The Big Thaw - Donald Harstad [82]
We didn’t know a lot about Cletus, mainly because I didn’t think the man had ever been arrested in his life. Not until now, anyway. Between Lamar’s and my recollections, we were able to piece something together.
First of all, Cletus Borglan wasn’t an extremist, not in the violent sense of the word. Neither was he a “Militia” man, or Nazi, or anything like that. Cletus was a fairly wealthy farmer, a truly successful farmer, who honestly didn’t like the tax system. Well, who did? He also was very much pro-“family farm.” Well, maybe it was more of an anticonglomerate farm stance, to tell the truth. Regardless, he really felt for the small farmer who was slowly going under. Cletus was a hard worker, who had inherited two farms, and bought another. Lucky there, and nobody knew it better than Cletus Borglan. He’d also been savvy enough not to get in over his head, when many others were mortgaging to the hilt to buy up more land, on the theory that the more they planted, the more they’d make. It had sounded good, but just didn’t work.
His wife was a second-level administrator at an area education agency, had gone back to the University of Northern Iowa and obtained her MBA, and had set up their computerized farming operation. Between the two of them, they put in long hours, but with great success.
Having encountered him often over the years, I thought Cletus had a major flaw. Aside from predictability, that is. Cletus got emotional about farming. Really. Whoever had invented the slogan “We feed the world” hadn’t done Cletus any favors. It was too evocative of images of altruism. It should have been “We sell food to the world.”
Regardless, that was a trump card. Cletus was a crusader.
George, Art, Davies, and I were at the kitchen table, with Cletus and his attorney Gunston on the other side. The whole business was being conducted here because his attorney thought it less likely that we had bugged the kitchen. Right.
We were closer to the coffee. We’d just got settled at the long table when attorney Gunston stated that this was a “police-dominated environment.” Too many cops at the table, and we’d intimidate his client. Right out of the late ‘60s, but still viable. At the same time insisted that only “the deputy” do the interview, as I was the officer with superior jurisdiction. Sure. He was trying to pick the less sophisticated officer, the one he thought would do the worst job of interviewing his client. Me. Well, maybe he’d get a surprise. Davies agreed, with the provision that he too be present.
Art wasn’t happy. George seemed a bit relieved. Volont wasn’t present, anyway, so it sure didn’t bother him.
After a little flurry, we began again. I used the approach that had always worked best for me, especially with an opposing attorney present. I presented facts, and asked no questions. Kept either attorney from interrupting, and if Cletus wanted to say anything, the ball was in his court.
“Cletus,” I said, “I’m just gonna tell you what I got. I’m not gonna ask any questions. I’d suggest you pipe down unless they”—and I nodded toward his defense team—“tell you to say something. That’s what you pay them for.”
I knew he’d never be able to do it, any more than I could have in his place. But, having said it, I was on pretty firm ground. I had also given my “sincere” shot to Gunston and Blitek, hopefully taking just a tiny bit of the edge off the adversary relationship.
“So, what happened was this…” And I started out with Fred dropping the cousins off. I went through every step, fairly quickly, but concisely and in a clipped near monotone. Well, I do have to admit getting a bit dramatic when I stood and showed how the two had been executed, with one pleading that they really weren’t cops, in full view of his dead brother. But it did have the right effect.
“But the suspect shot ’em both, anyway,” I said. “In your house. In your living room. Believing they were cops when he did it.” I paused for effect. “In cold blood. With