“It would have let the prosecution bring in anti-character witnesses from Slade’s past, and that would have been a horror show.”
Gurney nodded. “Slade’s mountain lodge—that’s not his main residence, is it?”
“He has a horse farm in Dutchess County and an apartment in the city—which is where he spent most of his time before the murder last year, when he wasn’t at Emma Martin’s place.”
“Why did he happen to be at the lodge the day of the murder?”
“It was the day before Thanksgiving. He went to the lodge that morning to start preparing a big dinner for the following day.”
“Big dinner for who?”
“A group of Emma Martin’s patients, clients, disciples—whatever she calls them.”
“The dinner actually took place?”
“Indeed.”
“You spoke to the guests?”
“Of course.”
“How did they describe Slade’s emotional state?”
“Calm, pleasant, untroubled, but that didn’t help our case. A sharp prosecutor like Stryker could turn that around and convince the jury that Slade’s serenity was the natural facade of a murdering psychopath.”
Gurney couldn’t argue with that. Juries hated calm killers. “Speaking of Stryker, do you know why she called Lerman’s daughter, Adrienne, to the stand, but not her brother, Sonny?”
Thorne made a mirthless chuckling sound. “Daughter’s an automatic jury favorite. Cuddly, emotional. Sonny, on the other hand, is an obvious piece of garbage. Did two years for assaulting a police officer. Currently on parole. Slimy like his father, and more explosive.”
Gurney sat back in his seat and gazed out the wall-sized window. A late-season wasp, lethargic from the cold, was making its way across the glass. Thorne lifted his phone halfway out of his shirt pocket and glanced meaningfully at the time.
“Just a couple more questions,” said Gurney. “Considering the case against your client, I assume you considered making a deal with the prosecutor?”
“I recommended it. Slade refused. Said he wouldn’t plea to something he didn’t do. Said he wasn’t willing to lie. So, instead of fifteen-to-twenty, which I think I could have gotten him, he’s doing thirty-to-life.” Thorne’s grin returned. “Principles. They can really fuck you.” He paused. “What’s your game, Mr. Gurney?”
“You mean, why did I get involved? Emma Martin asked me to find cracks in the case that could be pried open.”
Thorne uttered a harsh little laugh and shook his head.
“You think I’m wasting my time?”
“Time billed at an appropriate hourly rate is never wasted. But as for finding cracks in the case? Cracks that could be leveraged into a successful appeal? Not likely. And even if an appeal did result in a retrial, you’d still be stuck with Slade’s unsavory history.”
He glanced again at his phone before going on. “Let me tell you a quick story about juries. Years ago, when I was practicing law in Southern California, a high-profile robbery-and-murder case came my way. A bonded precious-gems courier was intercepted in an underground parking lot and relieved of an attaché case containing emeralds worth roughly three mil. He gets a broken nose, the lot attendant gets shot dead, and the three-man heist team gets away with the emeralds. But, according to the courier, only the two who attacked him were wearing masks. The driver wasn’t, and the courier ID’d him as a guy who’d been following him the previous week. He even gave the cops a picture he took of the guy on the street one day. On top of that, the courier got the plate number of the getaway car—which turned out to be registered to a scumbag rumored to be involved in jewelry fencing, money laundering, and sex trafficking. The scumbag had no alibi, and the guy the courier ID’d as the driver turned out to be one of the scumbag’s trusted employees. The courier, by the way, was a retired cop with a spotless record and a strong resemblance to Tom Hanks. I was the scumbag’s defense attorney.”
Thorne paused, as if to verify Gurney was following, before going on. “Surprisingly, the DA offered my client a reasonable plea arrangement. Given the vulnerability of our situation, I strongly recommended that he accept it. He refused. He insisted a business rival, a guy by the name of Jimmy Peskin, was setting him up. He gave me a blank check to launch a private investigation to get to the truth, which I did.”
Thorne produced a self-satisfied smile. “The real story began with the courier’s son. The kid had landed a spot at a hot L.A. law firm. Problem was, he had a gambling, coke, and hooker addiction. His debts got him into deep shit—to the tune of four hundred grand—with a Vegas mob guy who was demanding payment or pictures would be posted on the internet that would end the kid’s career. The kid went begging to Dad. Dad, the courier, approached a character whose reputation suggested he might be open to a certain kind of arrangement. The guy was Jimmy Peskin, business rival of my client. Dad proposed the jewel heist to Peskin with a fifty-fifty split of the proceeds. He even recommended that his own nose be broken to deflect any suspicion regarding his involvement. At first, Peskin wanted seventy percent, but he agreed to settle for fifty—providing that Dad incriminate my client by giving the police a false ID of the driver, a false plate number for the getaway car, a bullshit story about the driver having followed him, and a photo of the man on a busy street—which Peskin would provide. We couldn’t prove any of this, it was all second-hand information, inadmissible hearsay, but it was very credible.”
Thorne gave a Gurney a cagey look. “So how do you think our alternative narrative played out?”
Gurney shrugged. “Depends on how persuasively you presented it, and how adept the prosecutor was in undercutting it.”
Thorne smiled without a hint of warmth. “Our presentation incorporated enough of what we discovered about Peskin to create a textbook example of reasonable doubt. In fact, court reporters and other observers found our case a hell of a lot more persuasive than the prosecutor’s. It was a steel-trap indictment of Jimmy Peskin.”
Gurney sensed what was coming. “However . . . ?”
“However, the jury found my client guilty on all counts. Guilty of armed robbery. Guilty of murder in the commission of a felony, due to the fatal shooting of the parking lot attendant. And guilty of half a dozen bullshit charges on top of those. You know why? It’s simple. The greatest defense in the world doesn’t matter if the jury hates your client.”
“You’re sure they reached the wrong verdict?”
“After my client was sent to prison, he proved his innocence by ordering a hit on Jimmy Peskin. Payback for the frame job.”
After a moment of silence during which Thorne seemed to be savoring the impact of his story, he raised his palms in a gesture that said, Are we finished here?
“One final question. Do you have any bottom-line observations on Ziko Slade?”
Thorne took a long breath and let it out slowly. “I’ve never had an innocent client with so much evidence against him. On the other hand, I’ve never had a guilty client who seemed so forthcoming. For example, take the release he signed to make this conversation possible. It places no limits whatsoever on what I can share with you.”
“So, the facts say he’s a murderer, and his attitude says he’s innocent?”
“Innocent or delusional. He’s so damn unconcerned. When I visited him the other day in that hellhole of a prison, he made jokes about the tie I was wearing.” Thorne checked his phone again, then rose from his chair with the conspicuous energy of a man who enjoyed looking busy. “Good luck with your search for those elusive cracks.”
He started leading the way toward the door, then turned to Gurney with a cold sparkle in his eyes. “Let me know if you find Lerman’s head in one of them.”