Paul Levine - To speak for the dead

"Yes." v ' 208

"Did you ever take anything that didn't belong to you?" A control question.

Salisbury paused, then a soft "Yes."

That one didn't work. The idea of a control question is to get a false answer. Nearly everybody has stolen something, if only a candy bar. If Salisbury had falsely denied it, his physiological response to this irrelevant question would have been compared to the response to the biggie: Did you kill Philip Corrigan? If the reaction is greater to the irrelevant control question than to the relevant question about the killing, chances are he's telling the truth. If the reaction is greater to the relevant question, chances are he's more concerned about that answer, and it's a lie.

Tony Cuevas may have wanted to stomp on Roger Salisbury's instep to get a better answer, but he simply smiled and asked, "Did you ever cheat in school, even once?"

Another short pause, then a soft "No." I couldn't see the charts, but that was the answer Cuevas wanted. An almost sure lie to an irrelevant question.

A pause for about thirty seconds to let the reactions die.

"Did you kill Philip Corrigan?"

A hasty, firm "No, sir."

"Is your name Roger?" Back to the neutral question to start the sequence again.

"Yes."

"Did you ever wish anyone harm?" Again, a control question, eliciting the lie.

"No." It's amazing how many people refuse to admit the truth to questions they believe are irrelevant. They're afraid that if they admit to skullduggery or viciousness in the past, it's an admission of guilt on the subject of the polygraph test, and figuring the question isn't the one that's being tested, they lie about it.

The required pause, and then: "Did you inject succinylcholine or any other substance into Philip Corrigan in an attempt to kill him?"

"No."

"Were you born in May?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever told a lie to get out of trouble?"

Silence, then "Yes." Roger Salisbury was more honest than most, but he still denied two of the control questions, enough for Cuevas to evaluate the charts.

"One more question, Dr. Salisbury. Do you know who killed Philip Corrigan?"

"No sir," Roger Salisbury said.

Cuevas went through the same questions two more times. The answers stayed the same. The pens never stopped gliding up and down the moving paper. Tony Cuevas never changed his expression. When it was over, Roger Salisbury ran a hand through his neat, salt-and-pepper hair and gave me a wary look. His shirt was soaked and he seemed worn out. I told him that honest men sweat, too, and sent him home.

I used to think I was a good judge of character. Then I got burned a few times. Now I watched Roger Salisbury heading out the door. Good looking in that bland, undefined way. A mild, passive demeanor. Troubled now. He was either an honest man worried about the reliability of the strange contraption or a killer fearful that his mask was about to be peeled back.

Very perceptive, Lassiter. And you are either a brilliant 210 lawyer riding the crest of a dazzling career or a has-been ex-jock who should be selling hurricane shutters.

Cuevas kicked open a mini-refrigerator and offered me a beer. I was thirsty and he was sociable, so we polished off a six-pack while going over the charts. Cuevas measured the little lines, some forming the Appalachians, others the Rockies. He made notes, used a calculator, scratched his head with a pencil, and said, "I got a plus eight or better on two of the three relevant questions."

"Meaning?"

"Truthful. He didn't kill Philip Corrigan. Or more properly stated, his physiological responses lead me to conclude that he doesn't believe that he did."

"So what did he lie about?"

"Nothing for sure. The machine gives us three categories. Truthful, deceptive, and inconclusive. He got a minus four when I asked him if he knew who killed the guy. Minus six would be clearly deceptive. Minus four is close but still inconclusive. Here, look at this."

He pointed at some squiggly lines. They trailed off, becoming shorter, then taller, then shorter again.

"Looks like the Dow Jones," I said.

"That's called a staircase suppression. See, it's like a series of steps. It shows suppression of respiration just after I asked if he knows who killed Corrigan. That's one of the indications of deception."

"So does he know who did the killing?"

"A definite maybe. Sorry, best I can do is he didn't kill Corrigan but may know who did. If he clearly lied about not knowing, I'd be even more convinced he was innocent of the murder itself."

I must have looked puzzled because Cuevas continued, "It's this way, Lassiter. If the test shows clearly truthful to the denial of having committed the crime and clearly deceptive as to the denial of knowing who did, he's absolutely innocent. Money back, guaran-fucking-teed clean as a whistle. A killer will never show a stronger response to the question of who did it than whether he did it."

I fooled around with the blood pressure cuff, then turned to Cuevas: "He told me he doesn't know who killed Corrigan. I don't like it if he's lying to me."

"He might have had an itchy foot or a chest pain when he answered. Or he might know the killer and be protecting him."

"Or her," I said.

Cuevas nodded. "Or them. But your guy looks clean on the big questions, so you got what you want, an innocent lamb being led to the slaughter."

Which means someone is telling lies about Roger Salisbury. I remembered the line from Kafka: "Someone must have been telling lies about Joseph K. for without having done anything wrong he was arrested one fine morning." Which also meant we needed to prepare for The Trial.

The next morning I was at my desk at eight o'clock when the call came on my private line. "You gonna surrender that pervert murderer or should a couple boys from major crimes cuff him and bring him in the front door with all the TV assholes outside?"

Abe Socolow had such a folksy way of saying hello. He was delivering a message, just in case I missed it the day before. There would be no breaks, no special treatment because we used to break bread together. Now I was just another problem for him. After he brushed me aside, he could sweep up the scum he saw in front of him.

"You shouldn't skip breakfast, Abe. Affects your disposition."

He snorted at me. "I chew nails for breakfast."

"And spit out tacks," I said. "Roger will be there whenever you want. We aim to cooperate. But we'd like some cooperation from the state, too."

"Like what?" he asked, suspicion rising in him like steam in a kettle.

"Bond, reasonable bond for someone never before arrested, much less convicted of a crime."

"Hey, Jake, don't pee on my leg, okay. We're talking a capital crime here. No bond. You remember your criminal procedure, don't you, or is the money too good handling divorces and corporate mergers?"

Socolow was going to make my life miserable, and if I couldn't figure that out, he was telling me about it. He wanted me to grovel a little, so I did. It wouldn't help my client to insult the guy trying to fry him. "Abe, the court will grant him bond if the state stipulates to it. He's not going anywhere. He's got his medical practice here. He'll show up for arraignment, the preliminary, the trial, the whole works."

"And what if he splits for Argentina with some bambina? I'll look like a schmuck."

"Who'd notice the difference?" I said, without thinking. I pictured Socolow scowling at me at the other end of the line.

"Fuck him and the horse he rode in on. Let him sit in the can with all the other shitheads."

Stay in the prosecutor's office long enough, you get warped. You start thinking like a cop and talking like a cop. Cops are everywhere-homicide, vice, narcs-telling macho stories, hanging together in the paranoid world of Us against Them. Then in the corridors of the Justice Building, you rub up against the silk-suited shoulders of criminal lawyers and their depraved clients. No way you can stay sane. Not after eighteen years.