“Do you know about the change in defense lawyers?”
“Yes. McClain, isn’t it?”
“Right. He’s in his midfifties. A sole practitioner without a lot of technical support.”
“My father mentioned him years ago. He’s been a problem to us in the past.”
“It appears he has an ax to grind,” Joe agreed. “I heard from the local D.A. that the judge gave McClain a chance to refuse the case, but he said he was the only lawyer who could successfully defend Thomason.”
Alex shook his head. “I hope he regrets his decision. Regrets it very, very much.”
While Joe Whetstone was briefing Alex Hightower, the women of the Mable Ray Circle gathered on Tuesday morning in the small, window- less room adjacent to the narthex of the Poplar Avenue Presbyterian Church. Originally designed as a meeting place for the board of elders who governed the affairs of the church, the prayer room contained a polished walnut table surrounded by ten chairs. A thick red carpet covered the floor, and a dark wooden bookcase lined one wall. In the corner rested a smaller bookcase with a locking glass front. An oil painting of the crudely built first sanctuary of the church hung on the wall opposite the door.
Seven women, ranging in age from twenty-four-year-old Kelli Baker to seventy-six-year-old Naomi Morgan, took their seats around the table. Kathy Howell, a longtime member of the group, served as recording secretary, an important function since the prayer journals that filled several shelves of the smaller bookcase fueled the faith and hope for the women’s intercessory prayers. Kathy possessed the two qualities needed by the group’s scribe—an ability to crystallize the essence of a person’s prayer in concise form and good handwriting. She always stayed after the meeting to index the prayers based on subject and substance.
Once everyone was seated, Naomi opened the meeting with a simple request. “Father, help us pray today in harmony with your son, Jesus. Cleanse us from anything that would hinder our agreement with your will and unity with one another. Let us pray for others with the love that you have for them. We adore you; we worship you. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
Then it happened.
There was not always a tangible awareness of God’s presence when the women met. Sometimes they prayed with no assurance that their prayers traveled an inch beyond their lips or that the yearnings of their hearts reached within a million miles of heaven. But today was not one of the dry times that tested their perseverance and commitment.
No one moved. No one spoke.
Outside the room, the world’s inhabitants scurried about in frantic frenzy. Inside the chamber, seven women waited quietly in hushed stillness. Celeste remembered a Bible verse. “God is in his holy temple, let all the earth be silent before him.” Over and over the verse echoed in her spirit, and with each majestic refrain, she saw a new aspect of its truth, a glimpse of God’s glory that would be over the earth when it reached its literal fulfillment. To be with him in the midst of his glory would be enough. Forever.
Time passed. The women waited.
Then, in a strong, steady voice, Naomi repeated the call of the mysterious heavenly creatures who never ceased expressing one of God’s most unfathomable qualities. “Holy, holy, holy,” she said. Several women bowed low, their faces in their hands. Kelli slipped from her seat and knelt on the carpet.
The women worshiped.
There are many ways to worship God. A song, a prayer, a word, a poem, a phrase, an emotion, a physical act, an intention of the heart, and countless other expressions can fit within the framework of accepted adoration. But this day, the women worshiped in the beauty of quiet holiness. It was the activity of heaven brought to earth.
And the gates of heaven opened.
Evil exists in the world; good lives in the spirits of God’s children. And from the reservoir of redeemed hearts, prevailing prayer can issue forth even when no words are spoken. Celeste remembered another verse, “Your father knows what you need before you ask him.” There was a time to speak and a time to be silent, and because of the Lord’s omniscience, either could be the method of the moment. On this day, the unspoken thoughts and petitions of the women’s hearts began to ascend from the room like incense that could be seen and smelled, but once it was released, could not be contained or defined. Obedience to the Holy Spirit, not commitment to religious formalities, brought vitality to their communication with heaven.
Names, faces, problems, and difficult circumstances came to mind— sometimes matched to an intercessory thought, sometimes joined to a deeply felt emotion, sometimes without any insight. No one prayed aloud; each knelt at her own altar. But for each person and situation, a suitable petition issued forth to the King of kings and Lord of lords, the One who holds all things in the hollow of his hand.
More than an hour and a half passed before release came. Then, within a few minutes, each woman raised her head, opened her eyes, and returned to the familiar feel of contact with this world. Several eyes glistened. Others beamed with joy.
“Wow,” Kelli said.
“Yes,” Kathy said. “Wow.”
“Don’t worry,” Kelli added quickly. “I’m not going to try to analyze what happened. I realized that silence can be more powerful than words.”
Celeste nodded then looked to Naomi. “Will you complete it?”
The old woman leaned back in her chair, looked toward heaven, and prayed with open eyes, “Father, we say, ‘thank you, thank you, thank you.’ For Jesus’ sake, amen.”
13
No hinge nor loop to hang doubt on.
OTHELLO, ACT 3, SCENE 3
After running into several dead-ends, Vicki found a polygraph examiner with good credentials. Larry Davenport had worked twelve years for the Marietta, Georgia, Police Department before starting a private agency that specialized in employment-related testing. He had credibility, even if some of the people he tested did not.
