You only know one person who can get bucked off her horse, break a few ribs, ride fifteen miles out of the hills, and show up in time to deliver a doozie of a closing argument. Brown sugar hair in a tight bun, cinnamon power suit, working the small-town jury box with candied peach logic and irrefutable grilled pineapple evidence, smooth as butter and spice. By the end, she’s got at least three in tears, and after the verdict comes out, she’s back in the saddle, because she’s not going to leave those cowboys shorthanded.
93 Points, Wine Advocate
