by Paul Batista
There was a nasal intonation in Menachem Oz’s voice. “Let me ask you this, Mr. Rawls. You told us you couldn’t remember how many times you saw Ms. Richardson in the month before her husband was killed, is that right?”
“I really can’t, Mr. Oz. That was two or three months ago, wasn’t it?”
Menachim Oz didn’t answer questions, he asked them. “And you can’t even give us an estimate, correct?”
“I just don’t remember, Mr. Oz. I don’t want to guess. My new book had just come out. I was traveling a lot. I told you that I can give you copies of my diary for those weeks. They show where I traveled.”
“We’ll get to those, Mr. Rawls. But what I want now is simply your best recollection.”
“Of what?”
“The number of times you saw Joan Richardson during those four or five weeks.”
“The weeks before Brad died?”
“Those weeks, Mr. Rawls.”
“Three times, four times, maybe six.”
“Did she travel with you?”
“During those weeks before her husband died?”
“Those weeks.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why absolutely, Mr. Rawls? Didn’t she travel with you to Paris just a week ago? You remember that, don’t you?”
That riveted Hank Rawls’s attention. How the hell would Menachem Oz know that? Hank toyed with the idea of asking for a recess so that he could leave the room and talk to his lawyer, Josephine Hart, in the hallway where she had been waiting just outside the locked Grand Jury room. He knew that Josephine, a black woman in her mid thirties and a former federal prosecutor, would tell him that there was nothing she or he could do and that he had to go back into the room alone and answer anything and everything that Menachem Oz asked him or risk being taken in front of any available judge to be threatened with contempt for refusing to answer a question. “The only way you can refuse to respond to a question,” Josephine had said in her languorous Southern accent, “is if you take the Fifth Amendment. You probably don’t want to take the Fifth.”
“Look, Mr. Oz, I know I didn’t travel with Mrs. Richardson in the four or five weeks before her husband died.”
“But you did travel with her before that period, correct?”
“I said that, Mr. Oz, a few minutes ago.”
“And after he died, isn’t that right?”
“Right.”
“To Paris, correct?”
“To Paris.”
Suddenly, as if on some cue, a woman in a black sweater and expensive black slacks entered the room. He assumed she was the lawyer whose name Joan had mentioned several times as “that Harding bitch.” The jurors obviously knew her: they continued to stare at him, not at Margaret Harding.
Without skipping a beat or glancing at Margaret, Menachem Oz asked, “Now you told us before our break that you were with Joan Richardson on the night Detective Halsey called her, correct?”
Hank shook his head as if to say an exasperated yes.
“Remember, Mr. Rawls, you have to answer with words.”
“Yes. The answer is yes. I said that already.”
“And you were with her during all that day, correct?”
“That’s right.”
Suddenly there was, Hank Rawls sensed, an even more rapt attention among the people in the room; a few of them whispered. And Margaret Harding leaned forward, anticipating something.
Joan Richardson, he now fully realized, had lied to these people about almost everything.
“Were you in her apartment that day?”
Hank took a sip of water from a steadily deteriorating paper cup. “I was.”
“From when to when?”
“Late morning to the time we left for a party.”
“How many hours?”
“Five, six, seven, I’m not certain.”
“Was anyone in the apartment with you?”
“No.”
“Did you make any cell phone calls in those hours?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Did she?”
“Not that I saw.”
“Did you use a computer?”
“No.”
“Did she?”
“I didn’t see that happen, Mr. Oz.”
“Do you have a BlackBerry or iPhone?”
“Of course. An iPhone. I couldn’t communicate with my five-year-old granddaughter unless I had one.”
Menachem Oz didn’t smile. “Did Mrs. Richardson use your iPhone during the day?”
“Mr. Oz, we weren’t there to make calls or send emails or text messages.”
“What did you do during those hours?”
“What do you think we did? Use your imagination.”
“What did you do during those hours?”
“Had sex. I made lunch for us. Then more sex.”
“How often?”
“Come on, Mr. Oz.”
“How often?”
“Five or six times. The miracle of Viagra.”
Even Menachem Oz smiled as some of the people in the Grand Jury laughed. “Did the two of you talk about Brad Richardson that day?”
“No, we didn’t.”
“When did you find out that Brad Richardson was dead?”
“That night, at the party in the museum.”
“How did you find out?”
“From Mrs. Richardson.”
“What did she say?”
“She said he was dead.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“That he was murdered.”
“Did she say when she found out?”
“No, but I assume while we were at the party. Clearly she didn’t know before that.”
“What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything, Mr. Oz. I didn’t know what to do. It’s way beyond the range of my experience in life to have a woman tell me that her husband had just been murdered.”
“How did she react?”
Hank Rawls waited. He was genuinely baffled, even annoyed, by the question. “She was upset, Mr. Oz. As you would expect. She loved her husband.”
“Did she cry?”
“No, Mr. Oz. Was she supposed to?”
