Page 33 of The Guilty Trial

Lindstrom's brow furrowed slightly. “Over a hundred, I think. Why?”

“I'm interested in specific exhibits. Fourteen and thirty-five.”

Lindstrom reached for her laptop, angling it so they could both see the screen. Her fingers moved quickly over the keyboard, pulling up trial records. She scrolled through a spreadsheet.

“Exhibit fourteen,” she said after a moment. “That was a set of billing invoices from one of the medical practices. It's standard fraud evidence, including inflated charges, duplicate billing, that kind of thing.”

“Anything controversial about those invoices specifically?”

“Not that I recall. They were part of the larger pattern, but nothing stood out.” Lindstrom scrolled further. “Exhibit thirty-five was patient consent forms. Again, routine. The prosecution used them to show the procedures billed for didn't match what patients actually consented to.”

Allie leaned back in her chair. A low creep of frustration was beginning to build. “Were either of those exhibits particularly significant to the outcome of the case?”

“No.” Lindstrom closed the laptop. “They were pieces of a much larger puzzle, but neither was a smoking gun. If you're looking for a case where those exhibit numbers held major weight, this probably isn't it.”

The words settled between them like stones. Allie had hoped for a connection, something that would tie Sterling and Vance to specific evidence that might have motivated revenge. But if the exhibits were routine, if the case itself was clean...

“Could the exhibits have been fabricated?” Allie asked, though she already suspected the answer.

“I never found evidence of that,” Lindstrom told her. “And believe me, we looked. When you're defending fraud charges, you scrutinize every document. If something had been forged or tampered with, we would have caught it.”

Allie’s mind was already moving to the next question. “Did any of the defendants claim they were set up? That someone planted evidence or falsified records?”

“A few made noise about being scapegoats, sure. But none of them had proof. And when you're looking at years in federal prison, people say a lot of things.” Lindstrom's expression softened slightly. “I know this isn't what you wanted to hear, Agent Bishop. But whoever killed Sterling and Judge Vance, I don't think it was one of my clients. And I don't think it had anything to do with this case.”

Allie closed her notebook, though her thoughts were still churning. Lindstrom's assessment made sense; white-collar criminals rarely turned violent, and the case itself seemed straightforward. She quickly reviewed their conversation in her mind. Something Lindstrom said stuck out.

“One more question,” Allie said. “You mentioned Sterling was aggressive. Did he have enemies? People who felt he crossed a line?”

Lindstrom looked out the window as she considered it. “Sterling made enemies the way most prosecutors do—by winning. But I never heard anything specific. He was tough, but he wasn't dirty.” She paused. “Whoever did this had a lot of guts, going after an Assistant Attorney General and a federal judge. That takes more than anger. It takes conviction.”

Conviction. The word echoed in Allie's mind as she stood, extending her hand. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Lindstrom. If you think of anything else, please call me.”

Lindstrom walked her to the door. “I hope you find whoever did this. Sterling and Vance deserved better.”

Chapter Eighteen

Foster’s Auto Sales

Tacoma, Washington

The cramped apartment filled Jason's mind as he drove away. Gerald and Susan Kowalski had greeted him with fresh coffee and warm cookies, their hospitality as genuine as it was heartbreaking. They'd lost everything to Richard Calder's Ponzi scheme, investing their retirement savings and even the modest home they paid off across thirty years. Now they lived in a two-bedroom with water-stained ceilings and windows that didn't quite close, surviving on Social Security checks that barely covered rent.

Framed photographs lined the walls. Grandchildren, Jason guessed, their faces frozen in better times. A wedding portrait hung near the door, showing a younger Gerald and Susan in front of a white clapboard church, both of them beaming with hope that assumed a kind and welcoming future.

Calder had stolen more than money. He'd stolen their lives.

But, surprisingly, the Kowalskis hadn't been bitter. Not toward Sterling, anyway. And not toward Judge Vance.

“Mr. Sterling was a blessing,” Susan had said, her hands folded in her lap like she was in church. “He fought for us when nobody else would. He made sure we were heard.”

Gerald nodded along. His hand found Susan's on the armrest between them, and she held it without looking. “Judge Vance listened to every one of us during the victim statements. Looked us in the eye. You could tell it mattered to him. He didn't just go through the motions.”

Then Susan's expression had shifted, and grief settled over her features like a shadow. “When we saw the news about Mr. Sterling, we couldn't believe it. It’s such a terrible thing. And then Judge Vance too.” She shook her head slowly. “We wanted to send flowers or something, but we didn't know where. It didn't seem right to do nothing.”

Jason had listened, taking notes he didn't need, because the couple deserved to be heard again. They spoke about the trial with a mixture of relief and exhaustion, recounting how Sterling had walked them through the process, explaining legal terms they didn't understand, and preparing them for what to expect. They appreciated how patient Judge Vance had been during sentencing, acknowledging the depth of their loss without making it feel performative.

The couple's grace had struck Jason harder than their circumstances. They'd been victims twice over—first by Calder, then by whoever had killed the people who'd secured them justice.