The Viper

“After a thorough investigation, we have arrested Ziko Slade and charged him with the premeditated commission of this heinous crime. Further details will be provided by the Office of the District Attorney at the appropriate time.”

The reference to District Attorney Cam Stryker gave Gurney a jolt. Although Rexton was a good sixty miles from Harrow Hill, it was part of the same sprawling rural county that fell within Stryker’s jurisdiction. His recollection of the young, transparently ambitious DA was mixed at best.

Now that he was up to speed on Slade’s history, Gurney turned to the trial itself. The link Emma provided brought up a flashy page with a pulsating headline: MURDER ON TRIAL. A subhead read, YOUR FRONT-ROW SEAT AT THE ULTIMATE CONTEST IN OUR JUSTICE SYSTEM. In a blue banner were the words, NEW YORK STATE V. ZIKO SLADE—FROM THE TRUE CRIME ARCHIVES OF RAM-TV. Gurney adjusted the angle of his laptop screen, clicked Play, and sat back in his chair.

The front of a courtroom appeared on the screen, centered on the judge’s raised bench. The Rexton courthouse managed to escape the mid-twentieth-century modernization craze of blond furnishings and fluorescent lights that made so many other courtrooms appear shoddy and ephemeral. Dark mahogany covered every surface, from the judge’s bench to the witness box adjoining it and even the wall paneling.

A small plaque identified the dour-faced judge as Harold Wartz. He had unruly gray hair, brushed straight back, and thick features. His heavy-lidded eyes were magnified by his glasses. His first words were delivered in a voice as cheerless as his demeanor.

“Ms. Stryker, you may proceed with your opening statement.”

A lean young woman in gray slacks and a dark blue blazer strode from the prosecution table to a nearby lectern. Placing her hands on it, she leaned slightly forward, making eye contact with each member of the jury.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the crime I’m about to describe is sad and horrifying. It involves a fatal confrontation between a pathetic small-time criminal and a slick, ruthless murderer. It’s the story of an ill-advised blackmail attempt that ended with the would-be blackmailer decapitated and buried behind the country lodge of the powerful man he’d targeted. That would-be blackmailer was Lenny Lerman—a high-school dropout who spent the next twenty-six years of his life in a succession of menial jobs interrupted by arrests for petty theft, possession of stolen property, and passing bad checks. A dreamer with no common sense, always on the lookout for the one big score that would change everything. And then he found it. Or he thought he did.”

Stryker stepped from behind the lectern and approached the jury box.

“It all began when, in Lenny’s own words, a former jail-mate passed along a piece of information involving something awful that had happened in Ziko Slade’s wild, drug-using days. You’ll hear from witnesses how obsessed Lenny became with using this information to get rich. He planned to offer Slade the ‘exclusive rights’ to the information for a million dollars. If Slade balked at this, Lenny figured he could threaten to sell what he knew to the highest bidder.”

As Stryker went on, her angular features seemed to grow sharper and her voice flintier. “Perhaps because he had some inkling of the danger in this plan, Lenny purchased a million-dollar accidental death policy, with his son and daughter as beneficiaries. But, blinded by his dream of wealth, he failed to grasp how great the danger really was.” Stryker sighed in sad amazement at this blindness.

“You’ll hear testimony regarding the phone calls he made to set up a meeting with Slade at his remote Adirondack lodge. You’ll see GPS data and DNA evidence that places Lenny Lerman at that lodge when Slade was also present—at the time the medical examiner has established for Lerman’s death. There’s just one reasonable conclusion: Ziko Slade murdered Lenny Lerman in a vicious, premeditated fashion.” Stryker paused to let this sink in.

“Through witness testimony and forensic data, you’ll be able to follow Lenny’s movements on that final day of his life—as he drove from his little two-room apartment in Calliope Springs to the door of Slade’s grand mountain lodge. From there you’ll follow the evidence trail to the lonely spot in that cold November forest where he was beheaded and buried.”

Stryker let that final image creep into the mind of each member of the jury before going on.

“Ziko Slade knew exactly when Lenny was coming. Slade was ready. When Lenny arrived, Slade let him talk. Let him make his proposition. Let him state his price. Then he killed him.”