Outside the Lines (Forensic Handwriting Book 6) Read online

  “Yes. May I step down?”

  The judge gave permission and Claudia took up a position before the jury, not surprised by the subtle shift in the energy of the room. It was easier to get people to pay attention to visual cues than just talking at them. A projection screen had already been set up and Jesse Alvarez, the investigator, was designated to operate the special document camera.

  Even the sleepy juror sat at attention when the first exhibit—the kite Danny Ortiz denied writing—came into focus on the screen. The damning words tumbled across the page from edge to edge without respect for margins, the rounded letters slanting strongly to the left.

  Early in the investigation, Alvarez had run up against a brick wall in his search for exemplars—samples of the defendant’s known handwriting that Claudia could use for comparison. Ortiz, citing the law against self-incrimination, had refused to provide additional samples of his handwriting, and the only one available was a form he had filled out in jail. The form, being hand-printed, was unsuitable for comparison, as the kite was written in cursive.

  It was not until several months later—in what seemed an act of providence—that a packet of handwritten letters surfaced that Danny Ortiz had written to an ex-girlfriend on the outside. The girlfriend, who described Danny as “a piece of shit nastier than a cockroach,” could not have been happier to turn them over to the prosecutor’s office.

  Claudia examined the evidence and found a few minor differences, but many significant similarities. Even if there had been no other commonalities, there was a rare distinguishing feature present in both handwritings: the bottoms and sides of letters contained a special type of gap that resulted of the pen being lifted from the paper for a microsecond. The lift made it appear as if a tiny section of ink had been erased. There was no question in Claudia’s mind that the girlfriend’s letters could be used to identify Danny Ortiz as the writer of the kite.

  She was not going to testify about his personality, but it was impossible for her to ignore what the handwriting told her about Danny Ortiz: immature, no more than average intelligence. He had a strong need for approval, unsatisfactory bonding with his mother, rebellion toward authority figures, and an utter lack of morality. Add to that a short fuse and zero self-discipline and you had an explosion waiting to happen.

  The jurors were alert and interested as Claudia explained the exhibits. The first sample was one of the letters from Danny to his girlfriend. He had written that he loved her and she’d “better never fucking forget it.” He begged her to please start loving him the way she should, that his life was all about her.

  From the corner of her eye, Claudia could see the defendant squirming in his chair. His attorney leaned over and whispered to him, her hand on his arm. Forcing herself to ignore the distraction, she asked Alvarez to show the second letter. “Fuck off and dye!!” it began. “You stupid lying fucking hoe.”

  As she pointed to how radically the size and slant changed throughout the document, Danny Ortiz pushed back his chair and started to rise. The two bailiffs immediately moved away from the wall, hands resting on their weapons. Alison Smith, who was half Ortiz’s size, seized his arm and yanked him back down. Ortiz shook her off and slumped back in his chair, spewing a string of profanity directed at Claudia.

  Judge Abernathy banged his gavel and jabbed an angry finger at the public defender. “Can you keep your client under control, Counselor, or do I need to have him restrained?”

  Smith leaned down and whispered urgently in Danny’s ear. He gave a sharp nod, but Claudia saw that his face had paled and he was breathing rapidly.

  “My apologies, Your Honor,” said Smith. “Uh, my client was embarrassed at, er, having his words, which were written in anger—”

  The judge’s expression darkened to a thundercloud. “Do I look like I care why, Counselor? There will be no further outbursts. Do I make myself understood?” His gaze swept the defendant’s supporters, who had begun chattering to each other. “Quiet!” Abernathy roared. “Or I’ll have the place cleared. Ms. Smith?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Then sit down and let’s get on with it.” At the judge’s nod, the bailiffs stepped away from the defendant and returned to their positions.

  Smith resumed her seat, her cheeks stained red. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  The exchange left Claudia feeling sorry for the public defender, who was young enough to have passed the bar exam within the last couple of years. How had Alison Smith landed a trial opposing the high profile district attorney himself? Had she pissed off the Chief Public Defender who knew this case was a no-win? Or was her boss showing confidence in her by giving her a big chance?

