes and a full head of snow white hair. When he appeared on camera, he had the makeup lady cover the broken veins in his nose.

He was currently the minority leader of the United States House of Representatives. He’d been the Speaker of the House for more than a dozen years, then lost the position when the Republicans took control, but he was still the most powerful Democrat on Capitol Hill. When he’d had the affair with Connie DiNunzio, he’d been in Congress for only three years.

Connie, like him, grew fat as the years passed, but when he met her she was … hell, she’d looked like Sophia Loren: thick dark hair, a long straight nose, full lips, heavy breasts, shapely legs. She’d been an absolute knockout—and Mahoney was a man who rarely met a temptation he was able to resist. Connie was neither the first nor the last affair he’d had—he’d had a lot of affairs over the years—but she was the only one to bear him a child. Connie DiNunzio wasn’t too Catholic to sleep with a married man, but she was too Catholic to get an abortion.

When she’d told him she was pregnant and that he was the father, he’d had no doubt she was telling the truth. He also figured that if she had the kid it could be the end of his fledgling political career. But Connie never told anyone. She’d been an aide to a New York congressman when they met and she quit the job, went back to New York, and had the child. And she never asked anything of Mahoney—at least not for herself or her son. She did ask for a favor later—and Mahoney was still paying back that favor.

Anyway, time went on. Connie married a guy she later divorced and ended up becoming a career bureaucrat in Albany and a major player in the backstabbing, bare-knuckles world of New York state politics. As for the kid, he went on to college, got married, had three kids, and started his own accounting firm in Manhattan. Mahoney had kept tabs on his illegitimate son—but he’d never met him.

The call he’d gotten had been from Connie. She’d told him that her boy—their boy—had been shot and killed in a bar in Manhattan. She wasn’t crying when she called. She didn’t intend to share her grief; she’d called because she wanted vengeance. She told him that the man who’d killed her son was the son of a rich guy, a guy rich enough to buy his way out of anything. She said, her voice as cold and hard as ice, You make sure this little prick gets what’s coming to him, John. Dominic was the father of the grandkids you never met, and you damn well better do everything in your power to make sure that the man who killed him pays for what he did.

Mahoney had three daughters, but none of them were currently married and none of them had given him and Mary Pat grandkids. As Connie had said, the only grandchildren he had were as much strangers to him as their father had been.

Mahoney sat down on a bench and thought for a time about all the mistakes he’d made in his long life. He thought about his son’s wife and his grandchildren, and made a promise to do whatever it took to make sure they were financially okay. Regarding what Connie had told him—how he’d better make sure the killer went to prison—he could think of only one thing to do immediately.

He took out his cell phone. The face of the iPhone informed him that it was now one a.m.—and Mahoney didn’t give a shit. He called a man who worked for him. A guy named DeMarco.

He woke DeMarco up. After DeMarco said a sleepy hello, Mahoney said, Dominic DiNunzio was killed this evening in Manhattan. Get your ass up there and find out what’s happening with the case.

DeMarco said, What? Dominic? Dominic was killed?

DeMarco knew Dominic DiNunzio. He just didn’t know he was Mahoney’s bastard.

Connie DiNunzio happened to be Joe DeMarco’s godmother because Connie was DeMarco’s mother’s best friend. Connie DiNunzio was also the only reason that DeMarco had a job working for John Mahoney.

The way it all came about was that DeMarco’s Irish mother had had the misfortune to fall in love with a man who worked for the old Italian mob in Queens. DeMarco’s dad had been a mob enforcer. A killer.

When Gino DeMarco was killed, young Joe DeMarco—who was a few years younger than Connie’s son—had just graduated from law school and couldn’t find a job, as no law firm on the eastern seaboard wanted the son of a Mafia hit man on its payroll. And that’s when Connie had called Mahoney and asked for the only favor she’d ever asked. And actually she didn’t ask for the favor—she demanded it. She told Mahoney, who at that time was the Speaker, to give young Joe a job. If he didn’t give young Joe a job, well then, Connie might … Mahoney hired young Joe.

