Page 46 of The Guilty Trial

Allie settled into the nearest chair and took in the office. Bookshelves lined one wall, and case files were stacked in orderly piles on every available surface. A framed photograph sat on the credenza behind Halloway’s desk, a woman with auburn hair and a teenage boy with the same thin frame as his father, both smiling on what looked like a hiking trail with mountains in the background.

Halloway followed her gaze, and something softened in his expression before he looked away. He lowered himself back into his chair.

“I assume this is about Tom and Judge Vance,” he said quietly.

“It is,” Allie confirmed.

Halloway shook his head slowly. “Tom was a good man. A friend, not just a colleague. He was one of those people who genuinely believed in what we do here.” He paused, pressing his lips together as if the words that followed required more effort. “And Judge Vance may have been demanding, but he was fair.”

“We intend to find whoever’s responsible,” Jason told him.

“Are you close?” Halloway asked, and there was no skepticism in the question, only the earnest hope of someone who wanted an answer.

“We’re trying to understand each prosecutor’s specific role in the Torrino RICO case,” Allie said, avoiding a direct answer. “What you handled and what evidence you worked with. The more detail you can give us, the better.”

Halloway straightened in his chair. “The Torrino case. Of course. Whatever you need.”

Jason set his elbow on the arms of the chair and laced his fingers. “Walk us through your specific contributions to the prosecution.”

Halloway nodded, settling into a rhythm that suggested he had thought about this already, perhaps anticipating the conversation since the protective detail had been assigned. “My role was the financial side of the case. I handled bank records, transaction ledgers, anything that proved the money laundering and racketeering charges. Tom handled the more dramatic elements, like the wiretaps, the physical evidence, and the witness testimony. My work was the paper trail. It’s not the most glamorous of work, tracing money through shell companies and front businesses, but without financial evidence, the RICO charges don’t stick. You can prove a man ordered violence, but if you can’t prove how the profits flowed, you’re building a house on sand.”

“Tell us what you found,” Allie said, and kept her voice conversational. Halloway was cooperating freely, and she wanted to keep it that way.

Halloway’s brow creased slightly, and he turned to his computer. The screen reflected in his reading glasses as he slid them back on and scrolled through what appeared to be detailed trial notes before stopping.

“I discovered a set of financial ledgers documenting transactions between Torrino’s organization and several front businesses. Restaurants, a dry-cleaning chain, a car wash operation up in Everett.” He looked up from the screen. “Those ledgers were critical. They showed a clear pattern of structured deposits designed to stay under the reporting threshold. It was classic layering. The money came in dirty from the racketeering operations and went out clean through legitimate business accounts. Each transaction was structured to stay below the reporting threshold on its own. It was only when you mapped them across all the front businesses over the full timeframe that the pattern became clear.”

“How did the evidence hold up at trial?” Jason asked.

“Solidly. The chain of custody was clean from the moment those ledgers were seized during a raid on Torrino’s accountant’s office. We had the search warrant, the seizure log, the forensic accounting analysis, as well as testimony from the FBI forensic accountant who authenticated the documents.” Halloway tapped the edge of his desk in a small, unconscious gesture. “The defense challenged some of the financial materials during trial. They argued that the ledgers were incomplete or could be interpreted differently. But the judge ruled in favor of the prosecution on every significant motion, and those rulings held up on appeal.”

“And what about you? Did you have any concerns about the integrity of the evidence?” Allie asked, watching his face.

Halloway met her eyes without hesitation. “None at all. Everything was properly documented. I reviewed those ledgers personally, line by line, before they were entered into evidence. The numbers were consistent with the bank records, the business filings, and the testimony of our cooperating witnesses.” He smoothed the front of his cardigan with one hand. “I’ve been a prosecutor for twenty-three years, Agent Bishop. I know what fabricated evidence looks like, and these ledgers were the real thing.”

Allie believed him. Not because prosecutors were inherently trustworthy, but because Halloway’s certainty felt like someone who had done the work himself rather than delegating it. His answers were specific, grounded in the mechanics of the case rather than broad reassurances.

“Was there anything about the Torrino prosecution that struck you as unusual?’ Jason asked. “Anything that didn’t sit right, even in hindsight?”

Halloway considered the question. “The Torrino case was the biggest thing most of us had ever worked on. So you can imagine that the pressure was enormous, and the stakes were real. People in that organization had killed before, and they would have killed again. So, no, nothing struck me as unusual. We were careful because we had to be. We documented everything, researched every motion, and every witness was prepared. Tom ran a tight ship.” He paused, and Allie thought she saw a hint of grief. “He was meticulous about that.”

The hum of the building’s ventilation was the only sound as the office fell quiet for a moment. When Halloway spoke again, his voice had changed, now softer and more reflective.

“When I was twelve years old, my uncle lost everything. A con man came through our town running a Ponzi-like scheme, and my uncle invested his life savings. Every dollar he had.” He shook his head. “The man disappeared before anyone could hold him accountable. He just packed up and vanished. My uncle never did recover. He lost his house, his retirement, his dignity. He spent the last years of his life living in my parents’ basement, and he never talked about it, not once. The shame ate him alive.”

Allie watched Halloway’s hands. His knuckles had gone pale. His gaze had moved to a point beyond them, somewhere past the bookshelves and the stacked case files, back to a town and a family and a loss that had never fully let him go. After a moment, he blinked.

“That experience is the reason I went to law school,” he continued. “Not because I wanted to make money or build a career. Because I wanted to hold people accountable, especially the ones who think they’re too smart or too powerful to face consequences.” He looked directly at Allie. “Working the Torrino case was one of the most meaningful experiences of my career. We put away a man who had terrorized entire communities for decades and thought he was untouchable. I don’t regret a single day I spent on that prosecution.”

“Thank you for sharing that,” Jason said. “And thank you for your time today.”

Halloway nodded. “I wish I could give you more. If I think of anything else, I’ll call.”

Allie stood and held his gaze. “Mr. Halloway, we need you to take the security protocols seriously. Please follow every instruction the marshals give you. I’m sure they’ve already explained it to you, but until we can get to the bottom of this, your life could be in danger.”

Halloway glanced at the photograph on the credenza, at the smiling faces of his wife and son. The academic softness in his demeanor had hardened into resolve. “I understand,” he said. “I have every reason to be careful.”

In the hallway, the marshal resumed her position as Halloway’s door closed behind them. The agents moved down the hall, where Jason pressed the button for the elevator. “He’s clean.”