The Borzoi Killings

by Paul Batista

  “Not that I remember. Just the name Anibal. I didn’t know whether it was his first or last name, or whether it was his name at all. I never heard the name before.”

  There was no transition, no skip of a beat, between that answer and the next question: “Did you have a sexual relationship with Mr. Suarez?”

  There was a sudden audible stir in the courtroom. The reporters in the gallery became even more rapt. Joan Richardson felt that the lens of the television camera was drilling a hole through her forehead. “I did.”

  “For how long?”

  “Weeks.”

  “Where?”

  “At my house. And twice I brought him to my home in Manhattan.”

  “Where did you have sex with Mr. Suarez when you were at your house in East Hampton?”

  “Many places, Ms. Harding. Kitchen, library, our bedroom.”

  “And when you were in your bedroom in East Hampton did Mr. Suarez see the cash?”

  “He saw that. And Mr. Suarez said that Brad should keep the cash locked up.”

  “How much money did your husband have in the house on the day he died?”

  “I knew he always kept at least two hundred thousand dollars, sometimes as much as five hundred thousand dollars. My husband was careless about money.”

  “How careless?”

  “Brad and I were in the bedroom once, getting ready to drive back to the city. We had forgotten to pay Mr. Suarez that week. Brad was in a hurry. He called out to Juan to come into the room. When Mr. Suarez was in the room, Brad reached into the safe three times and took out many thousands of dollars, spreading the money on the bed. He said to Juan ‘Take what you need, Juan.’”

  “What did Mr. Suarez do?”

  “What he always did. He picked up some of the cash, he put it in his pocket, and he said thank you.”

  “Did you say anything when that happened?”

  “I always told Brad I thought he should be more careful.”

  “What did Mr. Richardson say?”

  “That he trusted Juan.”

  “He trusted Mr. Suarez?”

  “He did. I did, too.”

  Margaret Harding waited as Joan Richardson sipped water from a small Evian bottle. “Did Mr. Richardson know about your relationship with Mr. Suarez?”

  “He did.”

  “How?”

  “I told him.”

  “Why?”

  “Ms. Harding, I wanted to see how he would react.”

  “How did he react?”

  “He was upset.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He said he was, he said he couldn’t believe Mr. Suarez would betray the trust.”

  “Was he angry, loud, excited?”

  “Never. Brad Richardson was always quiet, determined, focused.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Mr. Suarez was in the yard, raking leaves from a flower bed. Brad asked him to come into the house. He told Mr. Suarez that he was fired, not to come back. He handed Mr. Suarez several hundred dollar bills.”

  “Did Mr. Suarez ask why?”

  “No, he knew why.”

  Raquel watched the jurors. None of them even glanced at her. They were focused on Joan Richardson. Juan Suarez, who on Raquel’s instructions had not said a word, put his hand near her left ear, whispering, “Lies, Raquel. Those are all lies.”

  Raquel, without looking at him, raised her hand, the signal for him to stop.

  “When,” Margaret Harding resumed, “was Mr. Suarez fired?”

  “The day before my husband died.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Brad made me watch it, and I did.”

  Raquel knew there were only a few fundamental truths about a trial. One truth was that you had to expect the unexpected, as she often told her students. It was adjusting to the unexpected, she said, that was one of the markers of a top trial lawyer. Being first in your class at Harvard Law School didn’t equip you for the fast, erratic play of the courtroom. Like a basketball player, you needed quick and sure reactions.

  And now the unexpected happened in the absolutely silent courtroom, somehow still resonating with the last few words Joan Richardson spoke. Judge Conley said, “We’ll adjourn until tomorrow. Unfortunately, I have a commitment in another case. Please report to the courthouse no later than nine tomorrow. I believe Ms. Rematti will start her cross-examination when we get back.”

  For once in this trial, Raquel had been handed an unexpected gift—the time to craft a strategy overnight. Expect the unexpected, she whispered to Theresa Bui.

