Recalling the day she had taken the witness stand and suffered the worst beating of her career made her shudder. It wasn’t the first time she’d had a client lose a case, but this one was different.
Boris Beckett had insisted on representing himself in his lawsuit against a large, powerful hospital—major error number one. The hospital had presented a signed form giving them permission to perform a surgery that left him permanently disabled. Pointing out that even a
child
could see it wasn’t his signature, Beckett had steadfastly ignored Claudia’s appeals for him to hire an attorney. He had an excellent case—wasn’t that enough?
Arriving at court armed with exhibits to prove her points, Claudia was ready for anything.
Anything but the sleazy expert witness who testified on behalf of the hospital.
Beckett had ignored her plea to obtain a witness list from the attorney representing the hospital—major error number two. The opposing handwriting expert was Andrew Nicholson.
Handwriting analysis was a small, highly specialized field, and Nicholson had earned a reputation among his colleagues for inflating his credentials like a helium-filled balloon. If she’d known he was her opposition on the case, Claudia could have produced materials to impeach him. But blindsided by his unexpected appearance, and without a savvy attorney to protect her, she was left defenseless on the stand.
During
voir dire
, where a witness explains his or her qualifications to the court, Nicholson had rattled off an astonishing number of professed accomplishments. Hell, he’d all but claimed to have analyzed
God
’s handwriting. His assertions that he worked for the CIA and that he taught document examination at Stanford made Claudia sound like a rank amateur. She would have been impressed, too, if she hadn’t known what an inveterate phony Nicholson was.
Losing on a level playing field based on the facts was one thing; combating the smoke and mirrors of an out-and-out liar was something else entirely. Her confidence in the legal system and in herself took a body blow. The last thing she wanted was to return to the witness stand so soon.
And that brought her thoughts back full circle to her afternoon visitors. Her gaze fell on the folders they had left with her. She thought about everything Paige Sorensen and Bert Falkenberg had said and the inflections with which they had spoken, and evaluated it all with professional detachment. You couldn’t be swayed by a client’s story. Sometimes they lied.
Had Paige Sorensen lied to her? It didn’t matter if she had. The signatures themselves would tell Claudia what she needed to know.
Cases involving attorneys tended to generate a lot of paperwork and needed larger storage space than the average personality profiling assignment. Claudia took a red accordion file folder from the supply cabinet and printed out a label with the name
P. Sorensen
, adding QD on the corner of the tab to designate it a questioned document.
Once she had organized everything, she opened the folders and spread the documents out on her desk.
Okay, Torg, speak to me.
Over the next couple of hours, Claudia made a meticulous examination of every document Paige had left with her. She began by placing them under the stereo microscope one by one and taking digital photographs through the trinocular lens port. After she was satisfied with the shots she had taken, she uploaded the pictures onto her computer.
Andrew Nicholson wouldn’t even know what button to push
, she told herself with satisfaction as she launched the graphics editing program she used for courtroom exhibit prep. Pulling up the photos she had just taken, she displayed them on-screen, then electronically cut just Torg Sorensen’s signature from each document and pasted them into a new file that she named Stack Chart. The stack chart comprised a column of isolated signatures that would make it easy for her to compare each of the known signatures to the one on the questioned will.
She magnified each individual signature on-screen until the tiniest details were exposed, making notes on the differences and similarities. She measured the size of each writing zone and keyed the numbers into a spreadsheet. It was tedious, mind-numbing work, but in the event she was actually called to testify, the measurements would lay a foundation for her opinion.
Once the numbers were recorded, she ran a formula to find the standard deviation for each measurement. Next she measured the relative height of the capital letters, the alignment of the baseline, and space between the names, repeating the process of adding them to the spreadsheet.
Her back and shoulders were getting stiff. She stood and stretched, walked around the office, working out the kinks. Before returning to her desk and taking up her examination once again, Claudia ran downstairs to exchange her cold coffee for a cup of sweet mint tea.
