Lie Catchers_A Pagan & Randall Inquisition

by Paul Bishop

  Pagan sat comfortably upright in the hard wooden witness chair, not moving forward to speak into the microphone in front of him as almost everybody did. “My job is to search for the truth.”

  “Isn’t it true you would do anything to convict my client?”

  “I would use all legal means at my disposal to uncover the facts in this case and reveal who committed the crime.” Pagan’s voice was sincere and unruffled.

  Raines touched a file on the table in front of him. “I see in the transcript of the interrogation, you told my client after thirty years his DNA had been recovered from the murder weapon, when in fact it had not. Wasn’t that a lie?”

  Ray looked directly at Raines, his gaze unwavering, his voice not changing. “Yes it was.”

  “Do you lie to all the people you interrogate?”

  “On occasion, I use deception as a technique to test the response of some people I question.”

  “But you admit you lied to my client.”

  “Yes.” Pagan’s voice held no trace of irritation or guilt.

  “Then how can we possibly believe anything you tell us now?”

  “I lied to the defendant during my interrogation of him. It was an interrogation technique to test his response and to help me determine what the truth was. I acted within California law in doing so and never tried to hide any of my actions. However, today, I am under oath and have sworn to tell the truth. I take my oaths as a witness and a peace officer seriously and I would never violate them.”

  Raines didn’t like the answer. Nor the condescending tone in which it was delivered. He moved papers around in front of him, seemingly searching for a new questioning direction, but couldn’t move past what had worked for him so often in the past when trying to get under the skin of a detective on the stand.

  Nobody likes to be called a liar – except, apparently, Ray Pagan.

  “Isn’t it true to be a good interrogator, you have to be a good liar?” Raines snapped his question.

  “No. To be a good interrogator, you have to be good at measuring verbal and non-verbal responses.”

  “Isn’t it true you would say anything to get a suspect to confess? Please answer yes or no.”

  “I apologize, I cannot answer the question yes or no.” Pagan turned his head toward the judge. “May I explain, your honor?” He followed this up with a smile as if he and the judge were sharing a private joke Raines wasn’t in on.

  “Please do,” Judge Billings said.

  Pagan turned back to make eye contact with the defense attorney. “First, my job is to find the truth, not to get a confession. I am a gatherer of facts. I do not have the power to make any promises to a defendant and I have been specifically trained to avoid even implying I can grant things like a reduced sentence.”

  I chuckled inwardly. Every professional in the courtroom knew the Supreme Court has ruled a confession to be the most damning of all evidence. Defense attorneys will do everything they can to stop a confession from getting into evidence. If it does get into the record, then they must at all costs discredit it. Most often this is done by attacking the integrity of the investigating detective.

  I’d been cross-examined by Raines in the past. It wasn’t pleasant. He was an expert at bringing a detective’s tactics under scrutiny and making them look bad in front a jury, but Pagan was totally unruffled.

  Raines was the one looking put out. He dug in and tried again. “In the interrogation, you told my client it would be better for him to tell the truth. What did you mean?”

  “Isn’t it always better to tell the truth? I wanted him to unburden himself from the guilt of his actions and not compound what he had done with more lies.”

  Raines walked to the side of the podium where he was standing in a clear attempt to assert his authority.

  “You told my client remorse was good. You told him judges and prosecutors look more favorably on people who show remorse. What did you mean?”

  Pagan didn’t hesitate. His voice was soothing, somehow implying Raines’ question was simplistic. “Since we were children we’ve been taught if you admitted a bad thing and expressed sorrow you were a better person for having done so. You were an even better person if you promised not to do the bad thing again, as opposed to being unremorseful after being caught in lies.”

  “Objection, your honor!” Raines snapped. “Detective Pagan is going far beyond the scope of my questions and is verbally assuming my client’s guilt.”

  Judge Billings smiled. She’d obviously seen Pagan play this game before. “These are your questions, Mr. Raines. Detective Pagan’s answers are responsive and reasonable. If you are not prepared for his answers then don’t ask the questions. Overruled.”