Over the years, DeMarco had become Mahoney’s go-to guy when Mahoney had problems he couldn’t or didn’t want to solve by going through normal channels. He was also Mahoney’s bagman—the one he sent to collect contributions some nitpickers might construe as bribes. DeMarco was smart enough—and ethically bent enough—to do the job well, but he was also lazy. He was a guy who would rather play golf than work, and Mahoney knew he was just marking time, doing as little as he could until he could collect a federal pension. That is, he’d collect one if he didn’t get indicted and go to jail first. One thing about DeMarco, though, and even Mahoney had to admit this, was that if he had a personal stake in an assignment he could be as determined and devious as he had to be to get results. And this time Mahoney knew it would be personal for DeMarco, because he loved Connie DiNunzio and had known her son.

DeMarco called Mahoney from New York the next day and said, There’s no doubt whatsoever that the guy who killed Dominic is going to be convicted of second-degree murder. The case is a slam dunk for the prosecutor.

DeMarco was dead wrong.

Part I

1

Manhattan—March 15, 2016

The night Dominic DiNunzio died

Toby Rosenthal couldn’t remember killing Dominic DiNunzio.

He remembered what happened before he killed him, and he knew what he did afterward, but the killing itself …

He’d been drinking all afternoon. Actually, he’d been drinking for the last three days, ever since Lauren dumped him. He’d also been snorting coke—he’d bought an 8 ball off a guy he knew—which was why he’d hardly slept in three days, too. He stopped by McGill’s because it was close to Lauren’s office and she often went there with some of the girls she worked with. Since she wouldn’t answer her doorbell or her phone, he didn’t know what else to do.

He ordered a scotch, slammed it down like a tequila shooter, then ordered another that he drank more slowly. He never saw Dominic DiNunzio lumber into the bar and take a seat. Fifteen minutes later Lauren hadn’t shown up, and Toby was trying to decide if he should check out some of the other bars near her office, or go to her apartment and ring the bell again. He decided to wait a bit longer—and have one more scotch. He waved at the bartender, but the guy just stood there, looking at him, scowling. Finally, reluctantly, he walked over like he was doing Toby a fuckin’ favor.

Another Glenfi … It was hard to say Glenfiddich sober, let alone drunk. Another one, same thing.

You don’t think maybe you’ve had enough, the bartender said.

Hey, what are you? My mother?

As soon as the words left his mouth, Toby knew he shouldn’t have said them. The bartender was a tall guy, skinny but with a paunch, like a martini olive in the middle of a swizzle stick. He was in his sixties, maybe seventies, but his hair was jet black. The hair had to be dyed, and it looked ridiculous with his seamed old face. But Toby could tell, the way the bartender’s mouth was set, that he was going to eighty-six him from the bar.

Toby pulled a hundred off his money clip—money was the least of his worries—and slapped it on the bar. That’s for the drinks I’ve already had and the one more I’m gonna have. The rest is for you.

Yes, sir, another Glen, the bartender said. He didn’t say Thank you; it was like he thought he deserved a forty-buck tip.

Toby caught sight of his reflection in the mirror behind the bar and realized he looked like shit: unshaven, his eyes like glowing embers in his pale face, his hair all wet and matted down from the rain outside. The last thing he needed was Lauren seeing him like this. He could at least go comb his hair, splash some water on his face; he wished he had some Visine to squirt into his eyes. He stepped off the bar stool, stumbled, and almost fell—and noticed the bartender, who was now pouring his scotch, give him a look. Fuck him.

He walked back toward the restrooms, bumping into a table where two old ladies were sitting. One of the women lost half her drink and let out a little shriek. Shit, sorry, he muttered.

The restrooms were down a long, narrow hallway, and he could feel himself lurching from side to side, like he was walking along the passageway of a rolling ship. Maybe he should just call it a day and go home. He pulled open the men’s room door, and at the same time a guy came through the opening, and they collided.

The guy was a whale. Toby was only five foot seven, so most men were taller than he was—but this guy had to be at least six four and with a gut on him like a potbellied stove. He was wearing a tan trench coat and one of those flat skimmer hats, and his coat was dripping water as if he’d walked miles in the rain. Before Toby could apologize for bumping into him, the guy said, Watch where the hell you’re going.

Hey! Who the fuck you think you’re talking to? Toby said, taking an aggressive step toward the man as he spoke. Not something he normally would have done with a guy this size, but he’d had a lot to drink and his life sucked and he wasn’t in the mood for taking shit off anyone.

It should have ended right there: two New Yorkers trading fuck yous, two urban gorillas pounding their chests, then going harmlessly on their way. But it didn’t end there.

The man put a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt on Toby’s chest and pushed.

