The King of Torts[诉讼之王] [平装] pdf epub mobi txt 电子书 下载 2025

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☆☆☆☆☆

John Grisham（约翰·格里森姆） 著

图书标签:

• 法律小说
• 诉讼
• 法庭
• 小说
• 平装本
• John Grisham
• 法律惊悚
• 职业
• 小说集
• 美国文学

出版社： Random House

ISBN：9780440241539

商品编码：19015345

包装：平装

出版时间：2003-12-16

页数：472

正文语种：英文

商品尺寸：17.53x10.41x3.05cm

编辑推荐

Grisham continues to impress with his daring, venturing out of legal thrillers entirely for A Painted House and Skipping Christmas (the re-release of which this past fall was itself a bold move) and, within the genre, working major variations. Here's his most unusual legal thriller yet--a story whose hero and villain are the same, a young man with the tragic flaw of greed; a story whose suspense arises not from physical threat but moral turmoil, and one that launches a devastating assault on a group of the author's colleagues within the law. Mass tort lawyers are Grisham's target, the men (they're all men here, at least) who win billion-dollar class-action settlements from corporations selling bad products, then rake fantastic fees off the top, with far smaller payouts going to the people harmed by the products. Clay Carter is a burning-out lawyer at the Office of the Public Defender (OPD) in Washington, D.C., when he catches the case of a teen who, for no apparent reason, has gunned down an acquaintance. Clay is approached by a mysterious stranger, the enigmatic Max Pace, who says he represents a megacorporation whose bad drug caused the teen--and others--to kill. The corporation will pay Clay $10 million to settle with all the murder victims at $5 million per, if all is accomplished on the hush-hush; that way, the corporation avoids trial and possibly much higher jury awards. After briefly examining his conscience, Clay bites. He quits the OPD, sets up his own firm and settles the cases. In reward, Pace gives him a present--a mass tort case based on stolen evidence but worth tens of millions in fees. Clay lunges again, eventually winning over a hundred million in fees. He is crowned by the press the new King of Torts, with enough money to hobnob with the other, venal-hearted tort royalty, to buy a Porsche, a Georgetown townhouse and a private jet, but not enough to forget his heartache over the woman he loves, who dumped him as a loser right before his career took off. Clay's financial/legal hubris knows few bounds, and soon he's overextended, his future hanging on the results of one product liability trial. The tension is considerable throughout, and readers will like the gentle ending, but Grisham's aim here clearly is to educate as he entertains. He can be didactic (" `Nobody earns ten million dollars in six months, Clay,' " a friend warns. " `You might win it, steal it, or have it drop out of the sky, but nobody earns money like that. It's ridiculous and obscene' "), but readers will applaud Grisham's fierce moral stance (while perhaps wondering what sort of advance he got for this book) as they cling to his words every step along the way of this powerful and gripping morality tale.

内容简介

The office of the public defender is not known as a training ground for bright young litigators. Clay Carter has been there too long and, like most of his colleagues, dreams of a better job in a real firm. When he reluctantly takes the case of a young man charged with a random street killing, he assumes it is just another of the many senseless murders that hit D.C. every week.

As he digs into the background of his client, Clay stumbles on a conspiracy too horrible to believe. He suddenly finds himself in the middle of a complex case against one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in the world, looking at the kind of enormous settlement that would totally change his life—that would make him, almost overnight, the legal profession's newest king of torts...

作者简介

John Grisham is the author of a collection of stories, a work of nonfiction, three sports novels, four kids' books, and many legal thrillers. His work has been translated into forty-two languages. He lives near Charlottesville, Virginia.