  Raines turned pale under his sunlamp tan. He probably couldn’t remember the last time he’d been put in his place by a judge.

  Flustered, Raines grasped at a straw. “Did you know my client had been a prisoner of war, incarcerated by the Japanese in the Philippines during World War Two?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that why you mentioned the film King Rat to him? To attack him with cruel mental images in order to get him to confess.”

  When Raines said the words King Rat, I saw the elderly defendant sitting next to him flinch.

  Again, Pagan was smooth. “King Rat is a powerful story about redemption. It is about survival. It is about doing what you have to do to survive, which I believe was the motivation for your client’s actions thirty years ago when he stabbed and killed the victim. A man who had been a POW with him, and whom he eventually found out had collaborated with the enemy causing the death of other POWs.”

  Pagan’s words tumbled out like a waterfall. He was a Shakespearean actor delivering a soliloquy, which nobody dared to interrupt. The stunned silence following his last sentence was invaded by the sound of sobbing.

  “Look at your client, counselor,” Pagan said quietly. “He has been in a prison of his own making for thirty years. He may be facing actual incarceration, but his acknowledgment of his actions to me set him free.”

  Raines turned to face the elderly man next to him. I couldn’t see Howell’s face, but I had no doubt tears were streaming down as he sat rocking slightly.

  “Any further questions, Mr. Raines?” The judge asked.

  Chapter 3

  “I do not mind lying, but I hate inaccuracy.”

  - Samuel Butler’s Notebooks

  “King Rat?” I asked.

  “James Clavell’s first novel,” Pagan said, unhelpfully.

  “I know what it is,” I said, “I even saw the George Segal movie. But what made you think to use it in the interrogation room?”

  We were standing outside the courtroom near the building’s glass exterior wall, watching as planes swooped in toward LAX. After Pagan’s bombshell, Raines had immediately asked for a recess and a meeting with the judge. We were waiting on the outcome.

  “I needed an appropriate trigger phrase,” Pagan said. “Something which wouldn’t come up in normal conversation. If Raines hadn’t mentioned King Rat, I would have had to do so myself, but Raines is very predictable.”

  “Trigger phrase?” My mind was racing. “Wait…Are you saying, you made the defendant cry on cue?”

  “Absolutely.” Pagan was unashamed. “Just like he did when I said it during the interrogation. Oldest mentalist trick in the book. Once a suspect begins to cry, you own them.”

  I was astonished. “You planted a subconscious suggestion during the interrogation and waited until now to trigger it?”

  Pagan shrugged. “Not in the box, but when I was escorting Howell from the station lobby to the interrogation room.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “Most people will tell you it can’t be done, so you tell me,” Pagan said. “You watched a tape of the interrogation.”

  “How do you know?”

  Pagan shrugged. I would come to realize, his shrugs carried a variety of meanings. This one was offhand and dismissive.
“After you left the chief’s office, you couldn’t help yourself,” he said. “You were curious. You wanted to know what you were getting into.”

  I could feel myself blushing, so I dropped my head and let my hair fall forward.

  “Was Howell telling the truth in the interrogation when he admitted to stabbing the victim?” Pagan asked me.

  “Yes,” I said without hesitation.

  “How do you know?”

  This time I did hesitate. I looked up and shook my head slightly.

  Pagan smiled. His tone changed, becoming almost gentle. “Just tell me if a subconscious suggestion, telling Howell to cry every time he hears the phrase King Rat, forced him in any way to admit to his actions?”

  I thought about what I’d seen in the tape of the interrogation and what I’d seen in the courtroom. “No, it didn’t. But it sure had a huge manipulative impact on the jury in the courtroom. It convinced them of his guilt.”

  Before I could say more, the courtroom door opened and Peter Simmons, the prosecutor, came out and approached us. He was smiling.

  “Raines is digging in his feet on the terms of a plea bargain, but he’ll cave. He can’t go to jury and he knows it. Great job.” Simmons stuck out his hand and Pagan shook it. “Handball next week?” Simmons asked.