  28.

  Raquel Rematti regretted her first question. “Mrs. Richardson, we’ve met before, haven’t we?”

  “Yes, Ms. Rematti. You’ve been at two or three of our parties. I think you even invited us to one of your parties in Manhattan when you published your book. We weren’t able to come.”

  It wasn’t often that Raquel stumbled in the starting blocks. Her first reaction was almost admiration for Joan Richardson. She was smart. No one could have prepared her for that answer.

  “But we’ve never met to talk about Mr. Suarez or this case, have we?”

  “No.”

  “The prosecutors—Ms. Harding—told you not to talk to me, isn’t that right?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “But you met with the prosecutors, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “With Ms. Harding, right?”

  “I did.”

  “With Detective Halsey?”

  “Yes.”

  “With detectives Cohen and Cerullo?”

  “Sometimes, not too often.”

  “In fact you met with Ms. Harding the day before the trial started, isn’t that right?”

  “I did.”

  “How many times did you meet with the prosecution?”

  “I’m not sure; many.”

  “And you rehearsed your testimony, correct?”

  “Not a rehearsal, Ms. Rematti. We discussed the facts.”

  “What do you know about facts? Mrs. Richardson. You lied even to them, isn’t that right?”

  “Sometimes. About insignificant things. I’m telling the truth now.”

  “We’ll get to that, Mrs. Richardson.”

  Joan Richardson simply stared at her, contempt in her expression.

  Raquel asked, “Before your husband died you came to know a man named Jimmy, isn’t that right?”

  Joan’s expression didn’t change, but Raquel had the innate recognition that Joan Richardson was surprised, even rattled. She answered, “I did.”

  “Did you ever know Jimmy’s last name?”

  “Never.”

  “And your husband knew Jimmy?”

  “I think so.”

  “You think so? You saw Brad and Jimmy together, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Many times?”

  “I’m not certain. Many times? Several times.”

  “And did you see Jimmy with Brad five days before Brad died?”

  “I think so.”

  “Four days before?”

  “I could have. I’m not sure.”

  “Were you in the house the day before Brad died?”

  “I was. That was the day Brad fired Juan.”

  “And was Jimmy in the house that day?”

  “Yes.”

  Joan stared intently at Raquel. And Raquel gazed intently at her.

  “Did you ever tell Margaret Harding about Jimmy?”

  “No, I didn’t see why I should.”

  “Did you ever tell Detective Halsey about Jimmy?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Truly, Ms. Rematti, I was embarrassed by Brad’s use of cocaine, and I didn’t want cocaine to be part of his legacy.”

  At the prosecution table, Margaret Harding sat in complete stillness, staring at Joan Richardson.

  “Did you ever speak with Brad about Jimmy?”

  “I
did. Jimmy was a pest, Ms. Rematti. He would come to the house without calling ahead, as far as I knew. And Brad never told me who he was. I wanted to have an open, welcoming house, yet I wanted to know who the people were who visited us.”

  “Did you ever see Brad hand cash to Jimmy?”

  Finally the objection that Raquel had anticipated came. Margaret Harding, to her right, was on her feet.

  And Judge Conley surprised Raquel: “Overruled. This is cross-examination. Ms. Rematti is entitled to leeway.”

  Raquel picked up her thread as though there had been no interruption. Testimony, she knew, should be as seamless, as uninterrupted, as possible. Trials were about stories. “Let me ask you again: Did you ever see Brad Richardson hand cash to Jimmy?”

  “I did. Once or twice.”

  “And do you know why that happened?”

  “I thought Jimmy might be delivering food.”

  “Mrs. Richardson, you never saw Jimmy carrying pizza when he arrived at the house, did you?”

  “No.”

  “He wasn’t delivering food, was he?”

  “No.”

  “He didn’t drive up in a Pizza Hut truck, did he?”

  “No.”

  “He was delivering cocaine to your husband, wasn’t he?”

