Death Row (27 page)

Carrie looked away. Her eyes were fixed somewhere above them, in the clouds. "He hit me."

Ben closed his eyes. "Ray?"

"Yeah. We were at a club. I don't remember what the row was about. I think maybe I didn't like the way he ogled the chick at the next table. Something real important like that. Anyway, we'd probably both had too much to drink. Tempers flared. We took it outside." She shook her head. "That was my mistake. If we'd stayed inside the club, it never would've happened. But once we were alone in the parking lot..."

"How bad was it?"

"Bad enough. I mean, he only actually struck me twice. But it hurt like hell. Big black bruises. The doctor said he almost dislocated my jaw."

Thank God the prosecution never found this witness, Ben thought.

" 'Course I told the doctor I had fallen down the stairs or something stupid like that. But I don't think he believed it for a minute."

"Was Ray... sorry?"

"Oh yes. Immediately. He picked me up off the gravel and held me. Stroked me. Said he didn't know what came over him. But that didn't change anything."

Ben touched her arm gently, steering her toward Queenie's, a popular sandwich emporium.

"That's when I should've broken off the engagement. But I didn't. I already had so much invested in Ray. So much time and energy and love. I kept telling myself, it was just a one time thing. Just an accident. It will never happen again."

"And did it?"

"No. But there was never a chance. Two days later, he was arrested."

"And he hasn't been free since."

"Right." Carrie's eyes dropped. Her blunt-cut blonde hair hung like a veil around her face. "I tried to be the support he needed. But the memory wouldn't go away. How could I forget what he had done? How he had... violated me. My trust. And then, in the courtroom, when I heard him accused of all those horrible things..."

Ben could see where this was going. And as she had predicted-he didn't like it.

"After I heard them accuse Ray of that atrocity, I kept saying to people, 'Not my Ray. He couldn't do that.' But I had seen him lose his temper. I had seen him be... violent."

"Carrie, I don't want you to think I'm making light of domestic violence, but there's a big difference between what he did to you in that parking lot and what happened to the Faulkner family."

"I know. I know." She clenched her hands together, pressing them against her chest. "But after that, I could never be certain. That's why I broke it off with him, eventually. I felt like a heel. I know all our friends thought I was being faithless. Bailing out when the going got tough. But I simply couldn't be sure. And if I couldn't be sure-I couldn't be with him."

She brushed her hair back. Ben could see the pain this conversation was causing her, deeply etched in every line of her face. "I could've been faithful to a man on death row-I really could've," she said, as if pleading her case to an imaginary court. "But not if I suspected he was guilty."

Long after dark, Ben tossed his briefcase into its designated spot by the coffee table and collapsed onto the ratty sofa that was the centerpiece of his living room. What a day. He was bushed. All he wanted to do now was rest. And as it happened, for once, he had managed to get inside the house and make it up to his room without being confronted by tenants who couldn't make their rent, without having Joni assault him with a host of bills and maintenance problems, without even having Giselle purr and whine and demand immediate attention. For once, they had all just left him alone.

He missed them.

A sad state of affairs, he told himself, when you're dependent upon coworkers and fussy felines for social interaction. Hadn't he resolved that he was going to get out, that he was going to start having a life? That he was going to be more like Christina and less like himself? Of course, he'd been swamped with this Goldman habeas work. It was as dire as a case could be-life and death in the truest sense. He had to give it his full attention, he had to work long hours.

But that was just an excuse and he knew it. Yes, this was an important case, and yes, he wanted to do everything possible to help Ray, to prevent a horrible injustice. But when had it ever been any different? He always had some big case going, some crusade that demanded his full devotion. Because when all was said and done, working long hours at the office was preferable to coming home and being... alone. Again.

He saw the telephone resting on the end table. He was staring at it, but for some reason, he had the strangest feeling that it was staring at him. That it was trying to get his attention. Beckoning to him.

