Page 53 of The Guilty Trial

Marze absorbed this with his jaw set, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond the conference room. “This is damning. But we need to be careful. Accusing federal prosecutors of conspiracy isn’t something we do without bulletproof evidence. I want forensic analysis of the actual trial exhibits. Get the originals if they’re still in evidence storage, and have our people examine them.” He turned to Mia. “Pull the original defense motions from the trial. I want to see every concern the defense raised, every challenge they filed, and how the prosecution responded.”

“On it, boss.”

“Either way,” Jason nearly growled, “both Halloway and Park lied to us. We sat across from them, asked them direct questions, and they looked us in the eye and gave us nothing. They knew what they did during that trial, and they chose to keep it buried.” He shook his head in disdain. “These are people in the AG’s office. They’re supposed to be on our side.”

Allie understood his anger because she shared it. The unspoken contract between law enforcement and prosecution was built on the assumption that everyone was working toward the same goal with the same integrity. When that contract was violated, it corroded everything it touched.

Marze held up a hand. “I hear you. But I want to be strategic about this. We don’t press Park again. Not yet. Let her sit with whatever she thinks we know, and we’ll come back to her when we’ve got more leverage.” He made a note on the pad in front of him. “I’m going to contact Reeves and caution him to stay sharp on Park’s protective detail. If she’s part of this conspiracy, and she realizes we’re getting close, she could become unpredictable. And with her involvement, she’s probably a target herself. Either way, Reeves needs to know what we’re dealing with.”

“What about tracking down more of the trial witnesses?” Allie asked. “If Park coached Delgado and Nguyen, she probably did the same with others. We need to know if the pattern of coercion was widespread or limited to a few key testimonies.”

Marze looked toward the analysts. “Brandy, Mia, start pulling the witness list from the trial and locating as many of them as you can. Cross-reference current addresses and contact information.”

Brandy nodded in reply. “We’ll get on it immediately.”

Mia was already scrolling through something on her screen. “I can pull the witness roster from the archived files. Some of them are going to be hard to find after this long, but we’ll track down who we can.”

“I think there’s someone else we should talk to.” Allie glanced at her notes, then looked up. “Donatella Torrino is Sal’s daughter and the only family member who isn’t dead or in prison. If anyone has a perspective on what happened to that family and why, she does.”

Mia tilted her head. “From what I’ve pulled together on the Torrino family, Donatella broke away from them years ago, well before the trial. She moved to New York City to work in fashion and seemed to want nothing to do with the family business.” Her fingers flew over her keyboard, and she leaned closer to her screen. “But here’s something interesting. She moved back to Tacoma right before the trial started. And she never went back to New York.”

“She’s still in the area?” Jason asked.

Mia nodded. “Olympia. She owns a small fashion boutique there. Looks like she’s been running it for a few years.”

“Then we should pay her a visit,” Allie said. “If the prosecution fabricated evidence to convict her father, Donatella may know more than anyone about the impact that had on the family.”

Marze surveyed the room. “All right. Brandy and Mia, you’ve got the defense appeals and the witnesses. Allie and Jason, set up a meeting with Donatella Torrino.” He stood. “We need to move fast.”

The meeting broke apart as everyone pushed back from the table and dispersed. Allie stayed behind for a moment, standing alone in the conference room with the whiteboard timeline on one wall and case files stacked along the other. She never would have imagined at the beginning of all this where the facts would lead her.

The evidence was accumulating in two distinct directions now. One trail led toward a killer who branded federal officials with exhibit numbers from a trial that had defined their careers. The other trail led toward the trial itself, toward the possibility that the prosecution team had built their landmark case on a foundation of lies and coerced testimony. Was it really true that people with combined decades of honestly fighting for justice had been willing to sacrifice it all to secure a conviction for one of the most wanted men in this part of the country?

She hoped the answer was a resounding no, but from where she was standing right now she wasn’t willing to bet on it.

Chapter Thirty

Maison Claire Boutique

Olympia, Washington

The boutique occupied a narrow storefront on a quiet stretch of downtown Olympia, its facade painted a muted dove gray with the name Maison Claire lettered in gold across the glass. A single mannequin stood in the window display, dressed in an ivory wrap coat that probably cost more than Jason’s new mortgage payment.

Jason held the door, and a soft chime announced their arrival. European garments hung on minimalist chrome racks amid warm accent lighting that made every fabric look like it belonged in a magazine spread. The air carried the faint scent of bergamot and cedar.

A slender woman emerged from behind a glass display case near the register. Her dark hair swept back from sharp, angular features, and she moved with fluid confidence. Her outfit was impeccable: a tailored slate blazer over a cream silk blouse tucked into high-waisted trousers.

“Welcome to Maison Claire.” Her voice was warm without being overly familiar. “Can I help you find something?”

The woman’s expression didn’t change as Allie introduced the two of them. She exhibited no widening of the eyes, no tension in the jaw, no involuntary glance toward the exit. She regarded the badge with the same disinterest she might have given a business card.

“We’re looking for Donatella Romano.” Allie informed her.

“That’s me.” She turned to a younger woman arranging scarves on a display table near the wall. “Sophie, would you mind the floor for a bit? I need to step into the back.”

Sophie nodded without question, and Donatella led them through a curtained doorway into a small office. The space was tidy and functional, with a glass-topped desk, a laptop, and a few framed photographs of runway shows on the walls. She gestured to two upholstered chairs and settled into her own seat behind the desk, crossing one leg over the other and folding her hands in her lap.

“What is it I can do for you?”