The New York Police Department's Manhattan headquarters was a sprawling building that smelled like stale coffee and institutional despair. Willy stood in an interrogation room with Rosie, separated from her by reinforced glass and a table that seemed to emphasize the gulf between innocence and the system designed to grind innocence into dust.
Rosie's eyes were red from crying, but her expression was defiant. She had been arrested that morning at her apartment and brought in for questioning. The charges against her were so complex and so numerous that she had barely been able to understand them when they were read to her.
"I did not do anything wrong," Rosie said for what must have been the tenth time. "My application database is completely legitimate. Every piece of code, every algorithm
