“I don’t know, Charley,” he spoke up at last. “This was more than I expected. I ain’t done anything like this since I was in the army, and that was forty years ago.”
“Did you stay up the way I told you to?”
“Yeah, I was up all night. I stayed on my feet the last three or four hours. If I even sat down, I would’ve fallen asleep, I’m sure of that.”
“Maybe that was the hardest part,” I suggested.
“No, it wasn’t. Peggy fixed me breakfast, and that helped. Coffee—man, I needed that—eggs and bacon, so I felt pretty good when I started out, but when I’d walked just a couple of miles, my legs started hurting. And each mile after that they hurt something fierce.”
“How far did you come? It was about five miles, wasn’t it?”
“No, closer to seven. That last mile or so, I really wasn’t sure I’d make it.” He shook his head in dismay. “I thought I was in better shape than this.”
“If it’s any consolation, Dominic, I probably wouldn’t have done any better myself.”
I slipped the key into the ignition and started the car. “We’d better get over there,” I told him. “The test is scheduled for eight-thirty. It wouldn’t do to be too late.”
On our way to the station, Dominic was pretty quiet. I looked over at him. No, he wasn’t tense, he was just plain tired. When we pulled into the parking lot, though, he did seek a little reassurance.
“All this I went through—does this, you know, guarantee FU pass?”
“I never said that, Dominic, but it sure gives you an edge.”
He thought about that a moment. “I’ll pass,” he said. “I don’t give a fuck what they ask me now. I just want to get through this, so I can get home and get some sleep. Besides which, I didn’t do any of that horrible shit they more or less accused me of.”
“I like your attitude.”
I pulled into a visitor’s space. Dominic opened the car door and squeezed out. He was too big for my little car. But he got his feet on the ground and struggled to an upright stance. Somehow he took hold of himself then, and in spite of the pain in his legs, he marched beside me to the building and up the steps at a good, soldierly pace. As I held open the door for him, I looked him over. He was a mess, sweat streaked, hair matted; the ordeal he’d been put through was written on his face. His wife was waiting for him inside. They said their helios; her concern was written on her face.
“Dominic,” I said, “I want you to go into the washroom and clean up. Wipe your hair dry and comb it, button your shirt, and pull that tie all the way up. When you come out, I want you to look like you’re ready for them.”
He nodded and set off once again like a good soldier. Tony Makarides, the desk sergeant, watched him go. A couple of the girls in the front exchanged looks.
“Is he okay?” Peg Benda asked.
“He’ll be all right. It was good of you to come here to give him moral support. He needs all he can get.”
“Well, yeah,” she said, “but that wasn’t the only reason. I had to drive the car in—the old patrol car he bought off them. I told him he was crazy when he did that.”
“Wait a minute. What do you mean, you ‘had to’?”
“That was part of the deal he made with them so he could keep his pension. Take the lie-detector test and let them go over the old patrol car for, you know, evidence.”
“He didn’t tell me about that.”
“He was probably ashamed. No kidding, Mr. Sloan, this really isn’t fair. I mean, all the years he put in for this lousy county, and this is what they give him. I’m telling you, his heart’s broke over this.”
“Do you know if he signed something giving them permission to go through the car?”
“Oh, sure, just like he did for this damn old lie test.”
It was probably too late to stop them, and maybe it was best I didn’t. If they went ahead, anything they tried to use as evidence should be relatively easy to keep out of court on the grounds that Dominic had been coerced. If it ever came to trial. Let well enough alone, Charley.
“I passed him out on the road when I was drivin’ in,” said Peg. “He was really draggin’. I pulled over and asked him, did he want to ride the rest of the way. But he said no. He’s really got a lotta faith in you, Mr. Sloan.”
I gave her a little lecture on the subject of the polygraph, stressing that it was notoriously unreliable and that its results couldn’t be used against him. She’d have to wait here, I told her, and the test would probably take about forty-five minutes to an hour. Peg took it all in without complaint or comment.