What was Christina doing tonight? More than once she had suggested not too subtly that he would be welcome to join her on some engagement or another. Maybe he should call her and see what she was up to.

His hand hovered over the receiver. He had to strike the right tone, keep it casual. For starters, she had to have an escape clause. In case she was just being nice and really dreaded the thought of going somewhere with him. After all, she did see him all day, most days. She might not be that excited at the prospect of spending an evening with him as well. And he had to make it clear that this was just a fun thing, no pressure, not really like a date. I mean, it would be a date, he supposed, but not a
date
date. Not a, you know, big romantic deal or anything.

And the reason for that was...? He tried to think of a good answer. Because his romantic life was so booked up? No. Because he didn't like Christina? No. So what was the problem? Well, it would certainly complicate life in the office. The two partners dating. Could make things very uncomfortable. And if it went bad, heaven forbid he should see Christina in the role of the woman scorned.

But why was he letting his brain wander down these paths? He wasn't planning a marriage proposal, for pete's sake. He was just talking about calling up a coworker and seeing if she wanted to go get a drink or something. It was a perfectly common office-worker-type thing to do. Utterly ordinary. They should've done it a long time ago.

He gripped the receiver and brought it to the side of his head. He started dialing her number...

And hung up. He couldn't do this. He just couldn't. He wanted to, damn it. But he couldn't.

He walked to the kitchen, poured himself a tall glass of chocolate milk, then sat down at the piano and started banging out whatever tune came to mind. It was a little late for this, he realized, but the nice thing about being the landlord was that there was no one to whom the other tenants could complain about you. He played some of his Janis Ian tunes, then a Harry number, then his favorites by Christine Lavin. He started "Old Fashioned Romance," but for some reason, it was just making him sad.

He went to bed early, planning the next day's interviews as he tucked himself in. If he was only going to do one thing in this ridiculous little life of his-work-then he'd damn well better do a good job of it.

This is so pathetic, he told himself as he eyes finally closed. Maybe I should get a dog.

A long impassioned mewling from the kitchen reopened his eyes.

Make that a male dog.

Jones tucked in his chin. "You're joking, right?"

"No," Ben said, "I'm not joking."

"You're actually going to do this?"

"It's not that big a deal, Jones. We're just going to work out."

Jones remained incredulous. "You mean-you're actually going to sweat?"

Ben zipped up the jacket of a black-and-white warm-up suit, then applied himself to his Nikes. "And why is this a problem for you?"

"You're a lawyer. Lawyers don't sweat. They... talk."

Ben continued lacing. "I've seen lots of lawyers sweat in my time."

Jones retreated from the doorway. "Hey, take a look at this!" he shouted down the corridor. "Ben's going to work out!"

A moment later, Christina appeared. "As in... exercise? Physical exertion?"

Ben grabbed his gym bag. "And why is that so unbelievable?"

Jones and Christina looked at each other. "You're not exactly renowned for your physical prowess."

"Remember the time he tried to move the copier?" Jones said, giggling.

"You should hear Mike talk about Ben's first kung fu lesson," Christina replied with equal mirth.

"You know," Ben said, passing them both, "you two are starting to annoy me."

"I'm sorry," Christina said. She looked at Jones. "This is really rude of us." And then they both burst out laughing.

"I should cancel their bonuses," Ben muttered as he left the office. If they ever got bonuses.

"I can't believe this," Baxter said, shifting from one edge of the passenger seat to the other. "Sheila Knight never did anything wrong in her life. Except maybe talk to you."

"Nonetheless," Mike insisted, hands on the steering wheel, "she's lying. Or at the very least, holding something back."

"She told you everything you wanted to know."

"Or seemed to. Trust me on this, Baxter. She's lying."

"And you know this because..."

"I just know."

"Of course. So why don't you drag her downtown and give her a lie-detector test?"