He actually didn’t push that hard—he was mainly moving Toby out of his way—but Toby was having a hard time maintaining his balance as it was, and he bounced off the wall opposite the restroom door and fell to the floor. Then Dominic DiNunzio sealed his fate. Looking down at Toby, he said, Today’s not the day to screw with me, you little shit.

Dominic DiNunzio wasn’t a bad guy. All his friends would later tell this to the media and the cops. He looked big enough to have played for the Jets, but he wasn’t a violent man. He hadn’t been in a fistfight since he was eight. The problem was, as he’d told Toby, today was the wrong day to screw with him.

Dominic was an accountant, and he used a program that had cost him ten grand to prepare his clients’ tax returns. That morning he found out that the program had an error in it, and that the program—not Dominic—had incorrectly calculated the taxes his clients owed. Fifty of his clients now owed the government money. Three of them fired him the moment he told them about the problem, and a dozen more were thinking about firing him.

When Dominic left his office and started walking toward the subway, the rain started coming down in buckets, the wind blowing it into his face—the perfect end to a perfect fuckin’ day. Normally, Dominic didn’t stop for a drink on his way home, but he decided as he was passing by McGill’s to have one and unwind a bit before facing the wife and kids. The last thing he was in the mood for was some little prick mouthing off to him.

But this was the wrong day to screw with Toby, too.

Toby was twenty-six but still got carded in bars. He had wavy dark hair, long eyelashes, and perfect features: a short straight nose, small flat ears, cupid-bow lips, dimples in both cheeks when he smiled. He was so handsome, he was almost pretty. In fact, Lauren’s girlfriends—the ones he’d thought would be the bridesmaids at their wedding—were always saying he was prettier than Lauren. It was a joke—but only sort of.

When Lauren broke up with him three days ago, she said it was because they were incompatible, whatever the hell that meant—but he couldn’t get her to tell him what he had to do for them to be compatible. When she wouldn’t return his calls, he hung around her apartment, hoping to catch her alone outside so he could talk to her, and that’s when he learned that incompatible meant she was seeing another man.

Toby saw this man and Lauren step out of a cab the night before last. He saw the guy put his arm around her shoulders as he walked her into her brownstone, then stay the night—while Toby sat outside in his car, snorting coke, sipping from a pint of scotch, sometimes crying. Whoever the guy was, he wasn’t all that good-looking—at least Toby didn’t think so—but he was over six feet tall and built like Superman.

So Toby was feeling the sting of losing the woman he’d planned to marry, and he’d lost her to a man who was arguably more manly-looking—and then this fat fuck knocks him down and calls him a little shit. It was like igniting a half-inch fuse on a stick of dynamite—and from that moment forward Toby couldn’t really remember what he did. It was as if a bloody red curtain had dropped down over his mind.

But what he did was walk out to his car, which was parked directly in front of McGill’s. That was the only luck he’d had in the last three days: finding that parking spot. He jerked open the passenger-side door, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out the gun—a Smith & Wesson .357 revolver with a walnut grip and a three-inch barrel. He slammed the car door shut and walked back into McGill’s—and immediately saw the whale at a table, sitting by himself, still wearing his trench coat and his stupid hat. Toby walked over to him and, without hesitating, shot him three times. That’ll teach you to fuck with me, he muttered.

It was as if the sound of the gunshots woke him from a nightmare, and he suddenly realized what he’d done. He stood for no more than a second looking at the fat man—whose white shirt was turning crimson—then he ran. He almost hit a busboy carrying a tray of glasses before he got to the door, banged it open, jumped into his car, and took off. He was driving away less than a minute after he killed Dominic DiNunzio.

As he was driving he kept saying, What did you do? What did you do? The short-barreled .357 was on the passenger seat, but it was no longer an inanimate object. To Toby it was alive, like a malignant machine in a Stephen King novel, giving off heat, possessing a dark, throbbing heart. It was as if the gun had somehow taken possession of his soul and made him do what he did. He couldn’t help thinking that if he hadn’t bought the damn gun he never would have shot that asshole.

