By the time Ethan Marino says my name, the entire lecture hall has already turned to look at me.
“Ava Rossi’s argument,” he says smoothly, “rests on a misreading of the evidentiary record. Again.”
The word again drops like a coin in a jar. They’re all waiting to see if I’ll shatter it.
I’m halfway up the stairs, still in my coat, coffee burning my palm. First week of term, first session of Advanced Evidence, and Professor Bennett has already thrown us the grenade: the decade-old treason case, the one that ended a war and killed my father. I should have been ready for Ethan. I’m always ready for Ethan.
I force my legs the rest of the way to my usual seat, third row from the back, edge aisle—perfect angle to see him and not see him.
He’s standing during question period, tall, unfairly put together in a navy blazer and an expression like this is all mildly boring. Marino face, law-school edition. A couple of 1Ls craning in the doorway whisper his name like it’s a brand.
Professor Bennett leans back on the edge of her desk, arms folded. “Specifics, Mr. Marino.”
Ethan doesn’t look at her. He looks directly at me.
“Ms. Rossi argued that the anonymous informant’s testimony was the linchpin for the prosecution’s theory of Russian interference.” His voice is even, carrying to the back. “But the authenticated cables in Exhibit L contradict that timeline. If she’d followed the chain of custody, she’d see that.”
My shoulders go rigid. I have followed the chain of custody. I know every page of that file like it’s scripture and blasphemy at once.
I make myself unbutton my coat, slow. “If Mr. Marino had actually read the authenticated cables, instead of just admiring the embossed seal on the cover, he’d know they were logged four days after the informant’s first interview.”
A low ripple moves through the room. They love this. Our feud is free theater with footnotes.
Bennett’s gaze flicks between us, sharp as a scalpel. “Show us, Ms. Rossi.”
Of course she does this. I set my coffee down, step down the row to the aisle. My boots click too loudly on the steps as I descend, heart beating against my ribs, hot and inconvenient.
The screen at the front shows the digital image of Exhibit L. I don’t need it. It might as well be burned into the backs of my eyes. Still, I take the laser pointer from the podium and circle a small block of text on the projection.
“Page sixty-three,” I say. “Log entry by Special Counsel Hart. ‘Cables received and authenticated following preliminary debrief with C.I. — see Interview 1A.’ Which occurred on March seventeenth.” I glance over my shoulder at him. “The cables can’t undermine a testimony that predates them. Unless Mr. Marino has invented time travel in addition to legacy admissions.”
Someone chokes on a laugh; someone else makes the low ooooh sound you only hear in classrooms and schoolyards.
Ethan’s jaw tightens just enough for me to notice. “You’re assuming the informant wasn’t coached before the official debrief,” he replies. “Which is, at best, generous. At worst, naive.”
“Careful.” I let the pointer rest on the word authenticated. “If you suggest the prosecution manufactured consistency between the informant’s statement and foreign intelligence, you’re calling the peace agreement into question. And I thought Marinos liked the peace.”
