That didn’t seem to satisfy Bill, who didn’t like to speculate.
“But he’ll tell them you had one. And that you flashed a badge and impersonated a cop.”
“I never said I was a cop. And he didn’t see the warrant up close. No big deal. His word against mine.”
“We have to tell Weatherly,” Bill said. “He has to know everything if he’s going to be on our side.”
“Okay, I’ll tell him the whole enchilada.”
“I didn’t want it to come to all this, Stan. I’m going to be in a world of hurt. But, I’ll survive. I think this video will be enough to get your guy released. They won’t be able to use it against the perp, though, because of how you got it.”
“Can’t you get a real warrant for the videos?”
“Nope. Probable cause comes from your video. Fruit of the poisonous tree. Let’s see how this plays out before we figure out what’s next.”
I gave him a copy of the video.
He pulled his overcoat on. “When do I get to hear the good news?”
Chapter 28
We sat in a conference room in the courthouse. I sat next to Bill Penrod. Across the table from us was ADA Phil Weatherly. Rodney was there in case we had any technical questions, but I had instructed him to observe and speak only when spoken to.
William and Marsha Sproles were in a waiting room while we briefed Weatherly. We showed him the video, and I briefed him on my investigation.
Weatherly excused himself and made a call on his cell phone. When he was done, he said, “That gun was the only piece of physical evidence we had on Overbee, and this video casts a lot of doubt on its credibility. I just talked to the DA. He’s releasing Overbee from house arrest as we speak.”
Right about then, Bill’s cell phone signaled. He pulled it out and looked at it.
“Text from the DA. I am to go pick up the ankle bracelet.”
“Overbee will be glad to see you,” I said.
“Uncle Stanley, what about—”
“Shut up, Rodney.” Let the cops figure out how Buford got the bracelet off.
Bill sent word for the Sproleses to come in. We introduced them to Weatherly.
“Why are we here?” Sproles asked. “We already told the police everything we know.”
“We need you to look at a video. It might convince you to change your story.”
I started the video on Rodney’s laptop and turned it around so Mr. and Mrs. Sproles could watch it. Marsha showed no reaction to the video. Sproles himself didn’t speak either as the video played. But he turned an ashen shade of gray when he saw the service van pull up next to the Rolls.
When the video showed him getting out of the van, he said, “I think I need a lawyer.”
“This is not an official interrogation,” Weatherly said. “You haven’t been charged or read your rights. Nothing you tell us can be used against you. We’re just trying to tie up some loose ends, this visit to Overbee’s car being one of them.”
Sproles just sat there, saying nothing.
“If you don’t want to talk to us, that’s okay,” Bill said. “Just listen to what we have to say.”
Sproles sat there with his lips tightly closed and his arms folded, glaring at me.
“We know you are in witness protection,” Bill said.
Sproles reacted visibly.
Bill continued. “We know Vitole used to be a handler. We know that he had been blackmailing witness protection clients. We know that he had been having an affair with your wife.”
Bill slid copies across the table of the pictures I had taken of Vitole and Marsha. Sproles looked at the pictures, put his face in his hands, and rocked from side to side. Marsha Sproles still didn’t react.
“And we know from this video that you planted the murder weapon in Overbee’s car.”
“I do need a lawyer,” Sproles said.
“Yes, you do,” Weatherly said. “So don’t talk if you don’t want to. But listen.”
Bill continued.
“This can go several ways. If the feds see this video, or if we charge you with this murder, tampering with evidence, or anything else, you’re out of witness protection and back in prison.”
“And dead,” Sproles added. “Marsha too. They’ll figure she knows what I know.”
“Who’s they?” Weatherly asked.
“Drug dealers in Baltimore,” Sproles said. “The guys I am testifying against.”
“So you see what’s at stake here,” Bill said. “If you want any kind of deal, you better talk to us now. You can get a lawyer if you want, but as soon as that happens, all deals are off the table and you get charged with, at the very least, accessory after the fact. At the worst, first degree murder. A date with the needle.”
Marsha Sproles spoke up for the first time. “That video. You can’t tell that it’s William. The details are blurred.”
“That’s because we’re watching the raw version,” I said. “The enhanced version is still being processed. It will show not only your husband’s face but the license plate numbers too.”
“Uh, Uncle Stanley—” Rodney said.
“Not now, Rodney.”
“But—” he said.
“Clam up and observe,” I said. He did. I wanted them to believe that the lab could do what they’d seen done on CSI, NCIS, and other cop shows countless times. It was all bullshit, but they didn’t know that.
“What kind of deal would you offer?” Sproles asked.
“You confess, and we prosecute you under your new name. The Baltimore crowd never finds out it’s you. We take the death penalty off the table. We intervene with the feds on your behalf to maintain your protection. You do twenty-five to life.”
Marsha started crying. “Prison? For twenty-five years? No, I won’t let that happen.”
“Marsha, don’t,” Sproles said.
“No, William, I have to.” She reached over, put her hand on her husband’s arm, and looked at Bill. “I shot Mario Vitole,” she said. “William didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Mirandize both of them,” Weatherly said. “Now.”
Bill read William and Marsha their rights. Then he said, “You realize this makes William an accessory. We’ll have to deal with that.”
“I understand,” she said. “But it’s better than murder.”
“Do you want to waive your right to legal counsel?” he asked.
“Yes, I waive them.”
“How about you, Mr. Sproles?”
“Yes,” Sproles said.
People are dumb about giving up their rights. If I was a suspect, I wouldn’t say squat to the cops without a lawyer. Bill and I had used this kind of ignorance to get confessions and close cases many times.
Bill turned on the voice recorder on his cell phone and put it in the middle of the conference table. He said the date and time, his name, the names of the others in the room, and that the Sproleses had been read and had waived their rights. Then he said, “Proceed with your statement, Mrs. Sproles. Start with your name and address and then tell us everything that happened.”
She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and started in. “My name is Marsha Sproles. I live at 512 Cherokee Avenue, Delbert Falls, Maryland. About three months ago, Mario Vitole visited me during the day. He said he knew my husband and I were in witness protection. He said if I’d have sex with him during the day, William and Stella didn’t need to know, and he wouldn’t tell the people in Baltimore where we were.”
This was what I had suspected. But up until now, it had been only a hunch. Now, I would have shot the asshole myself.
“I had no choice but to succumb,” she said. “I told him every time that I didn’t want to do it, but he made me do it.”
“How did you happen to shoot him?” Bill asked.
“Every time he wanted to see me, usually two or three times a week in the morning, he’d call to say he was coming up. Sometimes I’d have company in, maybe another housewife in the neighborhood, but I could only use that excuse sometimes. Finally, I had enough. When he called that morning, I went out into the street as if to greet him. When he was close enough, I shot him.”