　　约翰·格里森姆(John Grisham；1955年—)，美国知名畅销小说作家，他的一系列创作富含法庭法律内容的畅 销犯罪小说为他赢得了巨大的声誉和财富。20世纪90年代伊始直到今天，约翰·格里森姆都是美国以及世界上很多地方最受欢迎的畅销小说作家。他的作品绝大多数是情节紧张、结局出人意料，但又不失深度的法律悬念小说，娓娓道来美国法律、政治世界的多种层面、各色人物。

精彩书评

"Rousing...Another pedal-to-the-metal crowd-pleaser."
——People

"Offers everything one expects from Grisham...delivers with a vengeance."
——The Seattle Times

"Satisfying...a lot of fun...When you finish it, you're ready to dash on to the next Grisham."
——Entertainment Weekly

"A thrill ride of twists and turns."
——The Philadelphia Inquirer

精彩书摘

THE SHOTS THAT FIRED the bullets that entered Pumpkin's head were heard by no less than eight people. Three instinctively closed their windows, checked their door locks, and withdrew to the safety, or at least the seclusion, of their small apartments. Two others, each with experience in such matters, ran from the vicinity as fast if not faster than the gunman himself. Another, the neighborhood recycling fanatic, was digging through some garbage in search of aluminum cans when he heard the sharp sounds of the daily skirmish, very nearby. He jumped behind a pile of cardboard boxes until the shelling stopped, then eased into the alley where he saw what was left of Pumpkin.

And two saw almost everything. They were sitting on plastic milk crates, at the corner of Georgia and Lamont in front of a liquor store, partially hidden by a parked car so that the gunman, who glanced around briefly before following Pumpkin into the alley, didn't see them. Both would tell the police that they saw the boy with the gun reach into his pocket and pull it out; they saw the gun for sure, a small black pistol. A second later they heard the shots, though they did not actually see Pumpkin take them in the head. Another second, and the boy with the gun darted from the alley and, for some reason, ran straight in their direction. He ran bent at the waist, like a scared dog, guilty as hell. He wore red-and-yellow basketball shoes that seemed five sizes too big and slapped the pavement as he made his getaway.

When he ran by them he was still holding the gun, probably a .38, and he flinched just for a instant when he saw them and realized they had seen too much. For one terrifying second, he seemed to raise the gun as if to eliminate the witnesses, both of whom managed to flip backward from their plastic milk crates and scramble off in a mad flurry of arms and legs. Then he was gone.

One of them opened the door to the liquor store and yelled for someone to call the police, there had been a shooting.

Thirty minutes later, the police received a call that a young man matching the description of the one who had wasted Pumpkin had been seen twice on Ninth Street carrying a gun in open view and acting stranger than most of the people on Ninth. He had tried to lure at least one person into an abandoned lot, but the intended victim had escaped and reported the incident.

The police found their man an hour later. His name was Tequila Watson, black male, age twenty, with the usual drug-related police record. No family to speak of. No address. The last place he'd been sleeping was a rehab unit on W Street. He'd managed to ditch the gun somewhere, and if he'd robbed Pumpkin then he'd also thrown away the cash or drugs or whatever the booty was. His pockets were clean, as were his eyes. The cops were certain Tequila was not under the influence of anything when he was arrested. A quick and rough interrogation took place on the street, then he was handcuffed and shoved into the rear seat of a D.C. police car.

They drove him back to Lamont Street, where they arranged an impromptu encounter with the two witnesses. Tequila was led into the alley where he'd left Pumpkin. "Ever been here before?" a cop asked.

Tequila said nothing, just gawked at the puddle of fresh blood on the dirty concrete. The two witnesses were eased into the alley, then led quietly to a spot near Tequila.

"That's him," both said at the same time.

"He's wearing the same clothes, same basketball shoes, everything but the gun."

"That's him."

"No doubt about it."

Tequila was shoved into the car once again and taken to jail. He was booked for murder and locked away with no immediate chance of bail. Whether through experience or just fear, Tequila never said a word to the cops as they pried and cajoled and even threatened. Nothing incriminating, nothing helpful. No indication of why he would murder Pumpkin. No clue as to their history, if one existed at all. A veteran detective made a brief note in the file that the killing appeared a bit more random than was customary.