Six blocks from McGill’s, he pulled into a parking garage. The killing had shocked him almost sober, and he knew he shouldn’t be driving. He wouldn’t have been driving in the first place if it hadn’t been for Lauren. When she wouldn’t answer his calls on her cell phone, he’d called her office, but some girl told him Lauren had taken the day off. He suspected the bitch was lying—that she was screening Lauren’s calls—but maybe she was telling the truth and Lauren had gone to her mom’s place in Jersey. So he’d driven to Jersey, but when her mom said Lauren wasn’t there—and that Toby needed to let her daughter alone—he drove back to Lauren’s office, hoping to spot her leaving work, but the traffic screwed him and he got there too late, which was when he drove to McGill’s. But if he hadn’t taken the car, he wouldn’t have had the gun with him. And if he hadn’t bought the gun …

It was as if some playful god had put everything in perfect alignment so Toby would do exactly what he did: kill Dominic DiNunzio.

He hit the button for a ticket to enter the parking garage; it took forever for the gate to go up. He found a space on the second floor, grabbed the .357, and got out of the car. He shoved the gun into the front of his pants, pulled the tails of his shirt over the weapon to conceal it, and left the garage.

He walked two blocks—the same mantra going through his head every step of the way: What did you do? What did you do? He stopped when he saw a garbage can overflowing with trash and a big McDonald’s bag sticking out the top of the can. He grabbed the McDonald’s bag and kept walking, and at the next trash can he came to, he looked around to see if anyone was watching, pulled the gun out of his pants, stuck it in the McDonald’s bag, and shoved the bag deep into the trash can.

Now what? He could hear sirens—but in New York you could always hear sirens. What was he going to do?

He did the only thing he could think of: started walking to his parents’ apartment.

His dad would know what to do.

2

Two uniformed cops arrived at McGill’s two minutes after the shooting. They had been only a block away, on a break, getting a slice, when they got the call. They arrived at McGill’s so fast that the customers who’d been in the bar when the shooting occurred were still there, most of them standing, freaked out by what they’d seen. One of the cops was a bright Irish kid named Murphy—son of a cop, grandson of a cop.

Murphy walked over to the victim and checked for a pulse, knowing before he checked that he was wasting his time.

He called out, What did the shooter look like? Anyone. Tell me quick.

A woman near the door said, He was white, not very tall, maybe five six, dark hair, clean-shaven, dark sport jacket, probably blue.

Murphy said to his partner, Get that description to dispatch. The guy might be out there walking, maybe toward the subway or looking for a cab. Tell them to get cars patrolling a three-, four-block radius around this place to see it they can spot him. And to be careful—he’s armed. Then call back to the precinct and get someone started on calling cab companies to see if they picked up a short white guy in a dark sport jacket near this bar. Go! His partner, who was older than Murphy but used to taking orders from him, did what he was told.

Murphy looked at the customers, who were all potential witnesses, and said, Okay. Now I want all of you to sit down exactly where you were when the shooting happened. Nobody moved. Go on, Murphy said. Sit down. Nobody’s leaving until the detectives get here, and they’ll be here in just a few minutes to take statements from you.

The detectives showed up fifteen minutes later, a couple of hefty old warhorses named Coghill and Dent, both two years from retirement. The first thing they did was stand in the doorway and take in the room, which was larger than expected from the outside. They noticed that the place was dimly lit, but bright enough for them to make out people’s faces. Along one wall was a bar with twenty or so high-backed leather stools, and to the right of the bar was a small stage containing a baby grand and an acoustic guitar on a stand. They’d seen a poster near the entrance that said a pianist would start playing at eight and that at nine some singer they’d never heard of would be performing.

The entertainment probably explained why the place was so dark, with most of the illumination coming from small lights set into the bottom of the stage. There were maybe thirty tables in the room, but most were unoccupied. The place probably got busy after ten p.m., but at a few minutes before eight there were only about a dozen customers.

The dead guy was sitting at a table at the back of the room, near a hallway that led to the restrooms. Coghill and Dent walked slowly over to the corpse. The victim was a heavyset man with a five o’clock shadow, sitting upright behind a small round table, his chair against the wall. Dent thought he looked Italian and wondered if this could have been a mob hit.

The victim, whoever he was, was wearing a trench coat over a blue suit, a white shirt, and a blue and red striped tie loose at the collar. On his head was a flat hat, the type cabbies and newsboys used to wear. The guy’s trench coat was still damp from the rain and his white shirt had turned dark red from three apparent shots to the chest.

No shell casings, Coghill said.

I noticed, Dent said, which meant the shooter had most likely used a revolver.

Dent figured the man had come into the bar to get out of the rain and have an after-work belt and, without bothering to remove his coat or hat, had sat down at the table. The drink he’d ordered—a martini with two olives—was sitting in front of him, but it didn’t look as if the guy had taken more than a sip or two.