When Dominic reappeared, he looked a lot better, though he may have felt just as bad. Peg sent him on his way with a kiss on the cheek. Sergeant Makarides buzzed us in, and the two of us started on our way to Interrogation Room Three.
“How you holding up?” I asked Dominic.
“Not bad. Better.”
“Good man.”
I knocked on the door. It was opened by a man named Brunner, whom I’d met on a couple of occasions. He was the forensic psychologist usually employed by the Kerry County prosecutor’s office. A short, squat man in a badly rumpled suit, he seemed okay.
“Hello, Mr. Sloan. Is this Dominic Benda?”
“It is.”
“Come on in. I’ll acquaint both of you with the procedure.”
Leading the way, I looked around the room and took in the setup. It was about what I expected. There was an old reel-to-reel tape recorder and microphone on the table. The polygraph operator had tucked himself away behind his equipment in the far corner; he barely looked up at us, so intent was he on testing the movement of the stylus on the roll of graph paper in the machine. There were only three chairs in the room. I was about to call Brunner’s attention to that when Mark Evola burst into the room, followed by Sue Gillis. Pausing just long enough to throw me a dirty look, he went up to Dominic Benda and, fists on his hips, confronted him. He was one angry county prosecutor.
“I thought I told you that you wouldn’t need a lawyer for this.”
Dominic didn’t know quite what to say. I didn’t want him upset. I gave him a touch on the arm and a wink I meant to be reassuring.
“He’s entitled to have counsel present during every step of an investigation. Surely you know that, Mark.”
“But this is a test—it’s scientific! It’s not an interrogation. You can’t tell him what to answer, or not to answer. No Fifth Amendment.”
“I’m aware of that,” I said, “and I—”
“Gentlemen,” Brunner interrupted, “maybe I can help settle this. The truth is, I’d prefer to have Mr. Sloan present during the test as an observer. After the test has been administered, he will be free to register any and all objections he has to the test, either procedural or material. They will be duly noted in my report. Does that satisfy you both?”
“My objections”—up on my high horse—“are not to the polygraph test per se but to the method in which permission to administer it was obtained from my client. He was coerced into this by the threat of—”
“Mr. Sloan,” said Brunner severely, “do you agree to remain as an observer?”
Taking a deep breath, I said I agreed.
“Are you satisfied, Mr. Evola?”
“I suppose so.”
Evola turned and stalked out of Interrogation Room Three, leaving Sue alone to glare at me. But it wasn’t to me she spoke.
“It might interest you to know, Dominic,” she said, “that Charley Sloan—”
“Please, Detective Gillis,” Brunner interrupted for the third time, “if this test is to be administered fairly, then Mr. Benda must feel at ease. Unless what you wish to tell him is intended to promote that, I urge you to say nothing at all.”
She pursed her lips, looked from Brunner to me and back to Dominic, then she walked out the door, slamming it behind her. Clearly, for the time it took to administer the polygraph test, Interrogation Room Three was Brunner’s turf, and he
was going to make damned sure we all knew that. Good style—you had to admire him for it.
“Now, Mr. Sloan, since you were not expected, we don’t have a chair for you. Would you mind getting one?”
“Gladly.”
In the empty office where I’d talked to Sam Evans the week before, I found just what I was looking for, a swivel chair, padded and upholstered sufficiently to fit my own soft frame. I wheeled it out of the office and across the hall. Once back in the room, I saw that the polygraph operator was busy pasting electrodes on Dominic’s skin. Shirt open, tie off, sleeves rolled up—this after all Dominic’s efforts to make himself presentable.
“Sit anywhere, just so long as you’re out of Mr. Benda’s line of vision.”
I chose a place behind them all that offered me a good view of the polygraph. The angle was perfect for me to watch the action of the stylus on the graph paper as the questions were asked.
