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to be examined by someone you trust,” said Neil.
    “All right,” said Jack. “You got my attention.”
    Advance clearance was required to administer a polygraph in jail, but Neil had taken care of that, and Swenson’s equipment was ready to go. Two fingers on Jamal’s left hand were wired to electrodes. Pneumograph tubes wrapped his chest and abdomen. An inflatable rubber bladder rested on the seat of the hard wooden chair beneath him, and another was behind his back. A blood pressure cuff squeezed his right bicep.
    “Time’s a-wastin’,” said Neil. “Let’s roll.”
    Swenson turned his attention to his cardio amplifier and galvanic skin monitor atop the table. The paper scroll was rolling as the needle inked out a pulsating line.
    “All set,” he said.
    Jack knew the drill, and Swenson had taken care of the preliminaries before his arrival. The first task was to put the subject at ease. He started with questions that would make Jamal feel comfortable with him as an interrogator. Do you like music? Have you ever owned a car? Is your hair purple? They seemed innocuous, but with each answer Swenson was monitoring the subject’s physiological response to establish the lower parameters of his blood pressure, respiration, and perspiration. It was almost a game of cat and mouse. The examiner needed to quiet him down, then catch him in a small lie that would serve as a baseline reading for a falsehood. The standard technique—Jack had seen it unfold many times—was to ask something even a truthful person might lie about.
    “Have you thought about sex in the last ten minutes?”
    “Uh, no.”
    Jamal blinked about five times. It wasn’t something that men necessarily liked to admit—especially when charged with the obsession-driven murder of their girlfriend—but it was a scientific fact that anyone with a Y chromosome thought about sex every three minutes. The room fell silent as the examiner focused on his readings. He appeared satisfied. He knew what it looked like on the polygraph when Jamal lied. Now he could test his truth telling on the questions that really mattered.
    “Is your name Jamal Wakefield?”
    “Yes.”
    “Are we in Miami, Florida?”
    “Yes.”
    Jamal seemed almost robotic in his responses—and rather than staring off blankly at the wall or the ceiling, he was looking straight at Jack, fully aware of the man he needed to convince.
    “Is today Sunday?”
    “No.”
    “Are you fluent in Chinese?”
    “No.”
    “Did you kill McKenna Mays?”
    “No.”
    “Have you ever climbed Mount Everest?”
    “No.”
    “Are you a man?”
    “Yes.”
    “Are you sitting in a chair?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you know who killed McKenna Mays?”
    “No.”
    Not a flinch. It was making Jack uncomfortable, the way Jamal had locked eyes with him, but Jack wasn’t going to be the one to back down.
    “Do you wear eyeglasses?”
    “No.”
    “Are you in jail?”
    “Yes.”
    “Is your prison jumpsuit orange?”
    “Yes.”
    “Were you in the United States at the time of McKenna Mays’death?”
    “No.”
    “Are you glad this test is over?”
    Jamal almost answered, then realized that he was being toyed with. He almost seemed to smile as his gaze slowly shifted from Jack to the examiner.
    “I guess so,” he said.
    Swenson disconnected the monitors. “I’ll need a few minutes to interpret the results,” he said as he packed up the equipment.
    Neil summoned the guard. The door opened, Swenson left the room, and the lawyers were alone with their client.
    Jack looked at Neil and said, “If that test shows any signs of deception, I’m out.”
    “Understood,” said Neil.
    “Even if the test is clean, I’m probably still out.”
    Jamal spoke up. “I didn’t kill McKenna.”
    Jack glanced over. “You shouldn’t have waited until today to tell me that.”
    “Last time we talked, I hadn’t been charged with anything.”
    “The guy has a point,” said Neil.
    Jack and Jamal had locked eyes again.