The federal courthouse in Westford was a granite edifice on Marshall Street, built in 1932 by the Works Progress Administration and designed to intimidate. Its columns rose four stories above the sidewalk, its steps were worn smooth by a century of footsteps, and its courtrooms had witnessed some of the most consequential legal battles in the history of the state. On a gray morning in late November, Courtroom 7B was filled to capacity for the first time since the Giannotti racketeering trial of 1999. The benches were packed with journalists, legal observers, and a scattering of curious citizens who had read about the case in the newspapers and wanted to see the infamous Sal Rienzi with their own eyes.
Diane Calder stood at the defense table, her silver hair gleaming under the fluorescent lights, her posture straight and composed. Beside her sat Sal Rienzi, wearing a gray suit that had been tailored for him before his arrest and now hung slightly loose on his diminished frame. He looked older than he had at his arraignment—the weeks in detention had hollowed his cheeks and deepened the lines around his eyes—but his gaze was still sharp, still watchful, still calculating every angle of the proceedings.
At the prosecution table, Assistant U.S. Attorney Elena Márquez arranged her exhibits with the precision of a woman who understood that the success of her case depended not on rhetoric but on the meticulous presentation of evidence. The laminated I-40 forms were stacked in a neat pile beside her laptop. The recording of Anton Ferrano and Sal Rienzi was cued up on a portable speaker. And on a separate table, covered with a black cloth, sat a single document that had been admitted into evidence only that morning: the ledger from the vault in the Ferrano estate basement, its leather cover cracked with age, its pages yellowed and brittle.
Judge Marguerite Chenault presided over the courtroom with the quiet authority of a woman who had been on the federal bench for twenty-three years and had seen every variation of human frailty that the law could name. She was Black, in her late sixties, with reading glasses perched on the end of her nose and a voice that could freeze a prosecutor mid-sentence with a single, softly spoken word. She had presided over corruption cases, civil rights cases, and one memorable antitrust trial that had lasted fourteen months. She had never presided over a case quite like this one.
"Ms. Calder," Judge Chenault said, "you have filed a motion to suppress the state I-40 forms on the grounds that they are preempted by federal law. I've read your brief. I've read the prosecution's response. I'm prepared to hear oral arguments. You have twenty minutes."
Diane Calder rose from the defense table. She walked to the podium with the measured stride of a lawyer who had argued before the Supreme Court twice and had never lost a preemption case. The argument she was about to make was technically complex, legally ambitious, and—if successful—potentially devastating to the prosecution's case.
"Your Honor, the defendant, Mr. Rienzi, is charged with identity theft based on information contained in state I-40 wage reporting forms. These forms, which are filed with the state Department of Revenue, require employers to list the names and Social Security numbers of their employees. The prosecution argues that because Mr. Rienzi's name and Social Security number appear on these forms as a ghost employee of Ferrano Holdings, he is complicit in the identity theft scheme."
She paused, letting the silence build. "But there is a fundamental legal problem with this argument. The federal Immigration Reform and Nationalization Act—known as IRNA—contains an express preemption clause. That clause states, and I quote, 'No state may use any information contained in an employment eligibility verification form for any purpose other than the enforcement of immigration law.' The Social Security numbers that appear on the state I-40 forms are the same Social Security numbers that appear on the federal E-Verify forms. The information is identical. And under the plain language of IRNA, the state is barred from using that information for any purpose other than immigration enforcement—including a prosecution for identity theft."
Elena Márquez was on her feet before Calder had finished speaking. "Objection, Your Honor. Ms. Calder is mischaracterizing the scope of the preemption clause. The I-40 forms are state documents, required by state law, filed with a state agency. They exist independently of the federal E-Verify system. The fact that they contain some of the same information as the federal forms does not mean that the state is barred from using its own documents in a criminal prosecution."
"Ms. Márquez," Judge Chenault said, "you'll have your turn. Let Ms. Calder finish."
Diane Calder nodded. "Your Honor, the prosecution's argument ignores the plain text of the statute. IRNA does not say that the state is barred from using the federal forms. It says the state is barred from using any information contained in the federal forms. The distinction is crucial. If an employer writes a Social Security number on a federal E-Verify form, and then writes the same Social Security number on a state tax form, the information on the state form is still information that is contained in the federal form. The preemption clause applies to the information itself, not to the physical document on which it is written."