The operator had finished with Dominic. Brunner introduced me to him—Gulbranssen was his name—and I got up and shook hands with him, then retired to my swivel chair. Once the operator had signaled to Brunner that he was ready, he made a brief speech to Dominic about what lay ahead. His manner was reassuring. His tone was sympathetic. The tape was rolling.
“Now, Mr. Benda, what happens is very simple,” he said. “I will simply ask you a number of questions. They are not trick questions, but they are questions that can and should be answered with a simple yes or no. Please answer them truthfully. The polygraph will measure your physical response to each one. It will not tell us whether or not you are lying. No machine can do that. All that it can do is note an increase in physical tension in your response to a question, should you have some difficulty with it. Is this understood?”
Dominic nodded.
“If you could give an oral response, please, for the tape.”
“I understand, yeah.”
“Now, Mr. Sloan, since you are here as Mr. Benda’s attorney, you must understand that, as agreed, you are here strictly as an observer. This is a test, not an interrogation. Maintaining the flow of questions is very important. If you interrupt, you will be obliged to leave, and we shall have to resume the questioning from the beginning. If you will come forward and speak your agreement for the tape?”
I did as he said. He signaled when I was close enough to the microphone, and I spoke up loud and clear.
“I understand, and I agree.”
“Now,” he said, “I think we may begin.”
After all that, the polygraph test that followed was rather anticlimatic. I soon understood that whatever art there was to the process was all in the preparation of the questions. What could a trial lawyer do if he was restricted to asking questions of a witness that could only be answered yes or no? Not much. By and large, Dominic kept to the rules, except for a few understandable slipups.
For instance, after Dominic’s identity and his service with the Kerry County Police Department had been established, there was this exchange:
BRUNNER: “Are you married?”
DOMINIC: “Yes.”
BRUNNER: “Have you ever abused your wife?”
DOMINIC: “No.”
BRUNNER: “You have four children?”
DOMINIC: “Yes.”
BRUNNER: “Have you ever abused them?”
DOMINIC: “No.”
BRUNNER: “Have you ever struck them?”
DOMINIC: “Well, sure, ever’body does, but I only spanked them, and—”
BRUNNER: “Please restrict your answers to yes or no, Mr. Benda.”
During that little tiff at the end, the stylus did move minimally beyond the narrow limits that proved Dominic was awake and breathing.
Gulbranssen, the operator, dutifully noted the number of each question as it was asked on the graph paper that crawled slowly across the machine. Each time he consulted his copy of the list of questions. He was methodical and, I’m sure, quite accurate.
Even later in the interview, when the questions were more direct and specific, Dominic’s line hummed along in the same, steady up-and-down movement. When he was asked if he had known Lee Higgins, and then Catherine Quigley, his negative responses showed no tremor on the graph. When he was asked if he knew Billy Bartkowski and answered with a yes, again there was no discernible variation in the line. Brunner deviated from his prepared script very calmly and asked if Billy Bartkowski had ever ridden in Dominic’s patrol car. Dominic replied with a no, but then amended that: “Oh yeah, a couple of times.” No change on the graph. Then Brunner asked if either of these two occasions was at or near the time of Billy Bartkowski’s death, and Dominic gave an emphatic no. Again, there was no change in the pattern of the line. Gulbranssen marked these two follow-up questions, 23A and 23B. Then very directly:
BRUNNER: “Have you ever taken human life?”
DOMINIC: “Yes.”
BRUNNER: “In your line of duty as a policeman?”
DOMINIC: “Yes.”
BRUNNER: “Only in the line of duty?”
DOMINIC: “Yes.”
No change, the stylus hummed on.
And that was about it, except for one embarrassing moment at the end. Brunner asked if Dominic had ever represented himself as an active-duty police officer since his retirement. This must have been inserted by Stash or Sue to get him to account for his curious habit of wearing his uniform and driving around the county in his old patrol car. But Dominic said nothing. What was the problem? Maybe he had been up to no good, doing—what? Then I glanced over at the polygraph and saw that the up-and-down movement of the line had fallen even below Dominic’s normal low. The problem was, he had dozed off for a moment.
