Chapter18
Wittman walked briskly, heading for his office after a long meeting with the District Attorney. He was flushed, angry that the DA wasn’t ready to bring Lincoln Moore and Charity Derrick in for questioning. He wanted to wait until they had more proof, but Wittman had waited long enough. It had been almost a month since George’s death, and he was ready to nail someone for it.
His assistant rushed out of her office, but when he glared at her, the mousy little slip of a woman all but squeaked, scurrying back into her office and closing the door without saying a word.
Opening the door to his office and letting it slam behind him, he was almost to the credenza where he kept the good Scotch when he realized that there was someone at his desk, sitting quietly in the darkness.
“To what do I owe this pleasure, Virgil?” Wittman said, pouring two glasses and carrying them to the desk.
He sat in the guest’s chair, since Virgil was in his chair, sitting quietly with a smug look on his pompous face. Wittman wanted to throw the Scotch in the man’s face, but he offered him the glass instead.
Virgil shook his head and Wittman shrugged, tossing back both glasses and leaning back in the chair.
“I came to talk to you about this useless witch hunt,” Virgil began. “You and I both know that your boy had his issues, and I don’t think you want his name dragged through the mud. I don’t think your wife can handle any more heartbreak.”
“That sounds quite a bit like a threat,” Wittman said.
“Suffice it to say that I have proof that you lied about the ME’s report, and launching a full-scale investigation into his death means that his life will be scrutinized down to the last kilobyte of information from his personal computer.”
“What do you want?”
“For you to call off the dogs. Concede that George’s death was the result of his own poor choices and leave Lincoln and Charity alone.”
“Ah, I see. So, you’re representing them?”
“I am.”
“So, you’re here to strike a deal. Murder two, and they both serve twenty years. That’s as low as I’m willing to go.”
“Self-defense, they serve no time, and we don’t share these pictures with the media. Additionally, any attempt to contact or slander Mr. or Mrs. Moore in the future will result in your immediate disbarring.”
“Mr. and Mrs.? I wasn’t aware they were married.”
“There are a lot of things you aren’t aware of when it comes to your son’s life. Or, rather, you were aware but you continued to enable him. I’m sure you were aware that he had a bit of a temper.”
“What are you getting at, old man,” Wittman said angrily.
Virgil slid a photograph across the desk.
“I found this one to be rather interesting. It looks to me like your boy is throwing this woman off a cliff. And if you’ll look at the edge of the photo, you can just see Lincoln coming into the picture in his rush to save her. Perhaps you’re not familiar with these trails, but Lincoln is coming from the Northern Wash Trail, which is permit only, and it takes four hours to get from the parking lot to this location on that trail.”
“So?”
“The trail that George and Charity took takes an hour. Lincoln was there hours before they were.”
“They could have still plotted it. This proves nothing.”
“They didn’t plot him trying to kill her first, I would wager.”
“You can’t even tell that’s him.”
“I thought you would say that. Then, there’s this picture. I must warn you it’s quite graphic, but since you’ve decided to lie about the ME’s report and claim that he was alive when they left him, and thrown, I also have these pictures.”
Wittman looked at the pictures, his face paling at the gruesome sight.
“Where did you get these?” Wittman demanded.
“That’s not important. What is important is that they are absolutely photos from the crime scene, proving that there was no way that George was pushed and that he died on impact.”
“They still should have reported the body.”
“They never saw any proof that he was dead, and when he went over, Lincoln was still trying to save Charity’s life.”
“It’s reasonable to assume that he’d died,” Wittman shot back.
“Now you decide that he died on impact? I have a copy of the medical examiner’s report. There’s nothing in here about him being alive after impact. Perhaps you would like to see that document?”
“No, I’ve seen it.”
“So, you know you’re a liar, and now you’re insisting that they should have reported a dead man after that man tried to kill them?”
“The man has a name,” the ADA sneered. “George Wittman. He was my son.”
“He was an abuser who tried to kill Charity in a remote location to hide his crime.”
“Someone should have called. Maybe he would have had a chance. Once he went over the edge, he became a victim. A fellow human being in need. As soon as he was over the edge, some attempt should have been made to rescue him. Sending a rope over the edge, or at least calling the authorities.”
Virgil scoffed.
“So, now we expect victims to help their attackers? What’s next? Are you going to throw someone in jail if her kidnapper gets into a car wreck after she escapes? Should she stop running to help him because he’s now in need? No. She should run like crazy and never look back. Her only priority is to save herself. George was a monster that fully intended to kill Charity and leave her to rot in the ravine. Her friends and family would never know what happened to her because he drove her there.”
“You can’t prove that was his intention.”
“Have we been looking at different evidence this whole time?” Virgil asked, arching an eyebrow at the baffled Mr. Wittman. “He disabled his car’s GPS the night before he picked her up to go hiking. He knew exactly what he was doing. The only person who is responsible for George ending up in the bottom of the very same ravine that he meant to leave Charity in is George. He got what he deserved.”
“He was pushed,” Wittman challenged.
“He fell,” Virgil countered. “You know that as well as I do. He was trying to kill Lincoln, too.” Virgil slid a smart phone across the table, waiting for Wittman to watch the short video before he continued. “When Lincoln hit him in the face in self-defense, George grabbed his nose and was so blinded by his rage that he rolled away from Lincoln without looking first. He rolled right off the edge without anyone pushing him. It was an accident, and I know in my heart that accident is the only reason that Charity is still alive today. You can see all that very clearly in the video, and Lincoln’s perilous rescue. I’m sure you don’t want a jury to see this video.”
“What do you want?” he asked again.
“All charges dropped so you and your family can mourn George without his legacy and yours getting tarnished.”
“I want all the copies of that video.”
“I have a copy for assurance,” Virgil said. “If anything happens to myself or Lincoln and Charity, it will be forwarded to the media immediately. I also want you to announce that Lincoln and Charity are no longer and never were persons of interest in this accidental death.”
Wittman balked.
“No way!” he shouted, but Virgil didn’t even flinch.
“I will not have my clients’ reputations tarnished to save George’s. You’re a grieving parent who misread a report. They were potential witnesses and it didn’t pan out. Thank them for cooperating and leave it at that.”
“I can’t.”
“This has the potential to be career ending, or have you forgotten this?”
Virgil slid one last picture across the table, and Wittman inhaled quickly.
“Where did you get this?” he demanded.
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that your wife can’t find out that your son was involved in a fatal hit and run while he was drunk. And if it gets out that you covered it up, your career is ruined. No pension. No benefits, and your wife has to learn to live like the rest of us. Don’t you think she’s been through enough?”
Wittman glared at the man, but after a few moments of enraged silence, he simply pointed at the door.
“Get out,” he said. “I don’t want to see your face again.”
“The feeling is mutual,” Virgil said, and he walked away, leaving the photographs on the desk along with the prepaid smart phone he’d picked up at the store on the way.
Wittman was muttering as Virgil walked through the door, but when the door closed, there was nothing but blissful silence. He’d won, and it was a win that he was never going to let ADA Wittman forget.