Vanzetti admitted that he had lied to Katzmann in the Brockton station the morning after his arrest, even after the district attorney had told him he was not compelled to answer questions. He had lied about his revolver, about buying the cartridges and firing them, about knowing Boda, about the motorcycle. “I was scared,” he explained. Admitting that most of these lies would not have helped conceal the names and addresses of his friends, he still insisted that he had lied because he had been frightened about his friends’ safety and because Salsedo’s death in New York had made him afraid of the police. Katzmann hemmed him in, getting him to say there were half a dozen people in Bridgewater from whom they were planning to collect literature, forcing him to confess he knew none of their names. The district attorney then questioned him about his stay in Mexico, leading quietly up to the thundering demand: “And are you the man, Mr. Vanzetti, that on May ninth was going to advise in public meeting men who had gone to war? Are you that man?” “Yes, sir,” Vanzetti told him. “I am that man, not the man you want me, but I am that man.” When Vanzetti had first been questioned in Brockton he could not recall anything specific that he had been doing on April 15. Katzmann now wanted to know how he could recall so much of that day fifteen months later. It was, Vanzetti told him, because in Brockton he had no idea he was going to be charged with murder. But “three or four weeks after my arrest I understand enough to see that I have to be very careful to save my life and my liberty and I have to remember.” Thinking back, he was able to reconstruct most of the day by checking with what he had been doing on the following Monday, Patriot’s Day, and on other days. As for the night of his arrest, he had planned to go on to Plymouth with Boda in the Overland. Sacco and Orciani were to go back to Stoughton, and he had not expected to see Sacco again. When asked again about the literature they planned to collect, he said there must have been four or five hundred pounds of it, and that he had been told by his friends in New York to get rid of it. In a brief re-examination Vanzetti said again that when he was arrested he had thought it was because of political matters since he was asked “if I am a Socialist, if I am an I.W.W., if I am a Communist, if I am a Radical, if I am a Blackhand.” Through a day and a half the district attorney flashed questions at Vanzetti so fast that his acquired English collapsed. Still, he managed to keep his calm manner. Such self-control would be beyond Sacco’s capacities. For a year now he had fretted in the Dedham jail, and a month’s submission to the routine of the courtroom had brought him close to the point of explosion—as the experienced Katzmann well realized.