  Gathering her wits, Claudia continued, glancing over at the jurors from time to time. She was pleased to see them nodding, their expressions rapt as they followed the red dot of her laser pointer. They did not appear to notice, as she did, that as she spoke about the similarities in the documents, Ortiz continued to glower at her.

  When she had finished her presentation, she returned to the witness stand, ready for the defense to take a run at her. Early in her career, Claudia had learned that it was the opposing attorney’s job to make the expert witness look stupid. As the expert, it was her job not to help. She kept that rule in mind as Smith got to her feet for cross-examination.

  Smith was medium height and thin, dressed in an ill-fitting, off-the-rack navy suit. Her wispy blonde hair, though it was held back in a bun, needed a brush. Despite her harried appearance, though, she stood straight-backed and spoke in a firm voice. “Ms. Rose, did you at any time meet with my client?”

  “No.”

  “You did not personally take a handwriting sample from him?”

  “I was told he had refused—”

  Smith broke in. “So your answer is no. Is that right?”

  “That is correct.”

  “And all you have is an angry ex-girlfriend’s word that the letters she submitted were written by my client. Isn’t that right, Ms. Rose?”

  “No.”

  “No?” Smith echoed, then made a rookie mistake that gave Claudia the opportunity to score an important point with the jury. “Then, how do you know those letters were written by Mr. Ortiz?”

  “His inmate number is on the return address and his signature, which is consistent with other signatures on jail documents, is on the letters. The handwriting on the envelope is also consistent with the other handwriting.”

  Smith pressed on, ignoring the titter that rippled through the courtroom. “But an ex-girlfriend could have had someone else—”

  “Objection,” Feynman said. “There’s been no offer of proof anyone else wrote the letters.”

  “Sustained. Do you have anything else, Counselor?”

  “No, Your Honor, thank you. Nothing further.” Smith took her seat.

  Claudia’s testimony needed no rehabilitation; Paul Feynman passed on the opportunity for redirect. She had been on the stand for a little more than ninety minutes.

  Judge Abernathy glanced at the clock, his lips twitching in an almost-smile, no doubt pleased that the afternoon session was coming to a close a little early. He turned to Claudia. “Since there are no further questions, Ms. Rose, you are excused.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” Sliding her paperwork back into her briefcase, Claudia’s mind was already racing ahead to her dinner plans with Jovanic. She shot a glance at Feynman, wondering whether he wanted to her to stick around. His head was bent towards Alison Smith, who was urgently whispering in his ear. Maybe the public defender was ready to cut a deal for her client.

  Abernathy began thanking the jury for their day’s service and instructing them not to discuss their opinions with anyone. Claudia stepped down from the witness stand.

  Suddenly, one of the gangbangers in the gallery jumped up, his hands forming a gang sign. He pointed at Claudia, and shou
ted, “Better watch your back, puta!”

  The judge rapped his gavel. “Bailiffs, get that person out of here. I’m holding him in contempt.”

  Claudia froze in place as the two deputies pushed through the gate to the gallery and dragged Ortiz’s still-cursing homie past her to the lockup.

  The door slammed shut behind them.

  In the silence that followed, Danny Ortiz leapt out of his seat.

  CHAPTER 2

  Homicide Detective Joel Jovanic had been working a gang killing in Mar Vista since early morning. By the time his team was free to respond to a second call out in Venice, the sun was already struggling to burn through the thick marine layer haze.

  The new crime scene was a wide alley behind a McMansion two blocks from the Grand Canal. Yellow crime scene tape restricted access at both ends of the alley where a clutch of frightened neighbors and their live-in help had gathered.

  Built tall, rather than wide, to accommodate the relatively small lots in the little-known area on the Westside of Los Angeles, the expensive homes were occupied for the most part by high-priced lawyers, CEOs, and television producers.

