I woke up this morning, bolt upright, heartbeat pounding, screaming, “Objection!”

Three days ago, I finished trying the case that inspired my nightmare. The jury had been deliberating for two full days already. Nary a peep from them the entire time. Not a question. Not a request for testimony review. Nothing. What could they be talking about?

A pink sliver of dawn glimmered over the San Francisco Bay. The other side of my bed was cold. That’s when I remembered my husband, Jake, had moved out weeks earlier. It still surprised me every time I realized it. What had gone wrong? Was he thinking about me? Was he alone?

I threw off the covers, showered, combed my shoulder-length red hair, brushed my teeth, and rolled on a little mascara. On with a dark blue pantsuit, white blouse, and chunky pumps – battle gear for court. I would have much rather slouched into the office in jeans, a sweatshirt, and runners but today could be the day the jury came back. I had to be ready.

I parked in a garage near my Jackson Square office, then walked up the street to my favorite café. By the time I reached the register, my standing order was waiting, a raspberry mocha with my name written on it. “Can I get one of those giant cinnamon rolls too, please?” I asked Jenny, the barista.

She put the roll in a bag and rang up my tab. “Jury back yet?”

“Nope,” I said. “Day three.”

The phone buzzed with an incoming text. Jake. “We need to talk.” He was absolutely right. But not while I had a jury out. I was too tense to say the things I wanted to say – we’d just end up in another fight. I dropped the phone in my bag, grabbed my food, and headed out.

“Good luck!” Jenni called as I opened the door.

“Thanks!” I called back. Trial attorneys like to think their hard work, ingenuity, and strategizing made a difference. It’s an ego thing. Truth was, plain old luck had a lot to do with the outcome. I’ll gratefully accept all the luck I can get.

My office condo was on the third floor of an historic brick building. I took the graciously wide stairs, running my hand along the silky carved banister, and was pleased when I pulled out my door key that my heartbeat barely registered the effort. Running to court was paying off!

The reception desk was empty. Yolanda Martinez, my paralegal/office mom, wasn’t in yet.

I wandered down the hall to my office. When I moved in, I filled the space with dark, heavy wooden furniture reminiscent of the 19th century. A female attorney can be off-putting to prospective clients, so I wanted my visitors to feel reassured by traditional law office trappings. There was another, more personal, reason. For me, the heavy furniture suggested permanency, a manifestation of my commitment to private practice after I had left the DA’s office. Commitment was an issue of mine –as Jake could tell you. I was willing to give one hundred percent once I made up my mind. I expected it in return.

I sat behind my desk, peeled the plastic lid off my mocha, and took a sip. I had just started clearing my inbox, moving Jake’s several emails into a file unread, when I heard the front doorbell tinkle, announcing Yolanda’s arrival. A few minutes passed while she must have stashed her purse and retrieved voicemail. Footsteps padded down the carpeted hall to my office. She settled into my visitor’s chair with a fistful of little pink slips. “Did you sleep at all? You look like hell.”

“I love the law. The law is my life.” I tore off a chunk from the cinnamon roll and put it in my mouth.

“Right, Justice Warrior Woman. Is that your breakfast?”

I washed the roll down with my mocha. “No food at the condo. I didn’t have time to shop during the trial.” I tore off a larger chunk and stuffed that in my mouth.

“Jake wants you to call,” she said, as she waved the messages in the air.

I murmured agreeably, my mouth full.

The landline rang. Yolanda reached across and picked up the receiver. “Maureen Gould, Attorney at Law.” She paused. “Already?” She paused again, then, “I’ll let her know.”

She hung up. “The jury’s back. The judge wants you in court right now.”

As I stood, I knocked the mocha over, drenching my slacks.

That was the beginning of the story.


Implied Consent, A Maureen Gould Mystery #1
Genre: Legal Thriller
Release: January 2023
Format: Digital and Print soon to come
Purchase Link

Lawyer Maureen Gould has a dark secret and a need to prove herself. When a young woman walks into her office with a Hollywood #metoo case, Maureen spots the chance for redemption.

Enter the opponent: Maureen’s father, Frank Gould, a man as evil as the movie producer he defends. While Frank pulls every dirty trick known inside the courtroom, someone behind the scenes is engineering Maureen’s defeat. Doors are slammed in her face. Disturbing photographs are “discovered.” A witness dies mysteriously. Clearly someone means to silence her.

Will Maureen muster the strength to free herself from the past, reveal the truth, and win justice for her client?


About the author
Keenan Powell is the Agatha, Lefty, and Silver Falchion nominated author of the Maeve Malloy Mystery series. Despite being one of original Dungeons and Dragons illustrators, art seemed an impractical pursuit – not an heiress, wouldn’t marry well, hated teaching – so she went to law school. The day after graduation, she moved to Alaska. When not writing or practicing law, Keenan can be found embroidering or studying the Irish language.

All comments are welcomed.