  “Wednesday, regular time?” Pagan replied.

  “Absolutely,” Simmons said. Nodding in my direction he headed back into the courtroom.

  Pagan looked at me. “So, Howell told the truth and the jury believed him. Our work here is done.”

  Chapter 4

  “And after all, what is a lie?

  ‘Tis but the truth in masquerade.”

  - Lord Byron, Don Juan

  I stumbled and swore.

  We were walking out of the courthouse, toward the parking structure, and Pagan’s foot had clipped my cane. I would have gone to the ground if he hadn’t caught my arm.

  “Sorry,” he said, but I knew he didn’t mean it. What the hell? Did he do it on purpose?

  I pulled my arm out of his and steadied myself. I didn’t want to answer any questions about my leg, but surprisingly Pagan didn’t ask, which made me angrier.

  Pagan’s phone buzzed and we stopped while he answered it. He listened, looked at his watch and said into the receiver, “We’ll be there in thirty minutes.” He disconnected and looked at me. “And so it starts. West L.A. has a trio of gang members in custody. They’re suspects in a drive-by shooting from last night in which a rival gang member was shot.”

  “Who called you?” I asked.

  “Amanda Tyler. She’s the homicide-three at West L.A.”

  Pagan had started walking. I pushed off on my cane and struggled to catch up. “You know her?”

  “I trained her,” Pagan said.

  I still wasn’t ready to go charging off. I needed to stop, catch a breath, and talk to Pagan about the whole situation. Apparently, I wasn’t going to get the chance. As we entered the parking structure, the gate guard stepped out of his booth and sketched a salute toward Pagan.

  “You driving your personal vehicle or a department sedan?” Pagan asked me.

  “I’ve got one of the RHD pool cars.”

  “You need anything out of it?”

  “Just my war bag,” I said, using a catch-all term for a large duffel bag filled with work related gear.

  “Get it and then give the car keys to Marco.” Pagan indicated the gate guard. “He’ll take care of getting the unit back to RHD.”

  Pagan shook hands with Marco, and I could have sworn I saw a bill change palms.

  “What about my personal vehicle?” I asked. The last thing I wanted to be was stranded.

  “Give those keys to Marco as well. Tell him where you parked. He’ll leave it at The Hacienda.”

  “The Hacienda?”

  As he was walking away, Pagan spoke over his shoulder. “You’re going to have to trust me, Randall. It’s only going to get stranger from here. I’ll meet you back at the gate.”

  I didn’t know if I was ready to trust Pagan yet, but it looked like I didn’t have a choice if I didn’t want to come across as a spoiled child.

  I still couldn’t help asking Marco. “What if I don’t want to give you my keys?”

  He was a skinny black man of indeterminate age. His uniform was clean and pressed and his black shoes shined.

  “Be best if you did,” Marco said with a wide smile. His Caribbean accent was pronounced. “You don’t want to buck Mr. Pagan.”

  Interesting…Mr. Pagan not Detective Pagan.

  “You always do what Mr. Pagan says?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Marco said. “He got me this here job. Mr. Pagan is a good man.”

  Hmmmm. I wondered if Arthur Howell felt the same way. Somehow, I thought he might, despite the years in prison he was facing. However, I doubted Gerald Raines, the defense attorney, would be as generous.

  My plain colored detective sedan, a beat up piece of trash that wasn’t freeway safe, was in a handicap spot next to the guard booth. I got my war bag out of the trunk and gave the keys to Marco. As I dug out the keys to my personal car and gave them with instructions to Marco, Pagan pulled up in a late model black Escalade.

  Marco opened the door for me and, as I clambered ungracefully into the passenger seat, he took my war bag and put it on the back seat.