  Early in the twentieth century, Abbott Kinney, a developer and conservationist, had constructed sixteen miles of canals, intending to recreate the cultural vibe of Venice, Italy. Almost immediately, though, it became apparent that the public preferred the beach town’s less highbrow amusements over art and speeches. Over the years, the waterways had been renovated and eventually reduced to six canals. The homicide had taken place behind one of the east-west ones.

  The homicide team’s sergeant, Marvin Williams, was standing outside the tape near his black-and-white, talking to a patrolman. He glanced over as the four detectives approached. “Took you guys long enough.” His voice rumbled like a freight train. A defensive linebacker before joining the force, Williams made even Jovanic, who stood 6’2 in his socks, look like a runt.

  “Hey, Sarge, what’ve we got?” Jovanic and his partner, Randy Coleman, added their names to the log. Every person coming and going at the scene had to sign in and out.

  “Female, late 40s. Mailbox exploded when the victim picked up the mail around seven AM. Nobody else in the house. Dispatch got calls on the blast from two blocks away.”

  “Witnesses?”

  “You really thought it would be so easy?”

  “One can always hope.”

  Williams explained what had taken place before his arrival. The EMTs had determined that there was nothing they could do for the victim. The home had been checked for any additional victims—under the exigent circumstances law there was tacit permission to enter and ensure that no one else was injured or dead inside. After that, no one was allowed to cross through the yellow tape until the lead detective had arrived.

  While he listened, Jovanic observed the area, absorbing as much as he could before they entered the taped area. A sheet-covered form lay about twenty feet away, next to one of the three-car garages, of which there were three on each side of the alley.

  In a toney neighborhood like this one, there was sure to be plenty of security. Glancing up, he spotted what he was looking for: a camera mounted in the garage eaves. Too bad it was pointed at the steel security gate, the wrong direction to be of much use, but with any luck, one of the neighbors’ cameras would have caught something.

  Jovanic, Coleman, and Williams crossed through the tape. Everything within a ten foot radius of the blast point was coated with plaster dust and fragments of broken masonry; torn Christmas catalogs and assorted mail pieces littered the ground.

  There was a hole the size of a fist in the garage wall about four feet off the ground. All that was left of the mailbox was fragments of black metal strewn everywhere. Blood had spattered on the champagne-beige paint.

  “Blew off a couple fingers,” said Williams. “Right hand’s a bloody mess. Kemp found the forefinger and the top section of the middle finger on the other side of the alley. One of the EMTs saw a dog sniffing around. Probably got what was left of the third finger.”

  “Glad I haven’t had lunch yet,” Jovanic said, crouching down and lifting the sheet.

  The victim had been a small woman, 5’4 at most, and trim. Attractive, too, with a mane of thick, black hair. Her eyes were open wide and staring, hands drawn up to her chest. Blood had soaked into the terrycloth robe. A lot of blood.

  “Her heart was pumping hard when she went down,” Jovanic noted, mostly to himself, then added to his sergeant, “The coroner should be here in about thirty.”

  Williams said, “The folks next door said the vic was the housekeeper. They think the homeowners—name’s Lockhart—are out of town, but nobody has their mobile numbers.”

  “Homeowner was lucky they had a housekeeper to pick up the mail,” said Coleman. “Housekeeper, not so much.”

  Williams ignored him and went to greet the other team members—Detectives RJ (Rebecca) Scott and Huey Hardcastle, who had just arrived. They volunteered to canvas the neighborhood with the patrol officers and interview anyone who had seen or heard anything immediately preceding or following the blast.

  Jovanic had already requested a search warrant to look for anything that would lead to the owner. The electronic warrant landed in his phone mid-morning.

  “Let’s take a look inside,” Jovanic said to Coleman.