No phone call was requested. No mention of a lawyer or a bail bondsman. Tequila seemed dazed but content to sit in a crowded cell and stare at the floor.

PUMPKIN HAD NO TRACEABLE father but his mother worked as a security guard in the basement of a large office building on New York Avenue. It took three hours for the police to determine her son's real name--Ram-n Pumphrey--to locate his address, and to find a neighbor willing to tell them if he had a mother.

Adelfa Pumphrey was sitting behind a desk just inside the basement entrance, supposedly watching a bank of monitors. She was a large thick woman in a tight khaki uniform, a gun on her waist, a look of complete disinterest on her face. The cops who approached her had done so a hundred times. They broke the news, then found her supervisor.

In a city where young people killed each other every day, the slaughter had thickened skins and hardened hearts, and every mother knew many others who'd lost their children. Each loss brought death a step closer, and every mother knew that any day could be the last. The mothers had watched the others survive the horror. As Adelfa Pumphrey sat at her desk with her face in her hands, she thought of her son and his lifeless body lying somewhere in the city at that moment, being inspected by strangers.

She swore revenge on whoever killed him.

She cursed his father for abandoning the child.

She cried for her baby.

And she knew she would survive. Somehow, she would survive.

ADELFA WENT TO COURT to watch the arraignment. The police told her the punk who'd killed her son was scheduled to make his first appearance, a quick and routine matter in which he would plead not guilty and ask for a lawyer. She was in the back row with her brother on one side and a neighbor on the other, her eyes leaking tears into a damp handkerchief. She wanted to see the boy. She also wanted to ask him why, but she knew she would never get the chance.

They herded the criminals through like cattle at an auction. All were black, all wore orange coveralls and handcuffs, all were young. Such waste.

In addition to his handcuffs, Tequila was adorned with wrist and ankle chains since his crime was especially violent, though he looked fairly harmless when he was shuffled into the courtroom with the next wave of offenders. He glanced around quickly at the crowd to see if he recognized anyone, to see if just maybe someone was out there for him. He was seated in a row of chairs, and for good measure one of the armed bailiffs leaned down and said, "That boy you killed. That's his mother back there in the blue dress."

With his head low, Tequila slowly turned and looked directly into the wet and puffy eyes of Pumpkin's mother, but only for a second. Adelfa stared at the skinny boy in the oversized coveralls and wondered where his mother was and how she'd raised him and if he had a father, and, most important, how and why his path had crossed that of her boy's. The two were about the same age as the rest of them, late teens or early twenties. The cops had told her that it appeared, at least initially, that drugs were not involved in the killing. But she knew better. Drugs were involved in every layer of street life. Adelfa knew it all too well. Pumpkin had used pot and crack and he'd been arrested once, for simple possession, but he had never been violent. The cops were saying it looked like a random killing. All street killings were random, her brother had said, but they all had a reason.

On one side of the courtroom was a table around which the authorities gathered. The cops whispered to the prosecutors, who flipped through files and reports and tried valiantly to keep the paperwork ahead of the criminals. On the other side was a table where the defense lawyers came and went as the assembly line sputtered along. Drug charges were rattled off by the Judge, an armed robbery, some vague sexual attack, more drugs, lots of parole violations. When their names were called, the defendants were led forward to the bench, where they stood in silence. Paperwork was shuffled, then they were hauled off again, back to jail.

"Tequila Watson," a bailiff announced.

He was helped to his feet by another bailiff. He stutter-stepped forward, chains rattling.

"Mr. Watson, you are charged with murder," the Judge announced loudly. "How old are you?"

"Twenty," Tequila said, looking down.

The murder charge had echoed through the courtroom and brought a temporary stillness. The other criminals in orange looked on with admiration. The lawyers and cops were curious.

"Can you afford a lawyer?"

"No."

