Her voice trembled.
"I thought the job was about helping people."
"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.
"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."
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.
It was one of the nine cases we had identified as containing unexplained evidence discrepancies.
I leaned forward.
"What did he ask you to change?"
"The description of a seized envelope."
"He said the original officer used the wrong terminology."
"What was the original description?"
She hesitated.
Then read from her notes.
"Sealed cash envelope, estimated fifteen thousand dollars."
"And the correction?"
She looked up.
"Empty document envelope."
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Ortiz continued.
"I told him I couldn't change an inventory to say something was empty if I hadn't examined it."
"What did he say?"
Her voice became quiet.
"He told me I'd learn how things worked when I had more time on the job."
I looked toward the notebook.
"Did you make the change?"
She shook her head.
"What happened?"
"He reassigned the report."
"To whom?"
"Officer Rourke."
The name settled between us.
The same man who poured coffee over me.
The same officer Elena described as taking her phone.
The same man whose name appeared repeatedly in questionable property records.
I looked toward Ortiz.
"Why are you telling me now?"
She swallowed.
"Because I kept thinking about what happened in the breakroom."
Her eyes filled.