Page 12 of The Guilty Trial

Chapter Six

Port of Tacoma, Pier 5

Tacoma, Washington

The Port of Tacoma stretched along the water like a sprawling industrial monument, cranes rising against the gray sky. Jason eased his Charger past the guardhouse and nodded to the security officer who waved them through without question. The tires hummed over wet pavement as they navigated the maze of access roads that wound between stacks of shipping containers.

“Last time I was out here,” Jason said, his voice quiet, “Eastman and I were setting up surveillance on Sadie Talbot’s operation.”

Allie’s hands stilled in her lap. She turned her gaze toward the water, where container ships sat motionless in the harbor. Their hulls were dark against the steel-colored water. The mention of Sadie’s name hit like a sucker punch—unexpected, even though she should have seen it coming. Months had passed since Sadie’s betrayal, but the wound was still raw.

“Sorry, I know you don’t want to talk about it.” Jason glanced at her.

“I don’t.” The words came out sharper than she intended. She softened her tone. “I’m fine, Jason. Really.” She turned back toward the windshield and watched a gull lift off from a container stack, banking hard against the wind before disappearing over the water.

She wasn’t fine, and they both knew it. Sadie had been someone Allie trusted, someone she’d been close to, and wasn’t the first person she’d trusted who betrayed her. Not by a long shot. Yet those betrayals taught her a lesson she was still trying to unlearn—that letting people in only gave them more ways to hurt you.

Jason didn’t push. That was one of the things she appreciated about her partner; he knew when silence was better than words.

They followed the perimeter road past rows of shipping containers stacked like colorful building blocks, past forklifts and trucks that rumbled over cracked pavement. Gulls wheeled overhead with their sharp and lonely cries. The smell of diesel fuel mixed with salt water, a combination that defined ports from Seattle to San Diego.

The Pacific Maritime Labor Alliance office sat near the edge of the water in a squat, weathered building that looked like it had been standing since the port opened more than a century ago. Rust streaked the metal siding in orange-brown patterns, and the windows were small and grimy, filmed with years of accumulated dirt and sea spray. A hand-painted sign above the door read Local 814 in faded blue letters.

Inside, the wood paneling emanated the thick smell of coffee and old cigarette smoke. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead and cast everything in a sickly yellow glow. The floor was worn linoleum, marked with scuffs and stains that told stories of countless shift changes and union meetings.

A man in a high-visibility vest sat sprawled on a sagging couch near the door, flipping through a magazine with grease-stained fingers. He was young—thirty perhaps—with a patchy beard and a lean build that came from physical labor. He barely looked up when they entered, his attention fixed on whatever he was reading.

“Help you?” he asked. His tone suggested that he didn’t particularly care one way or the other.

Allie pulled out her credentials. “FBI. We need to speak with Tony Bianchi.”

The man studied her badge for a moment, and his expression slowly shifted from boredom to something more wary. He jerked his thumb toward the back of the building. “Office down the hall. Last door on the right.”

The hallway was narrow and dimly lit, lined with framed photographs of longshoremen from different eras. Most of them were black and white images of men loading cargo by hand, others color photos of modern container operations. A bulletin board displayed union notices and safety reminders, the papers yellowed and curling at the edges.

They found Bianchi behind a cluttered desk with a phone pressed to his ear. He was portly and balding, with thick forearms that rested heavily on the desk’s surface and a permanent scowl etched into his features. His skin had the weathered look of someone who had spent years working outdoors before landing in this office. When he saw them standing in the doorway, his frown deepened. He raised a finger and motioned for them to take the two chairs facing his desk.

“Yeah, I get it. Just tell them we’re not backing down. That’s what I pay you for, isn’t it?” His scowl intensified as he paused and listened. “Fine. Call me when it’s done.”

He hung up and leaned back in his chair, which protested with a metallic groan. His office was cramped and chaotic, with stacks of paperwork covering every available surface. Filing cabinets lined the walls, and a coffeemaker on a corner table looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years.

“You’re not from OSHA.” His voice carried the rough edges of someone who’d grown up shouting over machinery. His eyes moved from Allie to Jason and back again, sizing them up.

“Special Agents Bishop and King,” Allie said, keeping her voice professional, neutral. “We need to ask you a few questions.”

“About what?” His annoyance was obvious. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Assistant U.S. Attorney Thomas Sterling,” Jason replied. “Name ring a bell?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Do with what?” Allie asked, leaning forward in her chair.

“Yeah, right,” Bianchi scoffed. “Like I don’t know why you’re here. Guy’s murder’s been all over the news. Can’t turn on the TV without hearing about it.” His tone shifted from annoyance to something harder. “You think I killed him?”

“We’re talking to everyone who had a conflict with Sterling,” Jason said evenly. “Your name came up.”

“Of course it did.” Bianchi huffed. His chair scraped against the floor with a screech that made Allie’s teeth hurt.