“What happened next?”
“She left. She said she was going to East Hampton.”
“Did you go?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“What could I have done, Mr. Oz?”
Standing at the podium on which documents and an open bottle of Evian water were spread, Menachim Oz again flipped through the pad of yellow paper in front of him. The subject shifted as he asked, “How well did you know Brad Richardson?”
“Not well. He was a friendly man, somewhat shy, I thought.”
“Did he know you were having an affair with his wife?”
“Come on, Mr. Oz, how would I know that?”
“Did he know it?”
“I didn’t tell him.”
“Did Mrs. Richardson tell him?”
“Ask her.”
“It’s you I’m asking, Mr. Rawls.”
“I didn’t hear her tell him, if she did. What did she tell you?”
“Did she ever talk about divorcing Mr. Richardson?”
“Not to me. Did she, Mr. Oz?”
Like other men who had no sense of humor, Menachem Oz made it obvious when he took a stab at it. His voice was a shade higher as he said, “Remember, I get to ask the questions, Mr. Rawls.”
No one laughed.
But several people did laugh when Hank Rawls said, “So, is that what’s been going on here?”
“Mr. Rawls, do you know if Mr. Richardson had any affairs?”
“To be honest, I didn’t know Mr. Richardson well, but it seemed to me he didn’t take an interest in other people that way. So I don’t know the answer to your question. I never saw him in bed with anyone.”
After another interlude in which he shuffled the papers on the podium in front of him, Menachem Oz m
oved on to new territory. “What did you know about Juan Suarez?”
“He worked for Brad and Joan.”
“What kind of work?”
“All that I saw him do was greet people at parties.”
“Did Mrs. Richardson ever say anything about him?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“That he was an attractive man who was also very sweet and smart. And that he took good care of his family.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“Mr. Oz, I know it’s not politically correct to say this. But he was a servant, plainly an illegal immigrant, he wasn’t someone she mentioned often, and I never asked about him. I had no reason to.”
“Has she said anything about Juan Suarez since her husband died?”
“That she wishes she’d never seen him. She feels responsible for bringing him into their lives.”
“Did she tell you what his real name is?”
“Real name? Juan Suarez.”
“Did she ever use another name for him?”
“No.”
Menachem Oz spent at least a quiet minute at the podium, using a pencil to check off subjects he had covered. Hank hoped this was a signal that Oz was winding down.
“Mr. Rawls, did you ever have sex with Mrs. Richardson in a public place?”
“Repeat that, Mr. Oz. I can’t have heard that correctly.”
Oz was looking down at his notepad. “Did you ever have sex with Mrs. Richardson in a place where other people could see you?”
“Enough, Mr. Oz. That’s it. I’m not going to answer that.”
“You have to.”
“No.”
“Is that no, I didn’t?” Oz asked.
“No, as in no I won’t answer.”
“A judge will order you to do that or hold you in contempt.”
“Listen to me, sir. Let me keep it simple for you. I will not answer that.”
“We’ll see,” Oz said. He looked up from his notes. “Do you know a man named Trevor?”
“You mean any Trevor in the span of my entire life?”
“Since you met the Richardson?”
“I’m a well-known man, Mr. Oz. I’m not a private person. I meet many people every day. Some of them, maybe many of them, are named Trevor.”
“Did you ever see a man named Trevor with Mr. Richardson?”
Hank did remember a flamboyant man, undeniably gay, who had spent most of the last Fourth of July party with Brad. “I did, I think. If it’s the man I think it was, he was with Brad at the party.”
“The same Fourth of July party you attended with Mrs. Richardson?”
“Please, Mr. Oz. We’ve been over that party again and again and again. Nobody gave me a roster of who was there.”
“What is Trevor’s last name?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t introduced to him, Mr. Oz.”
There was less than a five-second lapse before Menachem Oz veered to yet another subject. “What plans do you and Mrs. Richardson have?”
Hank felt a sudden and vivid anger: he was tired, he was annoyed. “I don’t understand the question.”
“What plans do you and Mrs. Richardson have?”
“We talked about having dinner tonight.”
“How often have you talked about marriage?”
“You know, the only thing I remember from law school is that you need a foundation for a question.” He took a sip of water. “You’re assuming we discussed getting married. We didn’t.”
“How much money does Mrs. Richardson have?”
“More than God, I assume. At least that’s what the newspapers say. She doesn’t give me any of it. Hell, I pick up the check at dinner.”
“Did she ever tell you how much she inherited from Brad Richardson?”
“Let’s stop this game, Mr. Oz. I’m not stupid, sir. And the folks behind you aren’t either. So let me be clear—I didn’t conspire with Joan Richardson to kill her husband. We didn’t hire a hit man to kill her husband. I have no plans to marry Joan Richardson. And I never got a dime from Joan Richardson.”
“Are you finished, Mr. Rawls?”