Dent took two photos of the victim with his cell phone. He and Coghill would now have to wait for the ME to declare the obviously dead man dead and remove the body, and for the crime scene weenies to gather whatever evidence there was to gather, and while all that was going on he and Coghill would question the witnesses while the killing was still fresh in their minds. Not knowing how long it was going to take to remove the corpse, Dent pulled a tablecloth off a nearby table and draped it over the victim’s face and upper torso so the civilians wouldn’t have to look at the man’s half-open dead eyes.

That’s going to piss off the CSIs, Coghill said.

Fuck ’em, Dent said. The CSIs, thanks to television, all thought they were rock stars these days.

They took a seat at a table near the bar and started with the bartender. They wanted to get his statement out of the way so he could bring them coffee. Coghill took out a small digital tape recorder and placed it on the table. He would also make notes during the interview, his impressions of the interviewee or something to follow up on later. Dent would ask the questions. They were like an old married couple: They had a routine and didn’t deviate from it.

They began each interview exactly the same way: Tell us your full name, your date of birth, your address, and your phone number. Now show us some ID (so we know you didn’t lie when you told us your name). Now tell us what you saw.

The first thing Jack Morris did was lie to the cops.

He’d been a bartender for twenty-five years, the last ten at McGill’s. No way in hell was he going to say that the shooter was drunk when he arrived at the bar—and that then he served him two more drinks before he killed the fat guy. He knew if he admitted that he’d served a drunk, some slimeball lawyer would find a way to sue the bar, saying it was his fault the guy was killed. So Morris said: I served him a drink. An eighteen-year-old Glenfiddich that goes for twenty bucks a pop. He finished it, ordered another one, then went back to the restroom before I could serve him the second drink. But I didn’t see him come back from the restroom because I was making a margarita for those two old ladies over there—one of them had spilled her drink. I’d just put the margarita on the end of the bar for Kathy to pick up, when he walks back in through the main door and shoots the guy.

Wait a minute, Dent said. "He walked back into the bar from the street? I thought you said he went to the can."

He did. I saw him go toward the restrooms, but the next time I saw him he was coming through the door, like he went outside for a minute and then came back in. Then he shot the guy.

That’s weird, Dent said. Did he say anything to him before he shot him?

Not that I saw. Just walked up, blam, blam, blam, then ran out.

Had he spoken to the victim before he went to the restroom?

No. He was sitting at the bar the whole time he was here, until he got up to go to the can.

When did the shooter get here? Dent asked.

It must have been close to seven-thirty, because Jerry had just finished setting up.

Jerry?

The piano guy. He gets here about an hour before he starts playing, makes sure all the equipment is working, then goes back into the kitchen and has something to eat before he plays. Anyway, the killer must have got here around seven-thirty.

When did the victim arrive? Was he in the bar already, or did he come in after the shooter? Dent was wondering if the shooter had followed the victim into the bar, then had a couple of drinks to screw up his courage before he shot him.

I don’t know, Morris said. Kathy takes care of the tables. Maybe she knows.

Do you know the shooter’s name? Dent asked, realizing he should have asked that earlier.

No, and I can’t remember ever seeing him before. He’s not a regular. I don’t know the dead guy, either.

How did the shooter pay for his drink? Did he use a credit card?

No, he gave me cash. It’s in the register.

How ‘bout the glass he used? Dent asked. "Did you pour the second drink into the same glass as the

