The Viper

“He liked being close to that world. To him, those people were strong, impressive. He was like a little kid watching the big kids.”

“He admired gangsters?”

She took a handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbed at her nose. “He wanted to be accepted by them, seen as an equal. I think that’s what trapped him in that awful plan.”

Stryker nodded sympathetically. “What did he tell you about his plan?”

“That he’d got lucky and come by a big secret—a bombshell, he called it—that was going to turn our lives around.”

“Your life as well as his?”

“Mine and Sonny’s. He kept repeating how good it would be for Sonny and me. But he seemed more focused on Sonny, like he was trying to make up for something.”

“Do you know what that something was?”

“The fact that he’d never made anything of himself. That he’d never earned Sonny’s respect.”

“Did your father tell you what he was actually going to do?”

“Yes. Sell some information he had to a famous rich guy with a dirty past.”

“Did he tell you the rich guy’s name?”

“Ziko Slade.”

“He hoped to get a lot of money from Slade for this information?”

“Yes.”

“Did you understand what that really meant?”

“I guess I did. Even though I didn’t want to.”

“Did the terms ‘extortion’ or ‘blackmail’ occur to you at the time?”

Adrienne bit her lower lip and stared down at her clasped fingers. “Yes.”

Stryker glanced significantly at the jury before going on.

“You loved your father, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And you believed he was doing this for you and your brother?”

“For Sonny, mainly.”

Stryker smiled softly, as if contemplating the admirable motive behind Lenny Lerman’s foolish plan.

“One more question, Adrienne. Did you get a call from your father on the evening he was killed?”

“He called me at seven o’clock. I was at a hospice patient’s home, checking her meds. I found his message on my phone when I got home.”

Stryker walked from the witness stand to the bailiff’s desk and requested evidence item number AL-009. The bailiff sorted through a file box, removed a cellphone from a plastic bag, and handed it to her.

“Your Honor,” said Stryker, “if it please the court, I’d like to play the message Lenny Lerman left for his daughter, Adrienne, at seven o’clock on November twenty-third of last year—the evening he was killed.”

Wartz nodded. “Proceed.”

After tapping a series of icons, Stryker laid the phone on the front railing of the witness box. Adrienne’s eyes began filling with tears.

A tense male voice spoke from the phone. “Adie? Adie, are you there? It’s me. Dad. Christ, I hope you get this. I’m here at Ziko Slade’s. This is it. What it’s all about, right?” Lerman’s voice sounded like it was breaking. “For Sonny and you. Tell him this is to make up for everything. Whatever happens tonight . . . whatever happens. I wish I was talking to you both instead of some fucking machine. So . . . that’s it. I’m going in.” The voice on the phone let out a crazy, raspy laugh. “Like in the movies. I’m going in.”

Adrienne was shaking. She pressed her handkerchief against her mouth, stifling sobs.

Stryker paused for a long ten seconds, then reached out and put her hand on Adrienne’s arm. “If you feel you can answer, I have one last question.”

Adrienne blew her nose and took a deep breath. “Go ahead.”

“Are you certain that the voice in that phone message was your father’s?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. That will be all. I’m so sorry we had to put you through that.”

Sorry, my ass, thought Gurney. Stryker knew damn well that she had to humanize Lenny Lerman to make the jury care about his murder, and the combination of his paternal angst in that message and his daughter’s tears accomplished the goal. On a prosecutorial success scale of one to ten, Lenny’s words and Adrienne’s reaction added up to a twelve.

Gurney paused the video and went to the kitchen for another cup of coffee. When it was ready, he carried it to the table by the French doors and took his habitual seat, the one that gave him a view out past the bluestone patio and the chicken coop, down over the low pasture to the barn and the pond.

His gaze drifted out to the rise on the far side of the pond. The trees were mostly bare now, except for isolated spruces whose summer greens had darkened into somber colorlessness. A few scattered oaks retained clumps of desiccated leaves. The muted color palette on the hillside was typical of a Catskill November—sepias, beiges, murky umbers. The still surface of the pond reminded him of a steel skillet. It wasn’t a pleasant image. He picked up his coffee and returned to the den.

6

THE NEXT WITNESS WAS A SQUARE-JAWED MAN WITH A law-enforcement crew cut, light blue shirt, dark blue tie, and a gray sport jacket with a flag pin on the lapel. He projected the calm, attentive expression of a witness well acquainted with courtrooms. Stryker asked him to state his full name, rank, and connection to the case.