The tea boosted her energy, and the break gave her a second wind. Completing her notes about idiosyncrasies in Torg’s authentic signatures, she made a new copy of the questioned signature she had taken from the will and checked it for writing habits similar to the known signatures.
The next step was to use a tool in the graphics editor to make the questioned signature semitransparent. Overlaying the transparent copy on each of the known signature standards allowed her to make a direct comparison.
Even in cases where a forger was able to make a clever simulation of the pictorial elements of someone’s name, the unconscious aspects of the signature could not be copied. It would take a highly skilled forgery to fool Claudia’s trained eye, and highly skilled forgeries were rare.
The phone on her desk rang, an interruption she welcomed. She picked up the receiver. “Claudia Rose.”
“Claudia, hello! It’s Stu Parsons. How’re you doing?”
Her first thought was that Paige had called the attorney and asked him to put pressure on her. “Hi, Stuart,” she said, hiding her suspicions and keeping her tone friendly. “Thanks for referring Paige Sorensen. I’m working on her case right now.”
“Isn’t she a sweetheart?” His tone held genuine affection. “Her husband was a close friend of mine for many years . . . How’s the case coming, anyway? I’m counting on you, you know—you’re my star witness.”
Claudia laughed, a little uneasy with his characterization. “Don’t put the onus on me, Stuart. It is what it is. If I can prove her case, I will. No promises.”
“I know you’ll do a super job,” he said. “You always do.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. Actually, I’m glad you called; I’ve got a question for you. Have the Sorensen children retained their own expert?”
This was information Parsons would receive in discovery—the part of the trial where each attorney got access to information, documents, and evidence that the other side had accumulated, information that would help the attorney to zero in on the strengths and weaknesses of his case.
“Norris hasn’t
designated
an expert,” Parsons mused. “And the deadline is past. It’s possible he’s got someone waiting in the wings for rebuttal.”
If that were the case, Norris would not have to name the witness until they came to the stand to testify. It could be a sneaky strategy that would prevent Parsons from deposing Norris’ expert before the hearing. After her experience with Boris Beckett, not knowing who her opponent was, or whether there would even be one, left Claudia feeling edgy.
They chatted for a few minutes longer, and she gave Stuart Parsons her preliminary findings, promising to e-mail the final results to him later in the evening.
After they rang off she began the next segment of the examination: a careful study of the writing impulse, the movement from each starting point of the pen—where she placed a red dot—to its stopping point, which got another red dot. A green dot went at every turning point and a blue one at every intersecting line. Then she compared the numbers and colors of dots on the questioned signature to the ones on the known signatures.
When she was finished, she printed out the exhibits she had made in preparation for the hearing the next week. She had concluded that the signature on the will was genuine, and that meant she would be back on the witness stand.
The thought of it made her clammy. Claudia had learned one thing from Boris Beckett’s case: If you can bamboozle the judge with fancy pretend credentials, it’s anybody’s game. When it comes to the legal system, there is no sure thing.
When the doorbell chimed twice, followed by the sound of a key in the lock, Claudia got to her feet and stretched, surprised at how the shadows had lengthened while she worked. The pool of light from her desk lamp scarcely made a ripple in the dusky office. The computer clock said that more than two hours had passed since the last time she had gotten out of her chair.
“I’m up here,” she called, beginning to flip on some lights. Footfalls sounded across the teak living room floor, then became muted on the carpeted stairs. A moment later, Joel Jovanic—the man in the photo that had so interested Bert Falkenberg—entered the office loosening his tie, his suit coat bunched over his arm.
“Hey, I’m looking for a good handwriting expert . . .”
Claudia started toward him. “What are the qualifications?”
A slow smile curved his lips. “Hmm, let’s see—nice body . . . long auburn hair . . . good kisser.”
She walked into his space and grabbed a handful of his shirt. “C’mere, I’ll give you a referral.”