BRUNNER: “Mr. Benda, did you hear the question?”
DOMINIC: “What? Oh … no, I guess I didn’t. Could you repeat it?”
BRUNNER: “Have you ever represented yourself as an active-duty policeman since your retirement?”
DOMINIC: “No.”
And that was the last question. Brunner turned to me.
“Mr. Sloan, now is the time for you to register your objections to this test. Please come forward and speak into the microphone.”
I got up and walked over to them. As I leaned forward to the microphone, I gave Dominic a reassuring pat on the back.
“I have no objections to the content or the conduct of this examination.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sloan.”
Brunner switched off the tape recorder and tossed his list of questions onto the table. Then he winked at me.
He knew.
I was feeling pretty good by the time I got to the office. I knew that Dominic Benda had passed his polygraph test with flying colors. The fact that neither Mark Evola nor Sue Gillis was around afterward to complain or demand told me as much about that as my observation of the polygraph during Brunner’s questioning. Dominic was feeling good, too. Maybe that little catnap he’d taken at the end had refreshed him. Anyway, he was moving at a quick-march step after we left Interrogation Room Three, and he gave Peg a happy face and a big embrace when they met.
And we all had a nice surprise waiting for us in a note from Stash Olesky that was passed to me by Sergeant Makarides. I opened the envelope, not knowing quite what to expect.
“Charley,” it said, “I managed to intercede on the matter of the patrol car. I convinced the power-that-is that whatever was pulled from it in the way of evidence would be tainted and not useable in a trial. So you will find Dominic’s famous go-car exactly where it was parked, wherever that may be. It has not—I repeat not—been touched by forensic hands. The Bendas, Mr. and Mrs., may drive it home. This is not to say, however, that the said go-car will not in the future be given a thorough going-over at a time more advantageous to the prosecution. Understood? Burn this after reading. Stash.”
So the Bendas headed home in Dominic’s beloved car. I walked them into the parking lot, gave Dominic another slap on the back and Peg a hug as I whispered in her ear, “You do the driving.” Th
ey went to the car, and I was glad to see her slip in behind the steering wheel. I gave them a wave as they drove away, and then I discovered I had Dominic’s topcoat in the backseat of my car.
Mrs. Fenton handed me a pile of messages, a lot more than I would ordinarily have expected at ten-twenty in the morning.
“And don’t forget,” she said, “you’ve got a real-estate closing at eleven.”
I had forgotten. I was lucky to have Mrs. Fenton around to remind me. I went into my office and got busy on the callbacks.
The first one had to do with the real-estate deal. I wouldn’t have been in it at all, except that there was a title search involved, just a matter of research in the county courthouse that I handled in an afternoon. I called the salesman, assured him everything was in order, and that I would be expecting him and all concerned parties in my office at the appointed hour.
There were a couple of dud calls, telephone solicitations for life insurance and for a subscription to The Wall Street Journal.
There was one I wish I’d been around for—LeMoyne Tolliver. Briefly I weighed the possibility of putting in another call to 1300 Beaubien, then decided against it. I’d let him do it his way and just hope I was around when he called back.
And Father Chuck had called. I came close to filing that one in the wastebasket. I even wadded it up. But in the end I smoothed it out and put it up in one corner of my desk blotter, tucked halfway under the leatherette border. Maybe later. Who knows?
The last one in the pile was the last received. The time: 10:05. The caller: Sue Gillis. The message: “Let’s have lunch. Call me.” This was a pleasant surprise. When last seen, she was staring daggers at me, trying to inform Dominic Benda that it was me, his lawyer, who had fingered him, more or less, with a tip from a Detroit cop who was now under indictment. Had it come from anyone else, I might even call it mean-spirited. Maybe she’d called to apologize. I dialed her number.
She answered in her usual terse, professional manner: “Gillis.”
The Judgment Page 29
