Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [124]
‘‘Understand one thing,’’ said Volont quietly. ‘‘We have jurisdiction. Never doubt that for a moment.’’ He looked at Wittman evenly. ‘‘We had it before, when we put you away for six months. Now you’re facing life at the state level, and thirty years at the federal level.’’ Wittman looked uncomfortable. ‘‘We mean it,’’ said Volont. ‘‘And you know we do.’’
‘‘I’m from Nation County,’’ I said, ‘‘like I said out at the farm. I’m here for one reason, and that’s to find out just who pulled the trigger on the newspaperman at the Stritch farm on the 24th day of June 1996.’’
‘‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’’
‘‘Sure you do,’’ I said. ‘‘It happened just before you ran out the back door with Gabe and into the cornfield. Just after you got the e-mail message from Bravo6 telling you to kill him.’’
Wittman, who I’d thought was pale anyway, went ghostly white on us and started to tremble. Volont gave me a very strange look. We hadn’t told him about Bravo6, I guess.
Wittman’s attorney, who’d been rather stunned by it all, saw the condition of his client and said, ‘‘Well, I think it’s about time we terminated this interview.’’
Wittman shook his head. ‘‘Just give me a second,’’ he said. ‘‘Just a second.’’
We did.
He apparently realized that his attorney wasn’t going to be of much use. ‘‘So, what?’’ he asked. ‘‘What charges can I get out of if I talk to you?’’
‘‘I can’t promise anything,’’ I said, truthfully. ‘‘All I can do is recommend to the prosecuting attorney.’’ That always sounds so weak. But it’s true. ‘‘I am saying this in front of your attorney . . . I will try to get you some benefit on the charges of conspiracy to commit murder, unless you’re the shooter. If you’re the shooter. I’ll recommend that you get the maximum sentence, no matter what you say now.’’
‘‘I have,’’ said Volont, ‘‘permission from the U.S. Attorney’s office to offer you basically what was offered you several years ago. You remember what that was?’’
‘‘Yes,’’ said Wittman.
‘‘And what was that?’’ asked his attorney.
‘‘Basically,’’ said Volont coolly, ‘‘we offer to cut seventyfive percent off his sentence. If he hesitates for more than an hour, he only gets fifty percent off. We have to wait till tomorrow, and he gets twenty-five percent off. After that, no deals at all.’’
‘‘I don’t know that that’s advisable,’’ said the attorney.
‘‘If you’d like a moment with your client,’’ said Volont, ‘‘I’m sure he’ll be glad to tell you that we have him by the balls on over fifty separate charges, each of which will earn him thirty years in federal prison.’’ He squinted at the attorney. ‘‘Not Club Fed time. We’ll put him in a maximum-security facility. Very hard time indeed.’’
‘‘True,’’ said Wittman. He was breathing rather hard and sweating profusely. I was beginning to worry about his health. ‘‘I’ve got no problem with either one of them,’’ he said to his attorney. ‘‘I’ve been here before. Not this serious . . . but here.’’
‘‘Well,’’ said his attorney, ‘‘you’re probably the best judge of that.’’
‘‘Could I,’’ said Wittman, ‘‘talk to this federal officer . . . alone?’’
Wittman’s attorney looked at Volont, for God’s sake, as if to see if that would be all right. My, clout does wonders on a good day. Volont just said, ‘‘I think that would be a good idea, if it’s all right with your attorney, of course.’’
An hour later, Volont and Wittman came out of the secure room, and Wittman and his attorney conferred. Volont looked at Hester and me and gave us a tight little smile. ‘‘Gabriel stuff. Don’t ask. But you’ll get what you want.’’
Within forty-five minutes we had a complete statement. Hester and I did the basic interview regarding the events at the Stritch farm.
For our case, this is what he said:
He and Gabe had infiltrated into the Stritch compound about 2A.M. Right past our people. I could believe that. Herman Stritch was a heavy