by Paul Batista
“I never had any money. I only had money I worked for.”
They were face to face, whispering even though the guards were inattentive. “But understand, Juan, there are still the killing charges.”
“I didn’t kill Mr. Richardson.”
Raquel Rematti had learned over the years that even the guilty could frankly, earnestly, and disarmingly stare into her eyes while saying, I’m innocent. For her it was an illusion that people who lie can’t look you straight in the eye. And it was an illusion, too, that an evasive, nervous person was lying. Continuing to look at Juan’s unwavering, earnest eyes, she decided to say nothing.
“I never lied to you, Raquel.”
“And there’s something more I need to tell you, Juan.”
Strangely impassive, not speaking, he waited.
“Theresa was killed last Friday night. Murdered by a sniper.”
“I know that,” he said, his voice oddly fluent, as though he always had the capacity to speak English far better than he had.
“How?”
“Prisoners watch television, they talk all the time.”
“I know how much you liked Theresa.”
“I did, Raquel.” But suddenly the eyes with which he now stared at her, the expression on his face, and the stance of his body, were transformed into hostility.
Raquel Rematti, who had spent years dealing with dangerous men and never once was afraid of them, was now afraid.
“You killed her. You spoke about Oscar Caliente. And now see what happened.”
35.
Bo Halsey lived in a ranch house where he was raised in the Springs area of East Hampton. Still covered with dense woods, Springs was where Jackson Pollock and Willem de Kooning had lived. It was where Pollock had driven his car into a tree at ninety miles an hour. Bo knew their names and had seen pictures of the paintings. Awed tourists sometimes knocked on his door for directions to the artists’ shingled weather-beaten houses. For Bo, the blessing of the area was not that these inexplicably famous men had once lived there but that the bay waters were less than a mile from his house, the waters where fish were abundant every day of the year.
When he heard the knock on his door as he cooked a breakfast of eggs and bacon, he thought that tourists had come to the house for directions.
There were no tourists this morning. The men at the door were Vic Santangello and Paul Arena, two FBI agents who had worked from time to time with Bo.
Bo Halsey knew exactly why they were there.
“Hey, guys, come on in. I just made some coffee.”
Santangello and Arena followed him into the kitchen. Just outside the big window two deer stood completely still. The woods in Springs were filled with deer. “When I was a kid,” Bo said as he pointed to the coffee, which he still made in an old Pyrex percolator his mother had used years ago, “I loved to see the deer. It was like Christmas all the time. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Now there are so many of them they look like rats on long legs to me.”
“Bo,” Santangello said, “I gotta get this out because we really hate doing this.”
“It’s part of being on the job, Vic. We’re supposed to hate doing the things we do. It’s lousy work no matter how you look at it.”
Arena said, “They want to talk to you. There are two fucking U.S. Attorneys waiting for you in Riverhead. You gotta come with us.”
“My, my. U.S. Attorneys? When did the feds get involved in this?”
“When that gook who works for you went to the Justice Department and said you were a racist who suppressed evidence in order to convict a Mexican.”
“Since when,” Bo said, “was that a crime?”
“The Italian broad took him to our bosses in the city. They think the DA out here can’t really investigate one of his own people.”
“And that would be me, right?”
“Appears to be,” Arena said.
“Sorry about this, Bo,” Santangello said, genuine apology in his voice.
“No problem, guys.”
36.
“And tell me again,” Judge Conley said, “why you think I should let the jury hear this woman.” She glanced at her notepad, searching for the name. “Kathy Schiavoni?”
There was an uncharacteristic urgency as Raquel Rematti spoke, “We know she conducted all the forensics tests on evidence taken from the Richardson bedroom.”
Margaret Harding, standing next to Raquel but looking only at the judge, said, “We’ve presented our case, Judge. The prosecution has rested. At no point did we find it necessary to put on forensics evidence. We’ve conceded that Mr. Suarez’s fingerprints and DNA were not in the office where the killing took place. We know that his fingerprints are all over the kitchen and other areas of the house where he would have worked. We didn’t use that evidence because we were trying to be careful in what we presented. We want a fair trial for this defendant as much as Ms. Rematti does.”
“And I know,” Raquel said, “that the next thing Ms. Harding will say is that, since the state presented no forensics evidence, we don’t have a right to present any.”
Raquel recognized that Judge Conley was again deliberately working in this conversation, just as she had two days earlier with the tape, to navigate a way through the maze to exclude more evidence, now the testimony of Kathy Schiavoni that there were semen stains on the sheets in the Richardson bedroom that had no known source, the semen of an unidentified man.
Conley tried a new approach: “Let’s assume, Ms. Rematti, that it doesn’t matter that the state elected not to use a fingerprint or DNA expert, and that you are entitled to put on any witness you think would assist your client. What’s the relevance of whether there were any stains at all on the sheets? This is not a rape case, it’s a murder case, isn’t it?”
Raquel said, “And I have information from a forensic scientist employed by Ms. Harding’s office that there is an unknown source of semen undoubtedly placed there by an unknown man at some point within twenty-four hours of the killing.”