"Didn't think so," the Judge mumbled and glanced at the defense table. The fertile fields of the D.C. Superior Court Criminal Division, Felony Branch, were worked on a daily basis by the Office of the Public Defender, the safety net for all indigent defendants. Seventy percent of the docket was handled by court-appointed counsel, and at any time there were usually half a dozen PDs milling around in cheap suits and battered loafers with files sticking out of their briefcases. At that precise moment, however, only one PD was present, the Honorable Clay Carter II, who had stopped by to check on two much lesser felonies, and now found himself all alone and wanting to bolt from the courtroom. He glanced to his right and to his left and realized that His Honor was looking at him. Where had all the other PDs gone?

A week earlier, Mr. Carter had finished a murder case, one that had lasted for almost three years and had finally been closed with his client being sent away to a prison from which he would never leave, at least not officially. Clay Carter was quite happy his client was now locked up, and he was relieved that he, at that moment, had no murder files on his desk.

That, evidently, was abou...

尘封的遗嘱：林德家三代人的秘密与救赎 作者：伊莱亚斯·凡德堡 译者：林若溪 出版社：蓝鲸文化 装帧：精装 页数：680 出版日期：2024年10月 --- 内容简介： 在北美大陆的腹地，坐落着“静水湾”——一片被低语的沼泽和古老的橡树环绕的私人领地。这里曾是美国最负盛名的制药王朝之一，林德家族的权力与财富的中心。然而，随着家族缔造者、铁腕族长阿德里安·林德的突然离世，这片宁静之地开始被一种难以言喻的阴影所笼罩。 《尘封的遗嘱》并非一部关于商业竞争或法律博弈的教科书，而是一部深入骨髓的家族史诗，一幅描绘了荣耀、背叛、以及人性深处对救赎的渴望的宏大画卷。故事始于阿德里安的葬礼，一个本该是哀悼与和解的场合，却迅速演变成一场家族内部权力斗争的导火索。 阿德里安留下的遗嘱，如同埋在家族地基下的一枚定时炸弹。