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.”
“Did you bury your gun in your yard?”
Important question number two. “No.”
“Do you speak Japanese?”
“No.”
“Did you hide your gun from the police?”
Another big one. “No.”
“Are you sitting down now?”
“Yes.”
“Did you fire your gun on the day your husband died?”
The paydirt question. Under Patricia’s agreement with the prosecutor, it was as close as the examiner would come to asking
if Helena shot Owen.
“No,” said Helena.
There was silence, save for the hum of the machine. The next few moments seemed to last forever, but finally the examiner
asked another question.
“Are you glad this test is over?”
“Yes,” she said with a cathartic smile.
Simms turned off the machine and helped Helena disconnect the wires. The prosecutor stepped out from behind Helena and handed the examiner her business card.
“How soon until we get the results?” she asked.
“I can email a report by the end of the day,” he said.
“That’s good enough for me,” said Patricia. “I’m sure this will only confirm what we already know. My client had nothing to
do with the death of her husband.”
Helena’s nerves were still frayed from the whole experience, and she was trying to avoid making eye contact with the prosecutor,
but she couldn’t help herself.
Weller’s expression chilled her.
“We shall see,” said Weller. She thanked the examiner for his time and left the room.
“What was that about?” asked Helena.
The examiner was still packing up his equipment, and talking in front of him wasn’t smart. Helena and her lawyer stepped out
of the conference room to another office across the hall.
“Weller is still angry that I wouldn’t let the examiner ask the home run question: Did you shoot your husband.”
“You explained the reason to her,” said Helena.
“I did. And she’ll come around as soon as we find out you passed the polygraph with flying colors. For now it’s just more
prosecutorial drama. Ignore it.”
Helena hated drama. Owen was drama. But there was something else on her mind. “What if I didn’t pass?”
“It’s possible,” said Patricia. “Like I said from the beginning, there’s a reason polygraph results are not admissible in
court. Good liars keep their cool and pass. Honest people get nervous and fail.”
“But if Mr. Simms tells the prosecutor I failed the test, what do we do then?”
Patricia laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Then we figure out another way to keep Elliott Stafford from getting away
with murder.”
It was Andie’s first day back in the Miami field office in nearly three weeks. And she was in a funk.
An undercover agent’s return from assignment was normally an adrenaline rush, with kudos from supervisors and colleagues eager
for war stories. But there were no high fives and congratulations for canceled operations. The downtown office had over a
thousand employees. It simply wasn’t possible that all of them knew that headquarters had pulled the plug. Yet, as Andie walked alone through the lobby, it sure felt like everyone
knew.
She grabbed a cup of coffee from the kitchen and continued down the hall. The assistant special agent in charge was in his
office, and his door was open. Andie stopped and knocked on the door frame.
“Got a minute?”
Todd Tidwell was the newest ASAC, one of three in South Florida. He invited her in, and she took a seat in the antique Windsor
armchair facing his desk.
“Sorry about Seattle,” he said.
“Thanks. I’ll get over it. Except for maybe one thing. And I don’t mean my haircut.”
He smiled. “I didn’t say a word. Don’t report me to HR, Henning.”
“No worries,” said Andie, and then she turned serious. “I’ve hardly slept since I’ve been home. I can’t stop thinking about
Graciela.”
“Who?”
She took a minute to tell him about her contact, the teenage girl in the motel room, a sex-trafficking victim. “I want to
help her.”
“Andie, the operation has been deep-sixed.”
“I want to help her,” she said, repeating her words with added emphasis.
Tidwell didn’t immediately say no—which was the reason she’d gone to see him over the other two ASACs.
“It can’t be you who helps her. You can’t blow your cover, even after the operation is over.”
“I know. I have a plan.”
“All right. Write up one page for me. Let’s see if there’s something we can do.”
“Thank you.”
“Anything else?”
She couldn’t mention Francine by name. “Yes. I assume I’ll get an official notice on this, but I’ve heard through the grapevine
that I’ve been walled off from a new investigation. What’s that about?”
“Operation P-P-P. Port-au-Prince Pipeline.”
“As in ‘iron pipeline’?”
“Yeah. Gun-running. Haiti’s government has been in a shambles since the assassination of President Jovenel Moise, and its
people are at the mercy of heavily armed gangs. The country has one of the highest rates of gun violence in the world, but
it doesn’t have a single weapons or ammunition factory.”
“The guns have to come from somewhere else.”
“Exactly. Which is why a handgun that sells for four hundred bucks in Miami can be resold to Haitian gangs for ten grand or
more.”
It was interesting information, but Andie needed to get to the heart of the matter. “Does Operation P-P-P have anything to
do with Owen Pollard’s gun destruction facility? Is that why I’m walled off? Because of Jack’s case?”
Andie knew it wasn’t Jack. Francine had told her it was Theo. The ASAC’s response would tell her how straight he was willing
to be with her.
“I can’t tell you why you’re walled off, Andie. You’re walled off.”
At least he didn’t lie to her.
“I understand,” she said. “But let me ask you one favor. If there comes a point where Operation P-P-P is going to come crashing
down on the head of Jack or anyone else in my family, I want to be there when it happens.”
“You can’t interfere.”
“I know. There may be nothing I can do. But maybe I can stop something terrible from happening just by being there. That’s
all I ask.”
“All right,” he said, seeming to acquiesce. “I’ll see what I can do.”
She thanked him, they shook hands, and Andie started for the door. Then she stopped. Being too specific carried some risk
of outing Francine as her source, but she wanted no misunderstandings.
“And by the way,” said Andie. “To me, Theo Knight is family.”
Tidwell showed little reaction. She waited for a response, which came finally, and even though he spoke in a matter-of-fact
tone, he seemed to be on her side.
“I knew it wasn’t Jack you were worried about.”
It was more than the “bone” Andie had thought he might throw her way. She gave him a quick thumbs-up and left the ASAC’s office.