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IT TAKES A FEW seconds for the technology to kick in.

But then, in front of Katherine Welsh and Judge Michael Horton and the jury and maybe even God Herself, an image of Sonny Blum appears on the big screen, remarkably clear, reclining in the BarcaLounger in the living room of his safe house in Barnes Landing, one that pretty much turned out to be the opposite of safe for him.

It was the recorder he’d tested out at the bar with his bartender Kenny before heading over to Gardiners Bay.

“Just out of curiosity,” we hear Jimmy saying now, “how much did the late Mr. Carson owe you?”

Blum: “A million, give or take a few thousand.”

Jimmy: “Lot of money.”

Blum: “He’s lucky something unfortunate didn’t happen to him sooner.”

Now I make a big show of leaning over and hitting Pause on the clerk’s laptop, freezing the image of Sanford (Sonny) Blum.

“Could you possibly be referring to something unfortunate like his whole family being shot in cold blood, Mr. Blum?”

Blum is shaking his head, furiously, eyes closed.

“I got nothing to do with that,” he says.

But when he opens his eyes, he suddenly looks very present, and alert. And angry. They all get mad when they get caught.

“But after the testimony you just gave about not knowing Mr. Carson and about your career in waste management, why in the world would you expect anybody in this courtroom, starting with the jury, to believe a word that’s coming out of your mouth?” I ask.

And then Sonny Blum is halfway out of his chair, pointing to where Jimmy Cunniff is seated behind my table.

“I told that bum that Carson paid!” he bellows. “It’s on the tape!”

I walk over and now I’m just a couple of feet away from Sonny Blum. We’re practically eye to eye.

“Then I guess my last question for you goes something like this, Mr. Blum,” I say. “Can you prove that?”

I lean closer to him.

“Perhaps with some kind of video evidence?” I ask him.

Then I walk away from him, jerking a thumb over my shoulder and saying to Judge Horton, “I’m done with that bum.”