Page 42 of The Guilty Trial

“You think someone got to the witnesses, maybe convinced them to change their stories?” Jason asked.

Carmichael raised a hand. “I'm not going to sit here and accuse anyone of specific misconduct. What I will say is that federal prosecutors are good at their jobs. They build solid cases. But parts of this one felt…constructed.” He let the word hang for a moment. “The pieces fit too perfectly. There were no loose ends, no ambiguity, no contradictions. In my experience, Agent King, real evidence is messy. Witnesses forget details, and their testimonies are never exactly the same. Documents have gaps, and timelines don't always line up cleanly. That's how the real world works.” He shook his head slowly. “This wasn't messy. Not even a little.”

Allie turned that over in her mind. She'd worked enough cases to know Carmichael was right about one thing: real evidence was never clean. Human beings were unreliable narrators by nature, and the physical world didn't organize itself into neat packages for the convenience of prosecutors.

“If the evidence concerned you, why didn't the defense push harder?” she asked.

The lawyer’s expression carried something close to regret. “We challenged what we could. But chain of custody in federal cases is usually airtight. The prosecution's documentation was meticulous, and every motion we filed was met with volumes of procedural compliance records. You can only challenge evidence so far before the jury starts wondering why you're making so much noise about technicalities instead of addressing the substance.” He removed his glasses and held them loosely in one hand. “And the substance was damning. Sal had real enemies, real competitors, and real victims. The prosecution didn't need to fabricate a motive. They just needed the jury to believe the evidence trail.”

“Mr. Torrino maintained his innocence?” Jason asked.

“Every day of the trial and every day since.” Carmichael replaced his glasses. “He always said he was being framed. Of course, that's what they all say.”

There was something in Carmichael's tone that Allie caught, a note of unresolved doubt that decades of practicing law hadn't quite smoothed over. She filed it away.

“You mentioned you'd be willing to provide copies of your appellate briefs and case files,” Allie said. “We'd like to take you up on that.”

“Of course. I'll have Margaret compile everything and send it to your office. The appellate briefs in particular lay out every evidentiary challenge we raised. Whether or not anyone listens to them now is another matter.”

Allie shifted in her chair, moving to the question that mattered most. “Mr. Carmichael, who do you think might come back for murder five years later?”

Carmichael laced his fingers together on the desk and considered the question. “I wouldn't begin to know. Sal's oldest son was killed before the trial, and the other is in prison. He was preparing for them to eventually take over, and they were deeply involved in the organization. The family’s network was vast. It reached across the Pacific Northwest and beyond, but I wouldn't begin to know who might be coming around after all this time.” He studied Allie's face. “Do you have anything that makes you think you're looking in the right direction with the Torrino case?”

Allie met his gaze evenly. “We're looking under every rock we can find.”

Carmichael gave a slight nod, as if that was the answer he expected. “Then I hope what you find underneath this one gives you something useful.” He stood, signaling the end of the meeting. “If there's anything else I can do, don't hesitate to call.”

Jason merged onto I-5 southbound, the Charger settling into the flow of midday traffic as they headed back toward Tacoma. Rain had started to fall in a thin mist that coated the windshield and blurred the taillights ahead of them. Allie watched it gather and streak, her thoughts still in Carmichael's office.

“Every case has its weaknesses,” Jason said after a few miles of quiet. “Carmichael was Torrino's defense attorney. He's naturally going to see the places where things could have swung better in his favor.”

“I know.” Allie adjusted the heat vent. The dampness had crept into the car and settled against her skin. “But he's been doing this for decades, Jason. He's not some ambulance chaser grasping at straws. He said some of the evidence felt constructed, and that's not a word an attorney at his level uses casually.”

“Okay, but feeling something’s wrong and proving it are two very different things. The Torrino case was huge. A win would have probably been the biggest of Carmichael’s career. I can’t see him backing down from evidence he actually believed was manipulated.”

Allie felt the familiar creep of frustration gather in her chest again. “All we’re doing is spinning our wheels.”

The frustration had been building for days, accumulating in small increments with every dead-end interview and every case file that led nowhere. She could feel it in Jason too, in the way his grip on the steering wheel had grown tighter over the past week and in the clipped rhythm of his questions during interviews. Neither of them had said it out loud yet, but they both knew the killer wasn't waiting for them to catch up. They were both running on discipline and caffeine, pushing through the tedium because that was what the job demanded, but the lack of answers was wearing on them.

She was ready for some momentum to start building, for even the smallest crack to appear in whatever wall they kept hitting. So far, though, they couldn't even get the transmission out of park.

Chapter Twenty-Three

U.S. Marshals Service Office

Tacoma, Washington

Allie and Jason pushed through the glass doors of the federal building and showed their credentials to the security officer at the front desk, who promptly directed them to the third floor.

Marze was already inside the conference room when they arrived, standing near the window with his arms crossed. He was deep in conversation with a man with close-cropped hair that had started going gray at the temples. Allie hadn't seen him before. He looked to be in his late forties, but somewhat weathered, and his dark suit fit neatly to his lean frame. When he turned at the sound of the door, his eyes moved across Allie and Jason like someone accustomed to assessing threats in a fraction of a second.

“Agents Bishop and King,” Marze said by way of introduction. “And this is Deputy U.S. Marshal Jake Reeves.”

Reeves stepped forward and extended his hand. His grip was firm and controlled, and his dark, assessing eyes held steady on Allie's for a beat before he shook Jason's hand and gestured toward the table.

“Have a seat,” he said. “I appreciate you all coming down. I know everyone is stretched thin right now.”

They settled around a rectangular table cluttered with folders and a laptop that displayed what appeared to be a schematic for a security protocol. Reeves remained standing. He moved to the head of the table where a dry-erase board had been set up with names, addresses, and shift schedules written in precise block lettering.