  I looked over and realized Pagan had changed clothes. The flashy suit was gone, replaced by black jeans, a black roll-necked sweater, and soft black leather half boots. He had the sleeves of the sweater pulled up to his forearms. A wide silver bracelet was wrapped around his right wrist, a black-faced watch on a black leather band was on his left. The face of the watch was turned to the inside of his wrist. His black hair had slipped from behind his ears and swung loosely as he turned his head to check traffic and pulled smoothly away. Who was this guy?

  I looked into the back of the large SUV. The rear seat was empty except for my bag, but I could see the rear cargo section had been customized. Everything was clean and precise – almost sterile.

  “Rycovic?” I asked, turning front again and referring to Pagan’s given name. “Eastern European?”

  “Romani,” Pagan said glancing over at me.

  “Gypsy?”

  “For lack of a better term.” With his eyes on the road, he changed the subject. “What do you think?”

  “About?”

  Pagan looked over at me, but didn’t speak.

  Somehow, I knew what he wanted to hear. “Chief Bullard lied,” I said.

  “About everything?”

  “No. About all this being his idea…About you being forced to accept me as a minder.”

  Watching Pagan’s profile, I saw his features transform into a wide grin.

  “And how do you know he was lying?”

  “Are you saying I’m wrong?”

  “No. I’m asking how you knew he was lying.”

  After a pause, I said, “I’m not sure.”

  “Yes, you are,” Pagan said. “You just don’t want to tell me yet.”

  “If you say so.”

  How could he know?

  Pagan continued blithely on, “When we get to West L.A., Tyler will have the suspects isolated in separate interrogation rooms. First thing we’ll need to do is figure out which one is the alpha wolf.”

  “Don’t you want to know who the weakest sheep is?”

  Pagan smiled again. “One thing you and I will never do in an interrogation is the expected.”

  The West Los Angeles Area headquarters was on Butler Avenue, a side street a couple of blocks down Santa Monica Boulevard off the 405 Freeway. It was an unremarkable bunker-style building. I knew the detective squadroom was housed on its windowless second floor.

  After we pulled into the parking lot, Pagan bounded out of the car, slamming the door behind him. I didn’t try to keep up with him. My leg was aching. He ran his ID card through the electronic lock on the station’s backdoor, pulling the door open for me. I knew
he was mentally tapping his foot as he waited.

  Inside, Pagan turned left and walked briskly down a short hallway to a stairwell. He didn’t wait for me, taking the stairs two at a time to the second floor. I didn’t know if he was doing things on purpose to tick me off, but I figured he couldn’t be that clueless.

  I thought about stopping at the drinking fountain to take a pain pill, but I was feeling unreasonably angry and just kept stumping. The stairs had a landing halfway up where I stopped to catch my breath.

  I could hear a commotion coming from above and, when I finally reached the entrance to the second floor detective squadroom, I saw Pagan surrounded by a half-dozen detectives. He said something and they all laughed. Then he turned and looked toward me, waving me over with a smile and a flash of his dark eyes.

  I decided he was a condescending bastard and even a desk job would be better than working with him. However, the thought of being shunted off on a medical pension got me across the room.

  The woman standing next to Pagan took her hand off his arm and extended it toward me. She was short and busty. She wore her thirties well under close-cropped auburn hair. A pair of retro cats-eye reading glasses hung on a chain around her neck. “Amanda Tyler,” she said by way of introduction. “Thanks for coming.”

  I shook her hand. “Jane Randall.”

  Tyler gave me a probing look then smiled. It was as if she had picked up exactly what I was thinking via the contact with my hand, which she was still holding. She glanced back at Pagan who had moved slightly away with the other group of detectives.

  “How long have you known Ray?”

  “An hour.”

  Tyler chuckled. “It’s best just to accept he’s always two moves ahead.”

  “Is he always insufferable?”

  “Some days are worse than others, but you’ll never be bored.”

  “Boring might be nice.”

  Tyler gripped my hand a bit tighter. “Liar,” she said. “You’re no different than Ray or any of his wolves. We’d all rather be dead than bored.”

  I took sole custody of my hand. “Who the hell are these wolves I keep hearing about?