She walked back to the defense table and picked up a sheaf of papers. "I would direct the Court's attention to the Supreme Court's decision in Kansas v. Garcia, 140 S. Ct. 1190, decided on March 3, 2020. In that case, the Court held that IRNA's preemption clause does not bar a state from prosecuting identity theft based on information contained in state tax forms, even when the same information appears on federal employment verification forms. The Court reasoned that the state forms are independent legal requirements, and that the state has a legitimate interest in enforcing its own tax and fraud laws."
She paused again. "However, the Kansas v. Garcia decision was a five-to-four ruling. The four dissenting justices argued that the majority's interpretation eviscerated the preemption clause and opened the door for states to circumvent federal immigration law by simply creating parallel state-level requirements. The dissent, written by Justice Breyer, noted that the majority's reasoning would allow states to use information from federal forms for any purpose, as long as they could find a state-level justification for collecting the same information."
Diane Calder set down the papers. "Your Honor, the legal landscape has shifted since Kansas v. Garcia. Two years ago, in United States v. Carrington, the Fourth Circuit held that the preemption clause does apply when the state's use of the information is 'inextricably intertwined' with the federal form. The Carrington test asks whether the state would have the information at all if not for the federal requirement. And in this case, the answer is clearly no. Ferrano Holdings collected Social Security numbers because federal law required it to do so. The state I-40 forms simply replicated information that originated with the federal E-Verify process. The information is inextricably intertwined with the federal form. Therefore, under Carrington, the state is preempted from using it."
Judge Chenault removed her glasses and polished them with a cloth. "Ms. Calder, you're asking me to apply the Fourth Circuit's Carrington test rather than the Supreme Court's Garcia test. What's your argument for why I should deviate from binding Supreme Court precedent?"
"Because Garcia was wrongly decided, Your Honor." A murmur rippled through the courtroom. Diane Calder did not flinch. "The Garcia majority relied on a formalistic distinction between federal forms and state forms that ignores the practical reality of how employment verification works. An employer does not independently generate Social Security numbers for its state tax filings. It copies them from the federal forms. The information is the same. The source is the same. The only difference is the piece of paper on which the information is recorded. And IRNA's preemption clause was designed to prevent exactly this kind of end-run around federal immigration law."
She stepped back from the podium. "The defense respectfully requests that the Court suppress all state I-40 forms and any evidence derived from them, on the grounds that their use in this prosecution is preempted by federal law. Without the I-40 forms, the prosecution cannot prove that Mr. Rienzi was listed as a ghost employee. Without proof of ghost employment, the identity theft charges collapse. And without the identity theft charges, the remaining counts—wire fraud and money laundering—are unsupported by the evidence."
Judge Chenault nodded slowly. "Ms. Márquez, the Court will hear from you now."
Elena Márquez rose and walked to the podium. She had anticipated this argument. She had spent the past week preparing her response, reviewing the relevant case law, and consulting with the appellate division of the Justice Department. The laminated forms on the table beside her laptop were not just evidence—they were a symbol of what was at stake in this hearing. If the Court suppressed them, the case against Sal Rienzi would be gutted. The ghost payroll would remain unpunished. The dead children whose names had been stolen would remain voiceless.
"Your Honor, the defense's argument is creative, but it is not supported by binding precedent. The Supreme Court in Garcia explicitly rejected the argument that IRNA's preemption clause applies to state tax forms. The majority held that the federal prohibition on using information from the I-9 form does not prevent a state from using the same information when it appears on a separate, state-mandated document. The reasoning is straightforward: the state has an independent interest in collecting accurate wage reporting information, and that interest is not preempted by federal immigration law."
She picked up one of the laminated I-40 forms. "This is Exhibit 17-A. It is a state document, required by state law, filed with the state Department of Revenue. It was not submitted to the federal government. It was not used for immigration enforcement. It was used to report wages for state tax purposes. The fact that the Social Security numbers on this form also appear on federal E-Verify forms is irrelevant under Garcia. The state is entitled to enforce its own laws using its own documents."
Elena set down the form. "The Fourth Circuit's Carrington decision is not binding on this Court. It is a circuit split, not a settled rule of law. And even under Carrington, the test is whether the state would have the information independently of the federal form. In this case, the state requires employers to file I-40 forms regardless of whether they also file federal E-Verify forms. The state's requirement exists independently. The information would exist independently. The fact that an employer chooses to use the same Social Security numbers on both forms is a matter of convenience, not of legal compulsion."
Judge Chenault leaned forward. "Ms. Márquez, what do you say to the argument that the state's use of this information undermines the purpose of the federal preemption clause? IRNA was designed to encourage employers to comply with federal immigration verification without fear that the information would be used against them in state prosecutions. If states can simply create parallel requirements and use the same information, doesn't that defeat the purpose of the federal statute?"