Reviews for House Witness

[lisasharvey · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

HOUSE WITNESSMIKE LAWSONMY RATING ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️▫️PUBLISHERGrove AtlanticPUBLISHEDFebruary 6, 2018A gripping read of a race to find the witness tampering team available only to those super wealthy defendants that have enough money to pay the multi-million dollar fee. SUMMARYHouse a witness is the twelfth novel in the Joe DeMarco series by Mike Lawson, But this one's a little bit different, it's personal. John Mahoney, the Minority Leader of the US House of Representatives and DeMarco’s boss, has a secret. He has a son, it's a son that his wife knows nothing about. That son has just been shot dead in a dark bar in Manhattan, so Mahoney sends DeMarco to New York to make sure the killer is prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. But there are five witnesses that can testify against the killer, who is a rich kid named Toby Rosenthal, so it doesn't look like there's much for DeMarco to do. And then the witnesses start disappearing or changing their testimony. Justine Porter, the prosecutor suspects that this is witness tampering, and it might be connected to a pattern of cases across the country where super wealthy defendants are avoiding convictions when witnesses testimony falls apart. Can DeMarco find whoever is responsible for the tampering prior to the Rosenthal trial?REVIEWHOUSE WITNESS was an entertaining thriller that had me turning pages faster than a jackrabbit! I’m a huge fan of the DeMarco series and have read and love them all. This one is no different, although I was a little disappointed that crux of DeMarco’s role didn't emerge until well into the book. But when he did, he was in fine form.DeMarco, who with the proper motivation, leaves no stone unturned, in an effort to find an elusive “exceptional jury consultant”. In House Witness he has a lot of help from the impressive Sarah, a tiny, sharp and savvy intern in the district attorney’s office who was a “blood hound with a key board.” I loved the ending of House Witness. Looks like DeMarco may be crossing paths with this “exceptional jury consultant” again. I recommend this book to fans of political and legal thrillers, and anyone who likes series. Thanks to Mike Lawson, Grove Atlantic and Netgalley for an advanced reading copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.

[brangwinn · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I’m going to be looking for more books in the Joe DeMarco series. It was a great take-me-away-from-my-real-life mystery in which Joe uncovers shady lawyers for millionaires who conspire with a couple to “do away with” witnesses who would lead to the conviction of their clients.

[carol420 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

What began as a political thriller turned more into something criminal and legal in nature... but it only helped to enhance the plot and the story. Joe DeMarco is forced to come to terms with the murder of his cousin, though there are even larger shocks on the horizon. The character of Joe DeMarco, as seasoned readers know, has both grit and determination, as well as charm with a rough exterior that usually gets him the results he seeks....but it is the character of Ella Fields that steal the limelight in this novel. Overall it’s a fun ride full of action and suspense with a solid twist towards the end that most of us won’t see coming.

[dokfintong · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Somehow I don't think I have read any of the Joe DeMarco series by Mike Lawson of which this is book 12. Too bad for me.Joe DeMarco gets a call in the middle of the night that Dominic DiNunzio, his godmother's son and a man he has known all his life, has been killed in a bar in New York. It isn't Connie DiNunzio who phones, it is John Mahoney, the most prominent Democrat in the US House of Representatives who phones. Connie phoned him first because he is Dominic's biological father, a fact that neither Joe DeMarco or John's wife Mary Pat, or anyone else for that matter, knows.In a few short paragraphs Mr. Lawson sets up this excellent thriller that stands alone quite well. As a matter of fact, if the negative comments from Amazon reviewers is to be believed, it stands alone better than as part of the series. Quite a few of them said that there isn't enough "Joe DeMarco" in the story. That's an interesting idea, don't you think?For a tyro like me, the story works fine. Joe works closely with a prosecutor and her intern up in Manhattan to uncover a massive witness tampering case. Very competent and exciting writing and I enjoyed it quite a bit.I received a review copy of "House Witness" by Mike Lawson (Grove Atlantic) through NetGalley.com.

[sj1335 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

What a great legal thriller, I had no idea that this was the 12th book in the Joe DeMarco Series. DeMarco's the fix-it man for the Minority Leader of the House, John Mahoney. When he gets a call late one night about a murder in a Manhatten bar, he's a little confused as to why this should be of any issue regarding Mahoney, he quickly learns that there are some personal issues at stake here. Not only regarding Mahoney but himself as well he grew up with the victim of this senseless crime. DeMarco is told that this man has to fry for what he did, he has to be convicted of murder no matter what. They had no idea exactly what forces they were up against. The man who committed the murder is the rich son of a very high profile corporate attorney who is spoiled and has been on a bender since his girlfriend dumped him a few days ago. Naturally, he runs to Daddy to help him out of this crisis, he shot the man in cold blood in a crowded bar with several witnesses. It's a disaster, but when DeMarco is summons to work with the prosecutor he discovers a very odd trend regarding very rich murder defendants getting off when they should have been convicted.This is a fast-paced read with plenty of action and suspense that kept it from lagging. A lot of legal thrillers get bogged down in all the legalities the trial that you find yourself nodding off, I can assure you that won't happen here.Disclosure: I was provided an e-galley of this book by the publisher and NetGalley in exchange for my honest opinion.2 likes