  The door to the security gate had been propped open by a brick, the back door to the house left standing ajar, as it had been when the victim left the residence. As they entered the house—upward of five thousand square feet of über-luxury decorator living—he was already thinking about possible motives. Was it a prank gone horribly wrong? Or had someone set the device because they hated the homeowner? The cognac-hued, French Oak hardwood floors alone must have cost a fortune. It wasn’t hard to imagine someone with this kind of buying power having enemies. Aside from the garage wall, the explosion had not caused any property damage. Was the blast intended as a warning?

  The ground floor comprised the garage, a laundry room, the housekeeper’s quarters and an enclosed patio that opened onto a terrazzo-tiled courtyard rimmed with well-cared for potted plants.

  Leaving Coleman to work on the family living areas, Jovanic started his search in the housekeeper’s room. The room was plainly furnished and her personal belongings relatively few. According to the driver’s license he found in her purse, the victim had been Sylvia Vasquez, forty-eight years old. A dog-eared address book held faded names and phone numbers, but nothing to immediately indicate who should be notified of Vasquez’s death.

  The two detectives quickly recognized that the home was an adult domicile, with everything as pristine as a hotel waiting for its next guests. No rock star posters on the walls or other trappings of a teen’s abode in any of the four third-floor bedrooms. A box of toys appropriate for young children was in a guest room closet—probably grandchildren.

  The second floor was a large, open-plan that appeared to serve as a family room or den. A mantelpiece over the fireplace held a collection of framed family photos. A handsome couple, aging through the years, along with two boys. Wedding photos, when the boys grew up, and finally the grandchildren whose toys were in the upstairs closet.

  Jovanic rifled through a small stack of opened bills on a computer desk, most addressed to Evan Lockhart. He selected the mobile phone bill and called the number listed inside. A man answered.

  “This is Detective Joel Jovanic, LAPD. Am I speaking to Evan Lockhart?”

  “Yes, this is he.” The voice sounded suspicious. “Who did you say is calling?”

  “I’m sorry to call you with this news, sir, but there’s been an incident at your house, an explosion.” As he expected, there was a stunned moment of silence. Then, “What? Who did you say you are? Is this some kind of sick joke?”

  Jovanic repeated his LAPD credential, and said, “Unfortunately, sir, it’s no joke.
How soon can you get here?”

  “Detective, my wife and I are out of the country. We’re vacationing in the Maldives.”

  Jovanic was not sure where the Maldives was, but it sounded far. “When are you due back in town?”

  “Not until next Sunday.”

  “Do you have any thoughts on why someone would do such a thing, Mr. Lockhart? Or who?”

  “No, of course I don’t. I just—I—how much damage is there?”

  Jovanic noticed that he had not asked whether anyone was hurt or the cause of the blast. “There’s very little structural damage, but I have some bad news about your housekeeper…”

  “My God,” Lockhart said upon hearing the news of Sylvia Vasquez’s death. “We’ll leave right away, of course.”

  Jovanic could hear his muffled voice as he turned away and spoke to someone else. “There’s been an explosion at the house. Yes, our house. I don’t know—maybe a gas leak. Darling, Sylvia was killed.” Jovanic heard a woman cry out. Lockhart said, “I know, it’s hard to believe.” There was a brief pause, then he returned to the line, “This is all a bit hard to take in, Detective. You’re sure? Sylvia died?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Mr. Lockhart, are you aware of any family we can notify?”

  “It’s Doctor Lockhart. I believe Sylvia’s from El Salvador. She doesn’t have anyone here that I know of. Let me ask my wife.” Jovanic heard him relay the question, then he returned to the phone again. “I’m sorry, Detective, my wife isn’t aware of anyone, either.” With a promise to contact Jovanic upon his return to L.A., the call ended.

  The deputy coroner arrived and examined the body. His preliminary opinion was that Sylvia Vasquez had suffered a massive heart attack and died instantly.

  When there was nothing further to be done at the site, the team broke for lunch at the Firehouse on Rose, their informal conference room when they were out in the field. Between the lunch and dinner crowds they had the place pretty much to themselves. No other diners in their section to complain about them ruining a meal with discussions of death and destruction.