Page 45 of The Guilty Trial

“Teething?” Mia offered.

“Whatever it is, she's winning.” He took a long drink and winced at the heat. “Victoria told me to stop complaining and go to work.”

Allie almost smiled, but her attention was already drifting toward the document Mia was unfolding across the table. The master exhibit list was a comprehensive record, pages and pages of entries laid out in columns. Every one of the four hundred eighty-seven pieces of evidence introduced during the RICO trial was cataloged and numbered sequentially, with a brief description of the item and the name of the attorney who had introduced it. Allie could feel the investigative momentum shift as the list took shape in front of them, the sense that they were finally looking at something that might answer the question none of them could stop asking.

She started at the top and worked her way down, her finger tracing each line. Exhibit 1 was a corporate filing. Exhibit 2, a financial summary. The descriptions blurred together as she scanned, all of it a parade of bank records, phone logs, surveillance photos, forensic reports, and affidavits that told the sprawling story of the government's case against Sal Torrino.

When she reached Exhibit 14, her finger stopped.

The air in the room seemed to contract. She didn't say anything, just flipped ahead, scanning the entries with growing urgency until she found Exhibit 35. Her pulse ticked higher. She read the entry twice to make sure she wasn't seeing what she wanted to see. Wiretap authorizations and supporting affidavits for electronic surveillance on Torrino's inner circle. Judge Vance had signed the authorizations, and Sterling had presented the recorded conversations at trial.

“Here,” she said, pulling the pages closer. She looked up at the three faces watching her. “Exhibit 14 is a .38 revolver linked to one of the murders in the case. Sterling introduced it. Exhibit 35 is the wiretap package: authorizations and affidavits. Vance signed off on them, and Sterling presented the recordings.”

Jason leaned forward and studied the page, the fog of exhaustion clearing from his eyes. “Both were described as linchpin evidence in the transcripts I've been reading. They were critical to securing the conviction.”

“And the killer branded Sterling with fourteen and Vance with thirty-five.” Allie let the words settle into the silence. The numbers that had haunted them since that first crime scene at the cabin, the bold, seared digits that had seemed random or symbolic or personal, now had a context that made them infinitely more terrifying. They weren't arbitrary. They corresponded exactly to trial exhibits that had been crucial to putting Sal Torrino away.

Marze set his coffee down. “What if the killer thought those exhibits were fabricated?”

Jason turned his pen between his fingers, thinking. “If someone thought the prosecution had built their case on tainted evidence, those might be the pieces that stood out.”

Allie's mind went immediately to the brick building in Seattle's legal district, the wood-paneled office with its view of Elliott Bay. Leonard Carmichael sitting behind his desk and choosing his words with care. “Carmichael mentioned irregularities when we interviewed him,” she said. “He told us certain evidence appeared late in discovery, that there were chain of custody issues his defense team tried to challenge. Vance denied their motions, but Carmichael was convinced something wasn't right.”

She looked around the table. “What if exhibits 14 and 35 are the specific pieces he was questioning?”

Marze nodded slowly, his expression settling into the hard focus that meant he was already three steps ahead. “We need the complete evidence custody logs. Every signature, every transfer, and every time those items changed hands. I want to see who handled them and exactly how they moved through the system.”

Mia was already reaching for her phone. “I'll call Archives. Though I should warn you, except for this evidence list, last time it took them almost a week to dig out what we needed.”

“Push them,” Marze said. “Tell them it's urgent.”

“I will.” Mia got up and stepped into the hallway, her phone already at her ear.

Jason tugged at his cuffs. “Anything specific you want us to focus on while we wait for the custody logs?”

“Yes. Assume the remaining members of the Torrino prosecution team are potential targets. Reeves’s team has Sarah Park and Bob Halloway under protection, but we can't rely on security alone.”

“We can't determine a pattern yet,” Allie agreed. “We don't know who might be next. But both of them played significant roles in the prosecution.”

“Which is exactly why I want you two to interview them,” Marze said. “Both prosecutors. I want to know their specific contributions to the Torrino case, what evidence they personally presented, and whether either of them remembers anything unusual about exhibits 14 or 35. If there were problems with that evidence, I want to know if they noticed it at the time and what they did about it.”

Jason scribbled notes on his legal pad. “We’re on it.”

“Good,” Marze said. “And I want to know if either of them had concerns about the integrity of the evidence that they chose not to raise. People don't always speak up when they should, especially when they're on the winning side of a major prosecution.”

“We'll set up the interviews.” Allie was already thinking about how to approach it, what questions to ask and in what order, how to read the reactions of two attorneys who had spent their careers controlling narratives. Prosecutors were trained to present information strategically, to reveal only what served their case. Getting honest answers about potential misconduct in their own prosecution would require a different approach than a standard witness interview.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Union Station Federal Courthouse

Tacoma, Washington

The elevator opened onto the fourth floor, and Allie stepped out with Jason right behind her. A U.S. marshal was stationed outside Halloway’s office, a broad-shouldered woman in a dark suit who stood with her feet shoulder-width apart and her hands clasped loosely in front of her. She studied their credentials with unhurried attention before letting them enter.

Bob Halloway rose from behind his desk, removing his reading glasses and setting them on a stack of papers. He was a slight man in his early fifties, with thinning hair combed neatly to one side and a cardigan buttoned over his dress shirt that gave him the look of a college professor. His eyes looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, gesturing to two chairs. “Please, sit down.”