Page 54 of The Guilty Trial

Allie studied her for a moment before responding. Donatella Torrino, now Romano, was strikingly beautiful in a way that was more severe than soft, with high cheekbones and steady, dark eyes.

“We’re investigating the murders of several prosecutors and a judge who were involved in a federal RICO case five years ago,” Allie said. “Your father’s case.”

Donatella’s expression remained composed, though something shifted in the depth of her eyes. “I’ve seen the news coverage. It’s been hard to miss. I’m not sure how I can help, though.”

Jason tugged on a cuff and shifted on his seat. “We’re talking to everyone connected to the original trial. Getting a full picture of the case and the people involved.”

“I understand. Ask what you need to ask.”

“Can you tell us about your relationship with your father?” Allie began.

Donatella considered the question. “I’m not sure how this is relevant to anything. However, after the verdict, I spoke with him once. It was a phone call. He told me what he’d been telling everyone who would listen, that the evidence was fabricated and the prosecutors had manufactured pieces of their case to guarantee a conviction.” She lifted one shoulder in a controlled shrug. “I heard him out. After that, I never visited him in prison. I had already spent years trying to build something separate from my family’s reputation, and I needed to protect what was left of it.”

“Did you think he was guilty?” Jason asked.

Donatella met his gaze directly. “My father was involved in organized crime, Agent King. Guilt was never a question. The question was whether the trial that convicted him was conducted fairly.” She let the distinction settle before continuing. “He believed the government wanted to put him away so badly they cut some corners to do it. Whether that rises to fabrication, I couldn’t say with certainty.”

“You attended the trial,” Allie said.

“Every day.” Donatella’s voice held a quiet intensity. “I sat in the gallery and took detailed notes. I watched the prosecution build their case piece by piece, and I watched the defense try to push back against a machine that had already decided the outcome.”

“What specifically concerned you?”

Donatella's gaze drifted to the framed photographs on the wall, but her eyes were focused somewhere beyond them. “Several things. The murder weapon appeared very late in the discovery process. Witness testimony shifted between depositions and the actual trial, becoming more detailed, more damaging, and more perfectly aligned with the prosecution’s narrative. Financial records that supposedly proved money laundering seemed too clean, too convenient.” She looked back at Allie. “The defense raised objections at every turn, and Judge Vance dismissed them all.”

“Did you pursue any of these concerns after the trial?” Jason asked.

“I hired private investigators and spent a considerable amount of money trying to find concrete proof that the evidence had been tampered with.” Donatella’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. “They found a few inconsistencies and loose threads, but nothing that would hold up in court. Eventually, I had to accept reality. My family was destroyed, and my father was never coming home. The Torrino name was poison, and everything I had built in New York was ruined because of the association.” She spread her hands, a gesture of reluctant acceptance. “So I moved here, changed my last name, and started over.”

The simplicity of the statement belied years of grief, and Allie found herself noting the careful way Donatella separated emotion from narrative. She was articulate, someone who had rehearsed her own story enough times that the pain had been folded neatly into the telling.

“I need to ask you about specific dates,” Allie said. “For the record, can you account for your whereabouts on October twelfth, October sixteenth, and November first?”

Donatella didn’t hesitate. “October twelfth was a Friday. I was here at the boutique all day. We had a trunk show event with a designer from Milan that weekend, and there should be security camera footage from the store if you need it.” She picked up her phone and scrolled the calendar. “As for October sixteenth, I was at dinner with a friend, Claire Marchetti, here in Olympia. She can confirm. November first I was again here at the shop, and I hosted an evening reception for a local arts council.” She tilted her head slightly. “Am I a suspect, Agent Bishop?”

“We’re speaking with everyone who has a connection to the case,” Allie said evenly.

Donatella held her focus for a long moment before nodding. “Fair enough. I am not interested in revenge. Revenge is a family tradition I never inherited. I’ve spent the last five years trying to put as much distance between my father’s and my brother’s crimes as I can. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful than that.”

“You mentioned taking detailed notes during the proceedings. Would you be willing to share those with us?”

“Of course.” Donatella stood and crossed to a filing cabinet in the corner of the office. She pulled open the second drawer and removed a thick binder with a dark leather cover. “I kept everything. Dates, testimony summaries, my own observations about contradictions I noticed.” She placed the folder on the desk between them. “If it helps you understand what happened during that trial, you’re welcome to it.”

Allie picked it up and felt its heft. Hundreds of pages, organized with tabs and color-coded dividers. Whatever else Donatella was, she was thorough.

“One more thing,” Donatella said as they moved toward the door. Her voice had lost its measured quality and taken on something closer to raw conviction. “Whoever is killing these prosecutors is making a statement that people should pay attention to. I hope you catch them. But I also hope the truth comes out about what happened. Those two things don’t have to be mutually exclusive.”

Allie met her eyes. “We appreciate your time, Ms. Romano.”

Donatella held the curtain aside as they passed back through the boutique. Sophie glanced up from behind the register and offered a polite smile. The chime sounded again as Allie pushed through the front door and stepped into the cool November air.

“So what’s your read?” Jason asked as he started the Charger.

She turned the leather binder over in her hands, running her thumb along the edge of the pages. “She’s put a lot of work into this.” She placed the folder on the seat between them and glanced at her phone. “What struck me was her take on the proceedings. She echoed almost everything her father’s lawyer told us. Carmichael raised objections to the same things—the late evidence, the shifting witness testimony, and Vance shutting down every defense motion.”

Jason merged into traffic and accelerated past a slow-moving truck. “That’s multiple sources now saying the same thing. It’s getting harder to write off as sour grapes.”

“If it’s all true, Vance may have been the one holding it all together,” Allie mused. She had been turning the thought over for the last twenty-four hours, and it was beginning to take a clearer shape. “He signed off on everything, right? He overruled every challenge the defense raised and allowed evidence that other judges might have questioned. If the prosecution’s case was built on fabricated evidence, Vance not only let it happen, he also lent it credibility.” Her fingers drummed along her thighs. She checked her phone again.