Page 101 of The Right to Remain

“Whether Elliott’s fingerprints turn up on the gun.”

Chapter 37

Helena’s workweek started with a Monday morning visit to the law office of Patricia Dubrow. The receptionist offered coffee, but she didn’t need the caffeine. She already had the jitters, and it was impossible to follow her lawyer’s advice to “just relax.”

The forensic team had lifted Helena’s fingerprints from the gun in her yard, which was no surprise. Even though the recovered Beretta had no serial number, Helena didn’t deny it was hers. If the prosecution was to remain focused on Elliott Stafford, Helena had some explaining to do. A polygraph had been her lawyer’s idea—but only if it was administered privately by an examiner she trusted.

“Have you ever taken a polygraph examination before?” the examiner asked.

“No,” said Helena.

The ergonomic chairs at the conference room table looked comfortable enough, but Helena was seated in a stiff wooden chair provided by the polygraph examiner. An inflatable rubber bladder behind her back and pneumographic tubes at her chest and abdomen tracked her respiratory activity. A blood pressure cuff tracked her cardio. Two fingers on her left hand were wired with electrodes. Seated across the table was David Simms, a former FBI agent who, in Patricia’s estimation, was the best private polygraph examiner in Miami.

“Before we begin, I want to restate our understanding for the record,” said Patricia.

Both her lawyer and the prosecutor were standing behind Helena, out of her line of sight, so as not to add to her anxiety.

“There’s no stenographer here,” said the prosecutor, “so I’m not sure what you mean by ‘for the record.’”

“I want a crystal-clear understanding,” said Patricia. “My client has voluntarily agreed to submit to a polygraph examination relating to the firearm that her dog uncovered in her yard on Saturday.”

“Yes,” said Weller, “and we agreed not to ask, ‘Did you kill your husband?’ Can we please proceed?”

“I’m not finished,” said Patricia. “We omitted that question not because we have something to hide. No offense to Mr. Simms, but polygraph examinations are far from infallible. I’ve seen liars pass and honest people fail. It would be malpractice for me to let an innocent client sit in a room with a state prosecutor and answer a question like ‘Did you commit murder?,’ only to have a polygraph examiner misinterpret the results and find signs of deception. This examination is therefore limited to the agreed-upon questions.”

“Understood,” said Weller.

“Here we go then,” said the examiner. “Ms. Pollard, is your first name Helena?”

“Yes.”

Simms was watching his cardio-amplifier and galvanic skin monitor atop the table. Some examiners used fully computerized equipment, but Simms was old-school: a paper scroll was rolling as the needle inked out a warbling line.

Patricia had explained the process to Helena in advance, so she knew that the examiner’s first task was to put her at ease with softball questions. Do you like ice cream? Is your hair green? They seemed innocuous, but with each spoken answer he was monitoring her physiological response to establish the lower parameters of her blood pressure, respiration, and perspiration. It was a game of cat and mouse. The examiner needed to quiet her down, then catch her in a small lie that would serve as a baseline reading for a falsehood. The standard technique was to ask something even a truthful person might lie about.

“Have you ever thought about sex in church?”

“Mmm, no.”

Helena gnawed her lip. What a giveaway. Didn’t need a polygraph to know that she’d lied about that one.

The examiner appeared satisfied. Helena had been caught in a lie, and Simms knew what her “lies” looked like on the polygraph. The real questions were soon to come.

“Do you know how to dance ballet?”

“Yes.”

“Do you own a handgun?”

The first question that mattered. Helena tried not to panic. “Yes.”

“Is your son’s name Austen?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever visited the moon?”

“No.”