''You schmuck. This isn't -- a John Grisham novel.'' It's a helluva risk to have your main character make that sort of po-mo allusion near the climax of your second legal thriller. But then much of Reuland's novel toes the edge of our expectations, not to mention our patience. Semiautomatic is a thriller in name only, more interested in parsing the systemic shards of moral lethargy in Brooklyn's legal system than any particulars of its threadbare plot. A year and a half after a wrenching screwup on a homicide trial, burned-out ADA Andrew Giobberti is assigned a robbery-murder case that looks by the book but is, of course, anything but. The story stays grounded, its dour outlook never curdling into stock cynicism -- but Grisham is much more fun to read.