"Because there would be no point." Tulsa traffic was not normally an issue, but there were a few exceptions, and Seventy-first on Friday afternoon was one of them. Even after the street had been widened to the size of something you'd expect to see in Dallas, it still clogged, worse and worse the closer you got to the on-ramp for Highway 169. Maybe it was employees fleeing en masse from the chain stores and restaurants that seemed to have sprung up overnight on this boulevard. "She's not a suspect. I don't know that she's a material witness. I can't force her."

"She might comply anyway."

"She might. But the test wouldn't be admissible in court. And frankly, I think polygraphs are unreliable and easily manipulated."

"Easily manipulated?" Baxter waved a hand across her brow. "Is this the sphincter dodge?"

"That works, actually." It was well-known in police circles that tightening the sphincter muscle during the control questions could send the polygraph a false signal, thus disguising subsequent lies. There were several ways, actually. Putting a tack in your shoe and stepping on it at the right time. Anything that elevated the subject's blood pressure could throw off the machine. "But it isn't the easiest way."

"And what is the easiest way, O Great and Powerful Superior Officer?"

"Just lie on the control questions. The test administrator asks control questions, then pertinent questions, then compares the two and looks for a change in the readout. If you lie on the control questions, though, then lie on the rest, there will never be any observable change."

"Fine. If we can't use the polygraph, how do we prove she's lying?"

"We don't have to. I already know."

"Because..."

"Did you see her eyes?"

"Yes. Brown. Large."

"Did you notice the crinkling lines? When she smiled?"

"I don't recall that she ever smiled."

"She did. When she talked about how much she used to enjoy going over to the Faulkner home."

"Okay. And you saw crinkling lines?"

"Right here." Mike pointed to the corner of his eye. "An authentic smile engages the whole face, including the crinkling lines, in a generally relaxed expression. A lying smile doesn't. When it doesn't come naturally-when it's being put on for show-the mouth may change, but the face doesn't."

"So you're saying there were no crinkling lines."

"There were, actually, but they were more crow's-feet than laugh lines. It wasn't authentic."

"If you say so."

"I do. And there's more. Just before she smiled, there was a flash of-I don't know. Didn't last for even a second. She wiped it away and manufactured the fake smile. But for a fleeting instant before that, there was... something else."

"Which was?"

"Hard to be certain. A frown, a scowl. A grimace. The textbooks call them microexpressions, and they're hard to spot. But that was her true, natural reaction. And that tells me there's something Sheila Knight didn't give us. That perhaps her visits to the Faulkner home weren't all as wonderful as she suggested."

"Are you serious about this? I can't wait to read your report. 'Suspect had suspicious crinkly lines.' "

"Don't laugh, Baxter. Knowing who is and isn't telling you the truth is critical to being an effective homicide investigator."

"Clearly. I'm surprised they don't teach this at the academy. Crinkly Lines 101."

Mike blew air through his teeth. "Look, if you're going to make fun-"

"Perish the thought." She swallowed her smile. "I'm surprised you didn't come down harder on Dr. Bennett. Now she seemed nervous to me."

"Some people are. Especially when the police come calling. That doesn't mean they're lying."

"And she never made eye contact when she was answering your questions."

"Who does?" Mike downshifted and moved into the right-hand lane, hoping to find an escape route from the traffic. "Most people are uncomfortable with extended direct eye contact. Looking away is simply deferential. If you see someone who's killing himself to maintain eye contact, he's either trying to sell you something or lying. Or both."

Baxter laughed. "I did notice Sheila kept doing that thing with her hair. Touching it. Brushing it back."

"True. But don't confuse personal tics with lying. Everybody has a few nervous habits-biting nails, twirling pencils. It's not the same thing. What you look for are discrepancies-differences between what the person is saying and what the person is doing. Saying yes but subtly shaking the head. That sort of thing."

"Speaking of personal tics," Baxter said, "what was all that nonsense about-what was it? Hyperthermal luminous paraffin?"