Hank leaned forward in the witness chair. He sat back. He looked at Menachem Oz with his stony, cowboy gaze. “Are you, Mr. Oz?”
Menachem Oz said, “For today. We’ll let your lawyer know when you’re coming back.”
It was a drizzly afternoon when he left the grim, utilitarian Riverhead courthouse. The landscape was dreary and sad: bare wet trees, ramshackle houses, and rusted Toyotas and pick-up trucks parked on the streets. A wet, heavy snow had fallen two days earlier, quickly melted, and now made dirty streaks on the ground.
In that barren landscape, the only new object was the black Mercedes that Hank Rawls had summoned from his cell phone as soon as he walked out of the Grand Jury room. Just as he was about to slide into the car, he was suddenly surrounded by a group of reporters. He was blindsided by this. He had assumed that his appearance was a secret and that no one outside the DA’s office would know the date or place of the appearance of the legendary Hank Rawls before a Grand Jury.
Instinctively beaming that engaging smile that had made his life so easy from boyhood, he slipped into the back seat without saying a word. He was furious. He recognized the subtle hand of Raquel Rematti in the unexpected appearance of reporters, and he wanted to find a way to punish her. Joan Richardson, he now realized, had been right to hire private investigators to find something to discredit her, to intimidate her, even to drive her away from the case. Let’s find a way to make the bitch suffer, Joan had said. Yes, let’s, Hank now thought as he told Davey, “Don’t run anybody over, but get the fuck out of here.”
18.
Juan Suarez had faced so many changes in his life—the impoverished village where he was raised, the arid border between Mexico and Texas, the unbearable passage in the airless trailer (no water, no toilets) across half of America to the gigantic, strange streets of Manhattan—that, after the first weeks in solitary confinement, he managed to find a tense regularity in his new life. He was up at five each morning, well before the siren wailed, a sound that could wake the dead. He washed his face in the small basin in his cell, shaved, and dressed in the jumpsuit he kept as neat and smooth as he could. At first, food was passed to him through a slot. Eventually, as he was awarded small liberties, he was allowed to eat breakfast at a table with black and Hispanic men. Ordered not to speak with anyone, he swept and mopped floors until lunch. He spent the afternoons resting quietly in his cell. One of the guards gave him books in Spanish. Educated by Catholic nuns until the seventh grade, he was a slow but competent reader. One of the books was Don Quixote. As early as the third page, he was laughing out loud in his cell. He had never known books could be funny. By the end of each tedious day, he was usually asleep before the lights went out.
And there were the two hours every Tuesday and Thursday when he was let into the exercise yard along with dozens of other men. He learned to play basketball: the pleasure of the fast runs, the crafty passes, the graceful leaps. He had always been an instinctive, natural athlete. His basketball games were always with the black and Latino men.
And there were also the Friday visits from Raquel Rematti. Even at the first meeting Juan was at ease with her. They exchanged warm handshakes. Raquel wore tasteful suits, and Juan found that respectful. They often looked directly, calmly into each other’s eyes. After the first two visits, she had even started to kiss him quickly on the cheek when she left. He was looking forward to the day when he could give her a quick embrace. She was a shapely woman.
Juan eventually heard rumors—for there were always rumors at mealtimes, in the yard, in the communal weekly showers in the vast shower rooms—that Raquel was a “big, big” lawyer. He was sometimes asked how he had been linked up with a lawyer who, as one of the other prisoners said, was siempre on television and in the news. Once one of the prisoners had excitedly told him he had seen Raquel on television the day be
fore. Juan was one of the few prisoners not allowed to spend any time in the recreation room where there was a television. The two other prisoners awaiting trial for murder—both white men, named Lombardo and Gianelli, who always had other men surrounding them in the yard because they were consiglieres in the Gambino family—weren’t allowed in the television room either.
Juan even felt safe in the prison. None of the guards ever screamed at him. They never pushed him. When they brought him to the cafeteria to meet each Friday with Raquel, who sometimes came with the kind Theresa Bui, the guards were in fact friendly. Juan was easy to get along with, a good inmate.
The sky above the concrete yard was clear. Voices in Spanish and English rang out through the cool, crystalline air. Some of the guards lifted their faces to the sun, their eyes closed, sunning themselves.
Juan didn’t notice the compact, muscular white man who hit him with a piece of a broken basketball hoop. Juan was stunned by the sudden impact, by the unexpectedness of the attack itself, the shattering of his sense of safety. He staggered a few feet, his hands at his back. He knew the sticky fluid he felt was his own blood. For a second he was so dazed by surprise and pain that he didn’t focus on the fact that he’d been hit with a piece of steel. He thought something must have fallen out of the sky.
Crouching, concentrated, furious, Juan spun around. The man, stalking toward him, screaming in Spanish, You fucker, and handling the curved piece of the basketball hoop as if it were a sword, lunged forward like a football tackler. Juan skipped to his left, athletically. The point of the rod, flashing in the sunlight, just missed him.