I held the thick file up over the lectern so he could see it.

“Do you recognize this file, Mr. Torrance?”

“No. Not that I recall, I don’t.”

“You sure you don’t remember seeing it in Mr. Woodson’s cell?”

“Never been in his cell.”

“Are you sure that you didn’t sneak in there and look through his discovery file while Mr. Woodson was in the dayroom or in the shower or maybe in court sometime?”

“No, I did not.”

“My client had many of the investigative documents relating to his prosecution in his cell. These contained several of the details you testified to this morning. You don’t think that is suspicious?”

Torrance shook his head.

“No. All I know is that he sat there at the table and told me what he’d done. He was feeling poorly about it and opened up to me. It ain’t my fault people open up to me.”

I nodded as if sympathetic to the burden Torrance carried as a man others confided in – especially when it came to double murders.

“Of course not, Mr. Torrance. Now, can you tell the jury exactly what he said to you? And don’t use the shorthand you used when Mr. Vincent was asking the questions. I want to hear exactly what my client told you. Give us his words, please.”

Torrance paused as if to probe his memory and compose his thoughts.

“Well,” he finally said, “we were sittin’ there, the both of us by ourselves, and he just started talkin’ about feelin’ bad about what he’d done. I asked him, ‘What’d you do?’ and he told me about that night he killed the two fellas and how he felt pretty rough about it.”

The truth is short. Lies are long. I wanted to get Torrance talking in long form, something Vincent had successfully avoided. Jailhouse snitches have something in common with all con men and professional liars. They seek to hide the con in misdirection and banter. They wrap cotton around their lies. But in all of that fluff you often find the key to revealing the big lie.