"Sergeant Keller."
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Ortiz added something unexpected.
"Officer Rourke came to see me too."
I looked up.
"When?"
"Yesterday."
"What did he want?"
She swallowed.
"He asked whether the recording captured him pouring the coffee."
I waited.
"He wanted to know if I could say the camera was pointed at the floor."
I leaned forward.
"Did he ask you to lie?"
She nodded slowly.
"Yes."
I made another note.
Ortiz looked toward the window.
Then whispered, "He said I was ruining his life over a joke."
I studied her.
"What did you tell him?"
She looked down.
"I told him he should've thought about that before he poured the coffee."
For a moment, I almost smiled.
Then I nodded.
"Good."
But Ortiz did not smile.
She looked frightened.
"Investigator, I've wanted to be a police officer since I was sixteen."
I listened.
She continued.
"My father worked maintenance at the courthouse. He used to take me to community events where officers helped kids with school supplies."
Her voice trembled.
"I thought the job was about helping people."
I nodded.
"It can be."
She looked at me.
"Then why does everybody act like telling the truth is betrayal?"
The question lingered.
I considered.
"Because some people confuse loyalty to coworkers with loyalty to the law."
Ortiz looked down.
I continued.
"Those aren't always the same thing."
She swallowed.
"What happens to me if I testify?"
I answered carefully.
"There may be pressure. That's why retaliation concerns need to be documented and addressed through the appropriate channels."
She nodded.
I continued.
"I can't promise the process will be comfortable."
She looked up.
"But you can make sure my statement doesn't disappear?"
I thought immediately of Elena Brooks.
The same fear.
Different circumstances.
A civilian complaining about evidence theft.
A young officer reporting misconduct.
Both worried that the truth would vanish because someone with more authority wanted it gone.
I nodded.
"Your statement will be formally documented and preserved."
Ortiz took a long breath.
Then reached into her bag.
She removed a small notebook.
It was black.
Worn along the edges.
Filled with handwritten notes.
I looked toward it.
"What's that?"
She placed it on the table.
"My field notebook."
I waited.
She opened it.
Then turned to a page dated several months earlier.
I saw case numbers.
Officer names.
Brief observations.
She pointed toward one entry.
"Sergeant Keller ordered me to amend a property receipt."
I looked up.
"For which case?"
She told me.