  “He was. I didn’t like that. I asked Brad to stop. He used it recreationally.”

  “You never asked Jimmy to come to your house, did you?”

  “Never.”

  “You thought he was evil, didn’t you?”

  “Evil? I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “You had no idea who Jimmy was, did you?”

  “I was concerned that I didn’t.”

  “He could come and go as he pleased, is that correct?”

  “Whenever Brad was there.”

  “You didn’t know where Jimmy lived, did you?”

  “No. I didn’t even know whether his name was Jimmy.”

  “Where did Brad and Jimmy meet when Jimmy came to the house?”

  “In Brad’s office.”

  “Did Jimmy ever go with Brad to any other room in the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Once or twice they went upstairs together. Brad usually let guests roam the house, as though it were an amusement park. That was his way.”

  “And Brad kept cash upstairs, didn’t he?”

  “I said that.”

  “When was the last time you saw Jimmy in your house with Brad?”

  “He was in the house when I left for the city.”

  “And, Mrs. Richardson, that was the day before Brad was killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Jimmy was delivering cocaine to Brad that day, isn’t that right?”

  Although her almost serene expression didn’t change, Joan Richardson wanted this to end. It would end faster, she thought, if she started to answer these questions directly, quietly, tersely. She recognized that all of Raquel’s questions were unerring: they tracked what she had actually seen, what she had in fact heard, and what she had said. Joan answered, “Yes, he was. Brad was buying cocaine again.”

  “Was Jimmy in the house when you told your husband you were having an affair with Juan Suarez?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Not possibly, Mrs. Richardson. Answer the question yes or no.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Jimmy hear Brad fire Juan Suarez?”

  “Possibly. Jimmy was in the next room when it happened.”

  “Let me ask you this, Mrs. Richardson: When was the last time you spoke to your husband?”

  “Just as I was leaving.”

  “Was Jimmy there?”

  “Nearby.”

  “What did you say to Brad?”

  “I said I was sick of him.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “That he loved me, Ms. Rematti.”

  When Joan Richardson left the witness stand for the lunch break, Margaret Harding literally pulled her aside as she passed the prosecution table. There was anger in Harding’s gaze. She waited while the reporters and spectators wandered out of the courtroom and the television cameras were turned off. As soon as Harding thought no one could overhear, she whispered, “What the hell did you think you were doing up there?”

  Joan surprised herself. “Fuck off,” she said. “I answered the questions she asked me. You told me I had to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. So long as it is your truth.”

  “You never told us about Jimmy.”

  “I stopped thinking about him. Obnoxious little bastard, fawning around my husband. You asked me about cocaine. You never asked about cocaine dealers.”

  “We need to talk. Now.”

  “You know what? I’m not going to talk at all to you. I’m going outside to clear my head.”

  “There’s a cold sleet falling outside, Mrs. Richardson. Are you really used to that kind of weather?”

  There was gray sleet falling outside; the pavement was icy; and a dismal wet chill seemed to enter her skin. In the distance were black, wet trees and patches of gray snow on the ground among the trees. With good-natured but now quiet Davey in the front seat, she sat in the back of the car, recovered a pack of Camels she had bought at a convenience store that morning, and smoked. She cracked the window open, just as she had done when she and her friends were smoking on lunch break in high school.

  Where is Hank? she wondered. “That bastard went into hiding,” she said out loud. They were the only words she uttered in the car. Davey glanced at her in the rear view mirror. He said nothing.

  Raquel’s voice was soft, polite, almost deferential, as she started the afternoon session. “Mrs. Richardson, your husband was bisexual, wasn’t he?”

  Margaret Harding stood. Her voice sounded exasperated. “Objection.”

  Always with that schoolteacher’s demeanor, Judge Conley said, “Overruled.”

  “Let me ask the question again,” Raquel said, still softly. “Your husband was sexually active with men and women?”

