Page 80 of The Guilty Trial

Chapter Forty-Six

FBI Field Office

Tacoma, Washington

Allie stood beside Marze on the glossy floor of the lobby with her arms straight at her sides, trying to look like she belonged in front of cameras. She felt besieged. The lobby had been rearranged to accommodate a makeshift podium, and every available inch of space behind the rope line was packed with reporters, camera operators, and sound technicians jostling for position. Three satellite trucks were parked outside on the street with their masts extended into the sky.

The story had gone national overnight.

Marze stood at the podium with his usual bearing. His shoulders were squared, his expression serious, his voice carrying through the room without effort. He spoke in the clipped, authoritative cadence that Allie had come to recognize as his public-facing mode.

A former federal evidence custodian named Arthur Pym had murdered four members of a federal prosecution team over the course of several weeks. His motive was to expose a conspiracy in which those officials had fabricated evidence to convict organized crime boss Sal Torrino in a RICO case five years prior. The killings had been methodical and targeted. Pym had branded each victim with the exhibit number corresponding to the fabricated evidence they had personally introduced at trial.

The room erupted with questions. Reporters called over each other and shot their hands up as their voices overlapped. Marze pointed to a woman in the front row.

“Can you confirm reports that the Torrino family was involved?”

“Donatella Torrino, the daughter of Salvatore Torrino, has been charged with conspiracy to commit murder and attempted murder. She manipulated Arthur Pym into carrying out the killings, then attempted to assassinate U.S. Attorney Elias Thorne herself.”

“Is Thorne alive?”

“Mr. Thorne is recovering from his injuries. I won't comment further on his condition.”

A man near the back raised his voice above the others. “What about the Torrino conviction? Will it be overturned?”

Marze's jaw tightened by a fraction. “The case remains under active investigation. I'm not in a position to comment on potential judicial proceedings. That decision won’t come out of this building.”

“Deputy U.S. Marshal Jake Reeves has been named in reports as a co-conspirator. Can you confirm he's in custody?”

“Both Donatella Torrino and Deputy U.S. Marshal Jake Reeves are in federal custody. That's all I can say at this time.”

More overlapping questions were hurled at him, but Marze held up a hand and thanked the room. Allie watched the reporters press forward as Marze stepped away from the podium and walked past her without a word. She fell into step beside him, and they moved through the security door and into the relative quiet of the hallway toward the bank of elevators.

Marze loosened his tie by half an inch. “I'd rather interview a hostile witness than do that again.”

“You and me both,” Allie said.

One of the elevators pinged, and they entered. She felt her boss studying her as they ascended. “I’m proud of you,” he finally said.

It startled Allie. She knew underneath his gruff exterior, Marze was a compassionate man, but he kept his stoic demeanor at the forefront.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

He gave her a quick nod and a small smile. The doors opened, and they stepped out, Marze continuing down the hall toward his office. Allie watched him for a moment, then turned in the other direction to find Jason. He was leaning against the wall outside the bullpen, reading something on his phone. He looked up when he heard her approaching.

“How'd it go out there?”

“Marze handled it. I stood there and tried not to blink too much.”

Jason pocketed his phone. “Reeves and his attorney are in Interview Two. You ready?”

“Let's go.”

Jake Reeves sat on the far side of the table. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. His face was drawn, and his eyes had the dull, hollowed aspect of a man who’d been running on adrenaline for weeks and had finally run out. His suit jacket hung on the back of the chair, and his shirt was wrinkled at the collar. The confidence she remembered from their first meeting at the U.S. Marshals Service office, his firm handshake and the assessing gaze—all of it was gone.

Beside him sat a sharp-eyed woman in her fifties with dark hair cut to her jawline and reading glasses dangling from a chain.

“I represent Deputy U.S. Marshal Reeves,” she said, without standing. “Before we begin, I want to be clear that my client is not making any statements today without clarity regarding the scope and nature of any potential agreement.”