Mac visited Pete at the jail to prepare him for the exam.
“Have you ever taken a lie-detector test?”
“When I went to work for Aeromart.”
“Any problems?”
“I got the job.”
“Good. If the results of this test are favorable, I will show it to the D.A.; if not, it will never leave my file.”
“It will show I’m telling the truth,” Pete said emphatically.
“I hope so.”
“What about the blood test you mentioned?”
“The results aren’t in.”
Mac checked the notes on his legal pad. “One other thing. Ray Morrison, our investigator, uncovered an interesting piece of information.”
“What?”
“Do you remember anything about driving up the mountain?”
“No, but I keep trying. Saturday night I had the worst nightmare yet. Even in my sleep, I tried to remember what happened, but it ended in the same blackness. Like I told you, that whole time period is a hole. A total blank.”
“Maybe this will bring something to mind. The investigator interviewed an elderly man named Rodney McFarland, who was driving his pickup down the mountain. He met the yellow Porsche on the way up to the overlook. The Porsche came across the center line into his lane, and Mr. McFarland swerved toward the ditch. He told Ray there was a large, dark, burgundy car keeping pace with the Porsche. The second car sideswiped Mr. McFarland’s truck. The police report did not mention any other vehicles. Ray took a paint sample, and we are going to have it analyzed.”
Pete shook his head. “I don’t know anyone who owns a car like that. How does that help?”
“I’m not sure, but whoever was in that car may know something about what happened at the overlook. The whole thing raises questions. And questions about what happened that night can create a reasonable doubt about your role in Angela’s death. A reasonable doubt is what we need to convince a jury to set you free.”
Larry Davenport arrived at the jail the following morning. He explained to Pete that the typical polygraph examination in a
criminal case lasted about an hour and a half, the longest part devoted to the pretest interview because it laid the foundation for the validity of the actual questions to follow. Davenport gave Pete detailed instructions about polygraph procedures, made sure he understood how the equipment worked, talked at length about the issues for questioning, and reviewed the wording of the questions to be asked during the test.
Then Davenport placed rubber tubes across Pete’s upper chest and abdomen, slipped two metal finger plates onto his ring and index fingers, and wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his upper arm. These devices would enable Davenport to measure respiration and movement, changes in the skin, and relative blood pressure and pulse rate. In theory, a lie is detected by physiological changes in more than one of the three indicators— increase or decrease in blood pressure, increase or decrease in heart rate, and change in blood volume. Jailhouse lore held that a polygraph could be fooled by “countermeasures,” such as putting a tack in a shoe and pressing down on it when asked both control and relevant questions so that the measurements would be the same. But experienced examiners can usually spot countermeasures, and they argue that the only people who can fool a polygraph are the tiny sociopathic segment of the population who can tell a lie and honestly believe it to be true.
Once he finished the interview and hooked Pete up to the machine, Davenport began his questioning.
“Is your name Peter Thomason?”
“Yes,” Pete said in a monotone.
“Do some people call you Pete?”
“Yes.”
“Did you graduate from Auburn University?”
“Yes.”
“Are you taking this polygraph test at the Echota County Jail?”
“Yes.”
“Are you taking this test voluntarily?”
“Yes.”
A chart rolled out of the machine documenting the physiological changes that occurred as Pete answered each question. Then Larry began asking the “relevant” questions, the questions that could be the difference between life and death, freedom or the electric chair. Pete sat rock still.
“Were you with Angela Hightower on August second?”
“Yes.”
“Did you give Angela Hightower any drugs on August second?”
“No.”
“Did you physically harm Angela Hightower?”
“No.”
“Did you murder Angela Hightower?”
“No.”
The chart discharged its findings. With an experienced eye, Larry watched the tracings the machine produced. When he completed a cycle of all relevant questions, he asked, “Are you ready to go through them again?”
“Yes. How did I do?” Pete asked.
“That will be in my report to your lawyer. Is your name . . .”
Friday afternoon, Vicki brought a fax into Mac’s office and handed it to him.
“This just came in from the polygraph examiner.”
Mac quickly read the results of the test.
Dear Mr. McClain,
Per your request, Mr. Peter Thomason was administered a MGQT polygraph examination at the Echota County Jail. The examination technique used is routinely employed by the federal government because it permits independent review, evaluation, and verification of data by other examiners who are not present during the examination.
During the pretest interview, relevant questions were developed with regard to the issue of Mr. Thomason’s activities on August second. These questions were reduced to writing and reviewed one by one with Mr. Thomason. The relevant questions were administered to him together with various control and irrelevant questions.
When asked whether he gave any drugs to Angela Hightower, Mr. Thomason responded, “No.” In my opinion, his response to this question was truthful. When asked whether he physically harmed Angela Hightower, Mr. Thomason responded, “No.” In my opinion his response to this question was truthful. When asked if he murdered Angela Hightower, Mr. Thomason responded, “No.” In my opinion his response to this question produced equivocal results in the readings, thus raising the possibility that he was not truthful, but not conclusively demonstrating deception.