"Your Honor, the purpose of the federal statute is to regulate immigration, not to provide a safe harbor for identity theft. The Supreme Court in Garcia recognized this distinction. The preemption clause was intended to prevent states from using the I-9 form for immigration enforcement. It was not intended to prevent states from enforcing their own criminal laws against fraud and identity theft. If the Court accepts the defense's argument, it would create a loophole that would allow anyone who commits identity theft on a federal form to escape state prosecution simply by copying the same information onto a state form. That is not what Congress intended."
Diane Calder rose for her rebuttal. "Your Honor, the prosecution's argument proves too much. If the state can prosecute identity theft based on information that originated with a federal form, simply because the information was copied onto a state form, then the preemption clause is meaningless. Every employer in the country copies Social Security numbers from federal forms to state forms. It is standard business practice. Under the prosecution's reasoning, the state could prosecute any employer for any crime using information that IRNA explicitly says cannot be used. That is the loophole, Your Honor—not the defense's argument, but the prosecution's."
She paused, letting her words settle over the courtroom. "The defense is not arguing that identity theft is protected by federal law. We are arguing that the state must prove identity theft using evidence that is not preempted. If the prosecution has independent evidence of fraud—witness testimony, financial records, documentation that does not originate with the federal E-Verify system—it is free to use that evidence. But it cannot use the I-40 forms, because the information on those forms is information contained in a federal employment verification form, and IRNA says it cannot be used."
Judge Chenault was silent for a long moment. The courtroom was so quiet that Elena could hear the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. She looked at the laminated forms on her table, at the names of the dead children preserved in plastic, at the Social Security numbers that had been stolen from county records and used to build an empire. She thought about Mary Colson, who had lived for nineteen days. She thought about Thomas Eckhardt, who had lived for forty-one days. She thought about Dominic Ferrano, who had lived for one day and whose name had been used by his own father to launder money through a ghost payroll.
"Ms. Márquez," Judge Chenault said finally, "I'm inclined to deny the motion to suppress. The Supreme Court's decision in Garcia is binding on this Court. Whatever the merits of the Carrington test, I am not free to disregard Supreme Court precedent based on a circuit split. The I-40 forms are state documents, required by state law, and the state has an independent interest in enforcing its fraud statutes. The motion is denied."
Diane Calder did not react. She had expected this ruling—had prepared for it, had already drafted the notice of interlocutory appeal that she would file within the hour. The argument had always been a long shot, a legal gambit designed not to win at the district court level but to create an issue for appeal. If the appellate court adopted the Carrington test, the I-40 forms would be suppressed, and the case would collapse. If it didn't, she would find another argument. There were always more arguments.
"Your Honor," she said, "the defense respectfully requests certification of the preemption question for interlocutory appeal under 28 U.S.C. 1292(b). The question involves a controlling issue of law as to which there is substantial ground for difference of opinion, and an immediate appeal may materially advance the ultimate termination of the litigation."
Judge Chenault considered the request. "Ms. Márquez, any objection?"
Elena stood. "The prosecution objects, Your Honor. An interlocutory appeal would delay the trial by months, potentially years. Mr. Rienzi is a danger to the community, and the evidence against him is substantial. The public interest favors a speedy resolution of this case."
"The public interest also favors getting the law right," Judge Chenault replied. "I'll certify the question. The trial is stayed pending the outcome of the appeal. Ms. Calder, you have thirty days to file your brief with the Fourth Circuit."
She struck her gavel, and the courtroom erupted in murmurs. Journalists typed furiously on their phones. Legal observers exchanged predictions about how the appellate court would rule. Sal Rienzi was led back to the holding cell, his face unreadable, his gray eyes fixed on some distant point that only he could see.
Elena gathered her exhibits slowly, placing each laminated form back into its evidence box. The stay would delay the trial for months. The appellate court might reverse Judge Chenault's ruling, or it might not. Either way, the case was now in limbo, suspended between the district court and the circuit court, between the Garcia test and the Carrington test, between the law as it was and the law as it might become.
And somewhere in the detention center, Vincent Ferrano was waiting. Waiting for the jurisdictional gamble to play out. Waiting to learn whether the evidence that could free him would be admitted or suppressed. Waiting for the day when he could look at the laminated forms—the forms that bore his dead brother's name, his dead brother's Social Security number, his father's meticulous catalogue of stolen identities—and finally understand whether the law would serve justice or bury it.
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