“I’m not going to wait until tomorrow to do this on the off chance that Josh finds a defense lawyer between now and then,” Gabriel says to no one in particular, but I take the comment to be a not-too-thinly veiled reference to my work for Paul Michelson. “Nardello!” he calls out to a uniform cop loitering in the hallway. “Send a squad car over to Samuels’s house in Queens, roust him out of bed, and drag him down here.”
Samuels arrives at One PP at a little after 1:00 a.m. A short, fat man, with a thick black beard, he looks like he’s literally been dragged down from Queens. He’s wearing sweatpants and a New York Mets T-shirt and sporting quite the bed head—at least concerning the hair he still has on his head, which for the most part is sticking straight up or to the side.
Gabriel handles the introductions. “This is Ella Broden, she’s a former ADA in Special Vics and the sister of the missing woman, Charlotte Broden.”
Samuels shakes my hand but keeps his focus on Gabriel. “What’s the story?”
“The short version is that Charlotte Broden is a twenty-five-year-old woman who was last seen on Wednesday at around eight thirty a.m. After that . . . nothing. She lives with her boyfriend, a guy named Zachary Rawls, who was the last to see her. He isn’t cooperating with us, so he’s still in the mix. But the guy we got in here is Josh Walden. He’s a college student at NYU who was in a class that Charlotte was teaching over there, and he’s admitted to us that they have been having a sexual relationship for the last two months. He said he hasn’t seen her since Monday, and claimed not to know anything about her having a live-in boyfriend or even that she was missing.”
Gabriel looks over at me. “Anything else?”
“Charlotte wrote a novel—or at least half of one,” I say. “It’s loosely based on her life. That’s how we discovered that she might be involved with one of her students. In the book, the narrator’s a TA having a fling with one of her students. Josh is that student. In the story, she’s also involved with another man, a Wall Street banker. His character is named Matthew, but I’m sure that’s not actually his name.”
“Okay,” Samuels says. “So three men. Boyfriend . . . what’s his name again?”
“Zach,” I say.
“Zachary Rawls,” Gabriel adds.
“And this here is the student, Josh. And there’s a Wall Street banker type who probably isn’t named Matthew.”
“Right,” I say.
“Any last name on the banker?” Samuels asks. “In the book, I mean.”
Gabriel looks to me. “Harrison,” I say. “Matthew Harrison.”
“Okay, I think I got the lay of the land,” Samuels says. “Give me ten minutes to prep, and then I’ll be good to go.”
The word polygraph literally means “many writings.” It doesn’t portend to ascertain the truth, but to give the examiner a set of data from which he or she can interpret whether the subject is being deceptive. There are many who distrust the machine, as false positives and inconclusive results are not unheard of—which is why polygraph results are generally not admissible at trial. I’ve never met anyone in law enforcement, however, who didn’t believe in the device’s infallibility in detecting a liar.
Gabriel has joined me in his office, as Samuels emphasized that it was important that he be the only person in the room during the examination. We watch on the computer screen as Samuels arranges the band around Josh’s chest and places the rubber tubes on his fingers.
Josh looks more relaxed than he did during Gabriel’s questioning. His knee has stopped bouncing.
“Are you comfortable?” Samuels asks.
Josh shrugs. “Yeah, fine.”
Samuels looks directly into the camera and then nods, apparently to communicate to us that he’s about to begin.
“Mr. Walden, my name is David Samuels. I am a licensed administrator of the polygraph device and I work for the New York City Police Department. Before we begin the actual test, I’m willing to answer whatever questions you might have about the process, and I also want to tell you a little bit about how it works. Okay?”
Josh nods. “Sure.”
“Good. When we officially begin, I will ask you a series of questions. Some of them I already know the answer to. I’m asking those questions merely to establish certain baselines. The machine records various physiological factors such as your heart rate, blood pressure, even sweat, all of which will read differently when a person is lying. After the test, I will examine the results and then provide the police with my findings as to which answers indicate deception, if any.”
“Okay,” Josh says.
For the first time since he’s been hooked up, Josh’s knee begins to bounce. It’s subtle, but I can see it. I wonder whether Gabriel notices it too.
“Now, for the machine to work accurately, I need to establish a few things. These are not part of the actual test, but I still need you to answer them truthfully. Okay?”
“I’m going to answer everything truthfully,” Josh says.
“Good. Are you currently on any medication?”
“No.”
“Are you under the influence of any drug or narcotic?”
“No.”
“Have you had any alcohol in the last twenty-four hours?”
Josh hesitates. “I had a beer with dinner.”
“That’s fine. Was that around six o’clock tonight?”
“A little later. Maybe seven or seven thirty.”
“Okay. That won’t affect the results. Now, do you have any questions for me?”
“Just one. Are these things really accurate? Because I know you can’t use them in court, so I’m just wondering.”
“Yes. They are highly accurate. And the idea that you can’t use them in court is not true. Many courts permit their usage.”
My stomach drops with the fear that Josh will get up and leave. Besides which, what Samuels said isn’t entirely true. While some courts do permit the introduction of polygraphs, they only do so under highly controlled circumstances, requiring, for example, when both sides agree to their admission, or for sentencing purposes only.
“Why’d he say that?” I ask Gabriel.
“We find it helps the results if the subject believes the test works and will be used against him if he lies. Remember, it’s not measuring truth telling, but anxiety. We want him to be afraid that his false answers will hurt him because that ratchets up the anxiety level.”
“Any other questions?” Samuels asks Josh.
“No.”
“Then let’s get started.”
Samuels flips the switches on the machine, which looks like one of the old-time computer printers. Then he takes a black Sharpie out of his breast shirt pocket and makes some type of notation on the printer paper.
“Is your name Josh Walden?”
“Yes.”
“Is it Monday?”
“No.”
“Are you in a police station?”
“Yes.”
“Are you in Canada?”
“No.”
The knee-thumping has gotten progressively worse with each question. By the Canada query, Josh’s hands are also trembling, to the point that he looks like he’s suffering from Parkinson’s disease.
“Do you see that?” I say to Gabriel. “His hands.”
Gabriel leans closer to the screen. “Yeah. He did the same thing during the interrogation. He’s a nervous kid, that’s for sure.”
“Do you know Charlotte Broden?”
“Yes.”
“Were you engaged in a sexual relationship with her?”
“A romantic relationship,” Josh says.
“It was a sexual relationship too, correct?”