The Viper

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.”