"Tony," directed Jake, "think about this question before you answer it: Are you the man who tried to rob that bank—then got excited and killed two people?"
Jake knew this question was the one element of gamble in his entire case. The way it was answered could be a summation or refutation of all the evidence and testimony he had so painstakingly assembled.
The jury sensed this, too. So did Judge Hayward. His keen eyes flickered alertly from the defendant's face to the lines on the polygraph recorder.
Now Tony's hands were no longer folded quietly in his lap. They were locked together, and the new veins in his wrists stood out under the new skin. His lips worked silently as he groped for words.
And then the words burst into an anguished outcry:
"No! I couldn't!..."
The polygraph lines leaped into jagged peaks. Blood pressure, respiratory block, pulse and breathing—all climbed and dropped wildly, recording their damning message for the world to see.
The D.A.'s lips twisted in a mirthless smile of triumph. Up in the TV booth, reporters sputtered, split infinitives and shattered syntax in frantic efforts to describe and interpret what had happened.
Jake Emspak stood and waited, a sear and wrinkled leaf hanging motionless in the wind.
(If the self is merely a node in a complex casual series, if self is solely energized and motivated by the sovereign need of survival and security, then the idea of a bridge between Man and the infinite is a pious illusion....)