  “He was. I learned that after we’d been married for four or five years. It was what he did. I’ve learned to accept things, Ms. Rematti.”

  “Did you ever meet any of Brad’s partners?”

  “Pretty often, Ms. Rematti. Over the last two or three years we had no reason to hide things from each other.”

  “Did your husband have one of his friends at the house the day before he died?”

  “He did.”

  “You left for New York at about five?”

  “I did. Around that time. It was getting dark.”

  “Who was the friend?”

  “Trevor Palmer.”

  “Who is that?”

  Joan reached for the fresh bottle of Evian she had bought from a vending machine on her way to the courtroom. The crack of the plastic cap as she turned it resonated sharply throughout the room. It was the only sound as everyone waited for her to speak. “He was one of Brad’s special friends. He was a songwriter.”

  Raquel focused only on the first sentence of that answer: “He was one of your husband’s lovers?”

  She sipped the water. “He was.”

  “What were they doing when you last saw them?”

  “It was in the afternoon. We had had a glass of wine together in the kitchen. And then they went upstairs.”

  “What is upstairs?”

  “Bedrooms, Ms. Rematti.”

  “Did they go upstairs before Jimmy arrived?”

  “They did.”

  “How long were they upstairs?”

  “We had the wine at lunch. Then they went upstairs. They came down at two or three.”

  “And then Jimmy arrived?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Jimmy see Trevor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Trevor know Jimmy?”

  “Trevor enjoyed Jimmy’s company.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Trevor called Jimmy
rough trade.”

  “Did Trevor tell you what ‘rough trade’ meant?”

  “I already knew it, Ms. Rematti. So do you.”

  Someone in the gallery of the courtroom laughed. No one else did.

  Raquel asked, “Was Trevor there when you left?”

  “Trevor always stayed until I left. Yes, he was there. He and my husband always had unfinished business.”

  29.

  Kathy Schiavoni for years had spent vast amounts of time driving on virtually every road in East Hampton and Montauk. She knew this was the activity of a lonely person. She liked her solitude and loved walking on the gorgeous beaches that stretched for miles from Montauk to Southampton. She also particularly loved the two-lane, twisting roads, once horse and cattle paths, that led north and south off the Montauk Highway. Those narrow roads went through farmland toward the Atlantic. They were the arteries of this region, her home territory. Especially in Montauk, the air of the East End had that incandescent haze that radiated up from the Atlantic. The ocean was on both sides of the steadily narrowing peninsula that finally ended at the Montauk Lighthouse.

  At night her headlights glowed in the ground fog, the eleven-foot-tall reeds gleaming at the edges of the roadside. She knew exactly where Raquel Rematti’s house was. The house had been there for so long that it was almost an integral part of the landscape—a small seaside structure with faded wood, a shingled roof, and a deck overlooking the beach, just above the reedy dunes.

  The house was at the end of a beach road that, for several hundred yards, was a compound of hard sand. There was a light on in the kitchen next to the deck. There were no other lights. In the fog, the single light was diffuse, soft, haloed. She wasn’t certain anyone was in the house until she saw the two cars parked near a high bank of reeds: a BMW and a Mercedes.

  Clutching a manila envelope close to her chest to keep it dry, Kathy climbed the long flight of worn wooden steps. There was an odor of salt water in the air. When she saw the black expanse of the Atlantic, she acknowledged to herself, as she had many times, that she wished she lived in a house exactly like this, rooted in a place that seemed almost a part of the shoreline and the ocean itself. She craved absolute, comforting solitude, each morning a renewal of life as the sun rose from the ocean and shed light on one of the easternmost areas of the country.

  After Kathy knocked, Raquel was casual and unafraid even though she was in an isolated world. Raquel Rematti came to the sliding door on the deck. Although she had seen Kathy in the courtroom several times, she had no reason to know who she was: the gallery was crowded every day for the trial of Juan the Knife and this woman could have been a spectator or a reporter.