Chapter 26
Jack had ninety minutes to convince his client to tell him what the prosecution’s next witness might say.
A child testifying against the man accused of murdering his father made for a sensitive matter. Judge Garrison had granted
The pretrial detention facility was directly behind the courthouse. They were escorted by an overweight guard with a limp,
but even at that pace, the walk was less than three minutes. Electronic devices were not allowed, so Jack deposited his cell
phone at registration while Elliott went to the canteen to buy his lunch, presumably by pointing to his selections, unless
he was breaking his silence when Jack wasn’t around. They reconvened in a designated attorney-client conference room where—theoretically—they
could speak to one another. Jack sat opposite his client at the small rectangular table in the center of the windowless room.
Elliott unwrapped his packaged utensils and picked at a plate of something that stunk up the room like week-old tuna fish
salad and looked like cat food.
“Your speech strike—or whatever you want to call it—needs to end,” Jack said firmly. He expected no reply and got none. “Without
input from you, the only way I can create reasonable doubt is to point the finger at other people, like I did this morning
with Helena. I need more ammunition.”
Jack waited. Elliott chewed.
“An alibi would be nice,” said Jack, the monologue continuing. “On the flip side, it would also be helpful to know if you have no alibi. How ’bout it, Elliott? Can you tell me where you were the night of Owen Pollard’s death?”
Elliott stabbed a cherry tomato with his fork.
“All right,” said Jack. “Let’s start with something simpler. I’ve never met Austen. You have. He’s a dancer, so he knows what
it’s like to perform and be watched and judged by adults. He has experience ‘in the spotlight,’ so to speak. But you tell
me: How will he do in court?”
Elliott kept eating. His expression showed obvious dislike for the taste of his food but no sign of engagement with his lawyer.
Jack sighed. “I’m still trying to figure out what you hope to accomplish by not talking to me, Elliott. Do you like it in
prison?”
Jack immediately regretted the sarcasm. It was a cheap shot at the victim of prison violence.
“I’m sorry for saying that, Elliott. I know you don’t like it there.”
Silence. Jack tried a little humor. “No one wants to stay locked up. Except for Morgan Freeman in The Shawshank Redemption, but eventually even he came around to see that no matter how comfortable you might feel inside prison walls, life is better
on the outside.”
Jack watched, hoping for a hint of a smile or reaction of any kind. There was none.
“Didn’t see the movie, eh?”
Still nothing.
Jack leaned closer and rested his forearms on the table, trying to make his client look him in the eye. His tone was soft
but urgent. “Elliott, if I’m going to get you out on bail, you need to help me. Please.”
Elliott laid his fork aside, as if about to say something, but another minute passed in silence. He was simply finished with
his tuna salad.
There was a knock on the door. Jack stepped away from the table and answered it. A guard was standing on the other side.
“Got a lady named Bonnie here to see you, Swyteck. Claims to be your assistant. I told her to wait in the lobby until you’re done, but she says it’s urgent.”
Jack assumed that Bonnie had tried his cell phone, which was back at check-in. The fact that she’d made a special trip to
the jail told him it truly couldn’t wait.
“Elliott, hold your thought,” said Jack. “We’ll pick right up when I get back.”
Jack stepped out, the guard locked the door from the outside, and Jack followed him to the visitors’ waiting area. Jack found
Bonnie standing near the television, which was blasting the noon-hour news in Spanish.
“Dr. Stone called,” she said in an urgent voice. “You have to speak to him before you go back into court.”
From the outset, Jack had known he would need a handwriting expert to analyze Owen Pollard’s “suicide” list. He’d hired a
good one in Dr. Gerald Stone, a former forensic handwriting and forgery analyst with the FBI’s questioned-document unit. But
at such a critical point in the hearing, Jack didn’t put Stone in the category of “urgent” matters.
“Bonnie, there’s nothing more important right now than getting ready for the prosecution’s next witness.”
“Dr. Stone said this could turn the case completely around for Elliott,” she said. “He’s one hundred percent certain that
Owen Pollard did not create the list of ‘Things Stressing Me Out.’”
Jack blinked, not comprehending. “Bonnie, this is a homicide case. Our strongest defense is that Owen Pollard committed suicide.
How does it help my client if my own handwriting expert is certain that the suicide list is a fake?”
“Just call him. He can explain.” A pair of MDPD officers walked past them. Cell phones were allowed in the lobby, but there
was no privacy.
“Let’s go outside,” said Jack. He led, and Bonnie followed him past the guard and out the secured exit. They found a bench just outside the gate near the corner street sign. Thirteenth Street. It was never lost on Jack that the county jail was no one’s lucky number.
Jack dialed, and Dr. Stone answered immediately, obviously waiting for the call.
“Jack, I have some good news,” said Stone.
“So I’m told,” said Jack. “But I’m having trouble seeing how it’s ‘good news’ that Owen Pollard’s suicide list is a fake.”
“Because the good news is that your client didn’t write it.”
The doctor suddenly had Jack’s full attention. “Tell me more,” he said into the phone.
“Whoever wrote that list was trying very hard to mimic Owen Pollard’s handwriting. For example, the term ‘BB’s Mom’ is repeated
more than a dozen times. The repetition of those two letters together—BB—is a very robust data point.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“If I asked someone to write ‘BB’ ten times, I would expect to see noticeable variations in those ten samples. The top of
the B might be smaller than the bottom. The top and bottom might be the same size. The bottom of the straight edge might drop below
line. These variations are normal, even when written by the same person.”
“Are you saying these ‘normal variations’ don’t appear in Owen’s list?”
“Exactly. The letter B appears the same, over and over again. Almost no variation. And that’s the point. It’s as if someone checked to see how Mr.
Pollard wrote the letter B and then meticulously re-created that identical image over and over again. And it’s not just the B. I note other examples in my final report.”
A noisy dump truck rumbled around the corner, its diesel exhaust adding to the cloud of confusion. “That’s all fine and good.
But how can you tell that Elliott didn’t create the fake?”
“Even in a meticulous forgery, certain characteristics of one’s own handwriting may be too stubborn to keep out of the forgery.”
“Seems logical,” said Jack. “We all have habits that are ingrained in our brain since elementary school.”
“Yes, and here’s the clincher. The fake list contains numerous examples of deeply ingrained habits the forger could not erase
from his forgery. Those same handwriting traits also show up in the handwritten note you found on your windshield.”
Jack had sent Dr. Stone the note after MDPD bagged it as evidence in the case.
“Are you saying the suicide list and the note on my car were written by the same person?”
“That’s my opinion.”
“And Elliott was in jail when I found that note on my car,” said Jack, closing the loop on the analysis.
“Bingo,” said Dr. Stone.
“There’s one problem,” said Jack. “Judge Garrison probably won’t let me put you on the witness stand without a written report
for the prosecutor to review in advance. Ms. Weller will surely claim unfair surprise.”
“That’s fine,” said Stone. “How soon do you need a report?”
Jack checked his watch. “How fast can you write it?”
“I’ll get right on it.”
Jack thanked him, and the call ended.
Bonnie gave him a high five. Even though she’d heard only one side of the conversation, it was enough to get the gist.
“This is big, right?” she asked. “If Elliott didn’t write the list, he probably isn’t the killer.”
“Yeah, it’s big,” said Jack. “But it raises an even bigger question.”
“What?”
“If Owen didn’t write it, and if Elliott didn’t write it, who did?”