Chapter One
The file on Danielle Torres's desk was three inches thick and represented, by the prosecution's estimation, an airtight case. Her client, Marcus Webb, was accused of murdering a prominent real estate developer in a parking garage. The state had DNA evidence, security footage, a recovered weapon with fingerprints, and two eyewitnesses. It was the kind of case that public defenders triaged into the plea-bargain pile without a second glance, because fighting it was expensive, exhausting, and almost certainly futile.
Danielle should have pled him out. Her caseload was already crushing — forty-seven active cases, each one a person whose freedom depended on the hours she could not spare. But Marcus Webb sat across from her in the consultation room with the steady, empty calm of a man who had accepted something terrible, and he said, "I did not do this. I know what the evidence says. I know you have no reason to believe me. But I was not there, and I need someone to care enough to find out why all the evidence says I was."
She took the case file home that night and began reading it the way she had been trained — not looking for what the evidence proved, but for what it assumed. By two in the morning, she had found the first seam. The DNA sample and the fingerprints had been processed by the same lab technician, which was standard. But they had been submitted by different detectives