If I can be of further assistance, please call upon me.
Sincerely,
Larry Davenport
Polygraph Examiner
Ga. License #439
When he finished, Mac looked up at Vicki. “Did you read this?”
“No. I brought it directly to you.”
“Take a look,” he said.
In a few seconds, she said, “Huh?”
“Good answer,” Mac said. “You should go to polygraph examiner school.”
Mac telephoned David Moreland.
“I have the results of the polygraph. He made B-minus or C, depending on how you interpret it.” Mac read the brief report over the phone.
“It’s mostly good. I mean we couldn’t ask for more on the issue of the drugs or physically harming Angela. But it’s inconclusive on the ultimate question.”
“Correct.”
“Would it do any good to call Davenport and ask him about it?” David asked.
“Considering his conclusions, I doubt there’s anything definite he can say.”
“What do you make of it?”
“Use logic.”
There was silence on the line for a few seconds. “Pete didn’t harm Angela, but he possibly played a part in helping the person who did.”
“Exactly.”
“Have you talked with Pete?”
“I will in thirty minutes at the jail. I also have a copy of Dr. Wilkes’s report.”
“Any surprises?”
“No. It’s consistent with her verbal summary. There are some points we can use at an appropriate time. I do have one other bit of information.”
“What is it?”
“Meet me at the jail. We’ll go over it then. Anyway, it’s time you met our client face to face.”
David was pacing back and forth on the short sidewalk between the jail and the parking lot when Mac arrived and handed him the packet of papers. They stood outside on the grass and talked.
“Mindy made copies of the report from the psychologist and”—Mac picked a sheet out of the stack—“the results from the lab that tested Pete’s blood for Rohypnol. Look them over before we go inside.”
After scanning the pages, David asked, “Does Pete know the results of the blood test?”
“Not yet.”
“What do you want me to do when we talk with him today?” David asked.
“Nothing. Shake his hand, sit quietly, and I’ll handle everything. If you have any questions, ask me later.”
“Okay.”
Entering the lobby, Mac asked David, “Have you been inside the jail yet?”
“No.”
They waited for the buzzing sound, which signaled the release of the electric lock on the solid metal door that separated the public waiting area from the cellblocks.
“One of the worst parts of jail for the prisoners is the boredom,” Mac said as they walked down a narrow corridor to another metal door. “Some inmates sleep twelve to fourteen hours a day. It’s called ‘bunking your time.’”
Mac and David waited in the hallway while a deputy brought Pete down from the cellblock.
“Pete, this is David Moreland, the other lawyer who will be working on your case.”
David looked small beside the much bigger defendant. They went into the interview room and sat down. Mac pulled out the letter from the polygraph examiner and slid it across the table.
“Here are the results of the polygraph test.”
After reading the brief report, Pete hung his head. “I can’t believe it. I thought I passed it. I mean—”
“You didn’t fail,” Mac said. “It supports what you’ve said about not giving Angela any drugs or physically harming her. On the rest, it’s inconclusive.”
“Which means it doesn’t help.”
“But it doesn’t
hurt you, either. This test is not admissible in court. We could agree to a stipulated test that would be performed by a GBI examiner, but based on this test it would be a risk, a big risk.”
“Do you know the GBI examiner?”
“No, he’s been here less than a year. Most defense lawyers don’t have much confidence in lie detectors, because their clients are not telling the truth, and the polygraph shows it.”
“I’m not lying!” Pete’s voice grew louder, and he pushed the report across the table. “I didn’t kill Angela. I don’t care what this report says.”
“I didn’t say you were, and the test doesn’t indicate conscious deception.”
Pete set his jaw and clenched his teeth. “I want another test.”
Mac wasn’t expecting this. “I had to pay for this test. I’m not sure it would be worth it to—”
“No, I want a test with the GBI examiner. Maybe he knows what he’s doing.”
“But that would be a stipulated test. If you failed, it could be used against you in court.”
“What have I got to lose?”
Mac leaned forward. “A lot.”
Pete scowled. “I’m already being railroaded.”
“Listen.” Mac waited until Pete looked him in the eye. “If you fail a GBI test, it would be like lying down in front of a train and waiting for it to cut you in two. The case against you is circumstantial. That means there is nothing directly connecting you with Angela’s death. No confession. No eyewitnesses. Nothing specifically pointing to you. A failed polygraph would be devastating. Here’s my advice as your lawyer who is responsible to look out for your best interests—no stipulated polygraph.”
Pete hesitated. “I still think it could be my only ticket out of here. There’s no way the D.A. would try me for a murder if their own expert said I’m telling the truth.”
“We don’t have a promise from the D.A.’s office to do or not do anything. Polygraph or no polygraph. ”
“But what can I do?” Pete said bitterly. “I’m innocent.”
Before Mac could answer, David blurted out, “Pray.”
Startled, Mac and Pete both looked at David, who said, “Uh, that just popped out.”
The Trial Page 11