I've sped through the first 5 Eddie Flynn books in barely more than a week - and I generally don't read straight thrillers or legal drama. But Flynn is likeable, Harry is wonderful, Kate is competent, Bloch is amusing and these books are scratching my "Suits" itch.

Until this book.

"Is it any wonder that a young black man is on anxiety pills in this country?"

Subtle that ain't. And the book suffers from it. It would have been so much more powerful if nearly everyone aside from Eddie & Co. weren't either evil caricatures or helpless victims.

Nearly everyone, mind you. Not everyone.

But still.

The previous Eddie Flynn novels felt personal. This one felt like a culture war treatise, and that was a disservice to the ludicrously obvious message of "Don't be a racist dick", as people who are okay with being racist dicks will ignore it, while those who don't think they're racist dicks (but might be) will pat themselves on the back for the rebuke not applying to them.