它并非简单地分配资产，而是设置了一系列近乎残酷的条件，要求他的三个性格迥异的子女——冷酷的继承人塞拉斯、追求艺术的女儿薇拉，以及被家族排斥的私生子伊莱亚斯——必须在一年内共同管理家族信托，完成一项看似不可能的“遗愿”：修复家族历史上一次被刻意掩盖的重大环境灾难。 第一部分：静水湾的腐朽 故事的开篇，读者被带入林德家族庄园的内部，那里的空气仿佛凝固了数十年的谎言。塞拉斯，长子，一个在华尔街磨砺出钢铁意志的金融家，坚信家族的“荣耀”必须以最现实的方式延续。他看待一切都是成本与收益的计算，对父亲的遗嘱深感不屑，认为这是垂死之人的最后一次控制欲的体现。他渴望迅速出售那些拖累利润的“旧资产”，包括那片位于静水湾核心的、被环保组织长期关注的湿地。 与此形成鲜明对比的是薇拉。她是一位才华横溢但长期被家族财富阴影压抑的雕塑家。她对家族的“罪孽”抱有强烈的道德愧疚，她希望利用自己的艺术敏感性去解读父亲留下的那些晦涩难懂的笔记，试图在艺术的抽象中找到家族病灶的具象化。她视家族的财富为一种诅咒，但又无法彻底割舍那份与生俱来的责任感。 伊莱亚斯，那个“意外的继承人”，他的存在本身就是对林德家族完美假象的嘲讽。他自幼被送往欧洲接受教育，远离家族的争斗，过着一种波西米亚式的自由生活。当他被突然召回时，他带着对这个家族根深蒂固的疏离感和一种近乎天真的观察者视角。他发现，父亲留下的线索——那些泛黄的照片、加密的信件，以及一个被锁住的地下室——似乎指向的不是财产分配，而是一场长达半个世纪的、关于“道德债务”的清算。 第二部分：迷雾中的线索 随着三个兄弟姐妹被迫合作，静水湾的历史真相开始以碎片化的形式浮现。他们发现，家族的崛起并非完全建立在专利和商业智慧之上，而是源于一场关于早期化学制剂倾倒的秘密协议。这场灾难，代号“夜莺行动”，不仅污染了周边的水源和土壤，更重要的是，它导致了一个社区的衰落，并间接造成了多起无法解释的健康问题。 塞拉斯试图用金钱解决问题，他准备了一份慷慨的赔偿方案，只求尽快“摆平”历史。然而，遗嘱中明确指出，任何试图用现金替代“实际修复”的行为，都将导致信托资金被冻结，并归入一个不知名的慈善基金会。 薇拉则专注于修复一件被遗弃在庄园深处的、由她祖母创作的巨大壁画。在修复过程中，她发现了隐藏在颜料层下的秘密草图，这些草图记录了家族成员在危机时刻的真实反应，揭示了家族内部关于是否要“掩盖”真相的激烈争论。 而伊莱亚斯，凭借他局外人的身份，成功地与当地社区的几位年迈的原住民建立了联系。他们口中的传说和记忆，拼凑出了“夜莺行动”的完整面貌——它不仅是环境破坏，更是一场关于个人良知与集体沉默的道德审判。 第三部分：抉择与救赎 随着时间的推移，家族成员间的隔阂被共同面对的真相逐渐消融。塞拉斯必须学习放下对纯粹利润的执念，理解“价值”并非总是能用货币衡量；薇拉则必须接受，艺术的力量在于行动，而不仅仅是表达；伊莱亚斯则开始意识到，血缘的联系，即使是带着伤痕的，也具有一种不可抗拒的牵引力。 遗嘱的最后期限临近，他们面临着真正的抉择：是遵从阿德里安设计的严酷路径，彻底修复生态并公开道歉，冒着家族声誉尽毁、资产大幅缩水的风险；还是在最后的关头，联手推翻那份遗嘱，保住林德家族的“面子”，继续活在谎言之中？ 《尘封的遗嘱》是一部关于继承的重量、选择的代价，以及真正的家族遗产——究竟是金钱的堆砌，还是道德的重建——的深刻探讨。它剥开了商业巨头的华丽外壳，展现了人性在巨大压力下的挣扎与最终的觉醒。当静水湾的雾气散去，真相的光芒照亮的，不仅是家族的罪孽，也是他们重新开始的可能。 --- （本书语言细腻，情节张力十足，尤其擅长描绘环境细节与人物内心世界的交织，被评论家誉为“当代家族小说中的又一力作”。）