Fatigue had etched fine lines around his mouth and eyes, but his lips were warm against hers as they melded naturally together. She stroked her fingers along the dusting of stubble darkening his jaw. “Long day?”
“Mm-hm.” He rested his head against her hair and didn’t try to hide his yawn. “Started around five this morning.” He was a detective with LAPD, currently working sex crimes.
She slipped her arm through his and led him to the comfortable sofa in a far corner of the office. Her favorite place to rest and recharge her batteries. “A drink?”
“Not yet; I just want to zone out.” Jovanic sank into the cushions and stretched his long legs in front of him. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Some people are unbelievably fucked up. Nothing the gas chamber wouldn’t cure.”
Claudia curled next to him and laid her head on his chest. “Oh, come on, I know there’s a soft heart beating in there.”
“Don’t let that rumor get out; you’ll ruin my reputation.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“No, I want to forget about it. Tell me about your day instead.”
“Oh, you know, the usual—young, beautiful widow inherits elderly husband’s estate and the kids are pissed. They’re claiming she forged the will.”
He opened one eye. “Trophy wife?”
“She says she was in love with him,” Claudia said. “No, wait, she said she loved him—that’s different, isn’t it?”
Jovanic closed his eyes again and leaned his head back. He gave another wide yawn, not bothering to cover it. “So, what happened to the old guy?”
“Massive stroke; he died.”
“You sure about the stroke? You don’t think the young and beautiful
Mrs.
Old Guy had anything to do with it?”
“You’ve been a cop too long.” Claudia unbuttoned his shirt and slid her hand into the curly thatch of chest hair. “The signatures are consistent with brain damage from a stroke.”
“You’re positive she didn’t put a pillow over his face and give him a little help over the edge?”
She withdrew her hand and gave him a gentle poke in the belly. “Not everyone has a suspicious nature like you, Columbo.”
Jovanic doubled over and grabbed her ankle, making her squeal. “Is that what you want—Columbo?” In one quick move he had her on the floor and was straddling her, pinning her arms with his legs. “Gotcha! It’s useless to struggle.”
Lying on the carpet, she looked up at him with a sly smile. “So, who’s struggling?”
He grinned and shifted his weight to release her arms. Tugging her T-shirt free of her jeans, he pulled it off over her head. She rose onto her elbows and began unbuckling his belt. His eyes were closed, the rise and fall of his breathing accelerating as she worked his zipper. Then his hands were on her shoulders, pulling her up to meet his lips.
The kiss deepened. And the muted ring of a cell phone intruded, ruining the moment.
“Goddamn it.” He groaned, straightening. He grabbed his coat from the arm of the sofa where he had tossed it and dug his phone out of the pocket. “Yeah? Jovanic.”
Claudia rolled onto the sofa, keeping her disappointment to herself. She might as well be involved with a doctor, considering all the times Jovanic had to take calls when they were on the verge of making love.
Just a minute,
a little voice in her head mocked.
What about
your
work?
A forensic conference, a TV interview about some high-profile case, and weekend plans get canceled.
It had seemed like the ideal relationship a few months ago when they’d reached out to each other like castaways on a desert island, two self-avowed workaholics, survivors of marriages that had been destroyed by their all-out devotion to work. Now history was repeating itself, and the relationship was taking a backseat to their careers.
Jovanic rose to his feet, the phone pressed to his ear with one hand, the other holding up his trousers. “Anyone else there yet? How’s it looking?” And, “Okay, I’ll be there.”
He snapped the phone shut and began zipping his trousers, buckling his belt. “That was Alex. We have to blow out of here tonight. Something’s developing in San Jose with that porn ring.”
Alexandra Vega was Jovanic’s new partner. His very charming, very sexy partner. Claudia handed him his tie and jacket and pulled her T-shirt on. “Do you know long you’ll be away?”
“It’s an extradition. The arrangements could take a while. Sorry, babe.”
“It’s work. Anything I can do to help?”