评分☆☆☆☆☆

这本书的封面设计真是太抓人了，那种充满力量感的字体和略带暗沉的色调，一下子就让人联想到了那种在法庭上唇枪舌剑、步步为营的紧张氛围。我拿到书的时候，首先被它的纸质吸引了，拿到手里沉甸甸的，感觉就像是拿到了一个沉甸甸的案件卷宗，那种质感很棒，让人忍不住想立刻翻开阅读。从书的整体装帧来看，出版方显然是下了不少心思，细节处理得很到位，这对于一本严肃题材的书来说非常重要，它奠定了阅读体验的基调，让人对即将展开的故事充满了期待。我特别喜欢那种边缘留白的处理，既不显得拥挤，又能很好地衬托出书名本身的力量感，仿佛在说，这个故事的重量需要足够的空间来呼吸和展示。这本书的平装版拿在手中，既方便携带，又保留了足够的阅读舒适度，无论是通勤路上还是深夜独处时翻阅，都显得恰到好处。那种初次接触带来的震撼感，往往是后续阅读体验中难以复制的，这本书成功地通过它的外在包装，为读者搭建起了一个关于“角力”与“胜利”的想象框架。光是看着它静静地躺在书架上，就觉得它散发着一种不容小觑的气场。

评分☆☆☆☆☆

最让我感到震撼的是这本书对于“规则”和“灰色地带”的探讨深度。它不仅仅展示了一场赢了或者输了的官司，而是深入挖掘了整个法律体系运作的内在逻辑，以及那些看似铁板钉钉的规则是如何被聪明人巧妙地绕过，甚至是被重新定义的。我感觉自己像是在上了一堂高强度的法律哲学课，明白了在极致的利益驱动下，人性的底线究竟可以被拉伸到何种程度。书中描绘的那些策略，那种对既有框架的颠覆性思维，让人拍案叫绝，同时也带来一丝寒意——原来世界运转的底层逻辑可以如此冷酷而高效。这本书成功地将严肃的法律辩论转化成了充满戏剧张力的情节推动力，每一次策略的反击都伴随着对既定认知的一次冲击。它迫使我跳出自己固有的道德框架去审视这些“规则的制定者”和“规则的利用者”之间的博弈，这种智力上的高强度对抗，是阅读过程中最令人兴奋的部分。

评分☆☆☆☆☆

说实话，我最近读了很多法律相关的题材，但这本书的叙事节奏感却是独树一帜的。它不是那种教科书式的枯燥陈述，更像是一部精心编排的动作片，只不过这里的“武器”是法律条文和人性的弱点。作者似乎深谙如何设置悬念和释放信息之间的平衡艺术，总是在你以为快要摸到真相的边缘时，突然抛出一个更具爆炸性的转折点，让你不得不重新审视之前的一切判断。我尤其欣赏作者在描写角色内心挣扎时的细腻笔触，那些深夜难眠的独白，那些在道德与利益之间摇摆不定的瞬间，都刻画得入木三分，让人感同身受。这种深层次的心理剖析，使得角色不再是扁平化的“好人”或“坏人”，而是充满了复杂的人性灰度。阅读过程中，我好几次因为剧情的急转直下而暂停下来，深吸一口气，消化一下刚才发生的事情。这种被作者牵着鼻子走的阅读体验，酣畅淋漓，仿佛自己也置身于那场没有硝烟的战场之中，时刻准备着为自己的立场辩护。

评分☆☆☆☆☆

这本书的文笔风格极其老练，有一种老派文人的沉稳和犀利。它不像某些当代小说那样追求华丽的辞藻堆砌，而是专注于用最精准的词语去构建场景和情绪。我发现自己经常需要放慢语速来品味那些精准的用词，比如对某人律师技巧的描述，那种“四两拨千斤”的形容，寥寥数语便将对方的功力展现无遗。而且，书中对于专业术语的运用处理得非常巧妙，既保证了故事的专业性，又不会让非法律背景的读者感到吃力，作者显然花了不少功夫做功课，确保了情节的可信度。这种扎实的基础支撑起了整个宏大的叙事结构，使得即使在处理一些非常极端的案件时，读者也能保持一种“这是有可能发生”的代入感。这种稳健而有力的叙事腔调，贯穿始终，让人觉得这不仅仅是一个故事，更像是一份来自行业内部的深刻观察报告。它给予我的阅读感受，是一种被专业知识和成熟笔触共同包裹的踏实感。

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从情感代入的角度来看，这本书构建了一个极富张力的情感空间，但这种情感不是廉价的煽情，而是隐藏在理性决策背后的深层驱动力。书中人物的动机，无论是复仇的火焰，还是对绝对控制权的渴望，都被刻画得极其复杂且真实。我尤其关注那些处于权力漩涡中心的人物，他们是如何在高压环境下保持清醒，又是如何利用身边人的信任或弱点来达成目的。书中的对话场景设计堪称经典，几句看似平淡的问答，实则暗藏着千钧之力，信息量巨大，需要反复咀嚼才能体会出言外之意的微妙之处。这种“言有尽而意无穷”的表达方式，让阅读体验充满了发现的乐趣。每一次读完一个高潮迭起的章节后，我都会停下来，去回味那些关键的眼神交流和沉默的瞬间，那份情绪的余韵久久不能散去，真正做到了将读者的心绪牢牢地锁在故事情节之中，让人欲罢不能，渴望尽快知道下一轮较量中，谁将占据上风。

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