Through her thick, unfashionable glasses, Conley looked at Raquel. “I know you’ve said that, Ms. Rematti. But isn’t that information tenuous, remote, possibly misleading to the jury? Whatever your views may be, I’ve given your client a fair trial, but I don’t have to give him the opportunity to present any evidence he wants to present if it’s not relevant to the case. What is relevant is that his semen is on the sheets, but the state decided not to use that DNA evidence. What is the conceivable relevance of the fact that there are also semen stains of an unidentified man? It can be said, can’t it, that Ms. Harding did your client a favor by not presenting evidence that we know gives the identity of one set of semen stains—Juan Suarez?”
“We appreciate all the favors we are blessed with,” Raquel said, “but Mr. Suarez is entitled to present his own evidence, not just evidence that responds to what the state has put on.”
“Ms. Rematti, I was trying to avoid making comments on strategy, particularly for a lawyer of your experience. But if I let you put on Ms. Schiavoni to testify about her findings aren’t we opening the door to Ms. Harding putting on rebuttal evidence that Mr. Suarez’s semen was there?”
“Of course, but where’s the damage? The jury knows that Mr. Suarez and Joan Richardson were lovers.”
“I’m not concerned with who sustains what damage as a result of evidence. The fact that evidence is not good for a particular side’s case doesn’t make it legitimate or illegitimate evidence. You may remember, Ms. Rematti, even though you’ve shared with me your view that your client has not had a fair trial, that I excluded the evidence that your client assaulted a man in New York with a long knife. Although that would have been compelling evidence for the state, I didn’t allow it. I said on the record that its prejudicial impact outweighed its probative value. Maybe you forgot that?”
Knowing that she was losing the opportunity to call Kathy Schiavoni, Raquel used a gambit: “Ms. Schiavoni would also testify that Ms. Harding k
new about the results, knew that there was the semen of an unknown person, another man who must have had access to the house. And that Ms. Harding deliberately decided not to pursue it. I know Ms. Harding didn’t once tell us about this.”
“So what, Ms. Rematti? Another person who had access to the house? Apparently half of East Hampton had access to the house. It seems there were people who had lots of private access to Brad Richardson and Joan Richardson and their bedroom. This is not a trial about adultery or homosexuality.”
Raquel felt a sense of futility. “And, again, Judge, Ms. Harding and her office knew there was exculpatory evidence and never gave it to us. We learned about it through Ms. Schiavoni voluntarily coming forward to tell me this evidence existed but was never developed or revealed.”
“Judge,” Margaret Harding said, “I’ve tried to maintain a professional relationship with Ms. Rematti. But now this is getting personal. I have no obligation to provide the defense with irrelevant evidence, only evidence that might exonerate her client. She’s suggesting that I did or failed to do something I had an ethical obligation to do. She’s calling into question my ethics.”
“The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” Raquel said, regretting as she spoke the quote from Shakespeare.
“Ms. Rematti,” Helen Conley said, “stop that. It’s been a very difficult, wrenching trial to everyone. Don’t start poisoning the well. Your client is on trial. Ms. Harding isn’t. If she’s done something wrong, she’ll have to answer for it either with a reversal of the conviction or before the disciplinary committee, or both. Her conduct has no bearing on this case now, unless you want to move for a mistrial. If I grant that, then we can go through all this process again.”
Raquel’s mind raced. Was there enough evidence in the case Margaret Harding had presented to convict Juan Suarez beyond a reasonable doubt? Or would these jurors—most of them retired from government jobs as clerks, assessors, and the county public works department—ever understand what reasonable doubt meant or were they hard-wired in their isolated world on the East End of Long Island to convict? And, Raquel thought, what about me? I’ve been over-invested in this man. Do I really want a mistrial? Do I really want to go all over this again?
Move on, Raquel Rematti said to herself, move on.
“We’re not asking for a mistrial, Judge.”
Kathy Schiavoni was so angry that there was a tremor in her hands as she and Raquel Rematti stood at the microphones on the concrete steps of the courthouse after Helen Conley ruled that Kathy wouldn’t be allowed to testify.
She stood just to Raquel’s left, a shy woman with bushy hair worn in the style of the late seventies. Raquel spoke into the cluster of microphones. “We were prepared today to offer the testimony of a forensic specialist employed by the District Attorney’s office. Her name is Kathy Schiavoni, and she is here with me. She is a whistleblower. She performed most of the forensic examination on materials at the Richardson home. Among the things she reviewed, and she would have testified to this today if her testimony had not been ruled out of the case, was that she examined sheets that were found on the bed in the Richardson home on the day of Brad Richardson’s death.”
As Raquel spoke, her cold breath slipping out into the bright air, Kathy Schiavoni stared, almost defiantly, into the lens of a CNN camera held aloft by a cameraman.
Raquel continued: “She found semen stains on the sheets from two identifiable men. One was Brad Richardson. The other was my client, Juan Suarez. The third semen stain was from an unknown man. Ms. Schiavoni would have testified, but was prevented from doing so, that she brought those results to the District Attorney’s office. She expected that further search warrants would be issued to obtain evidence from men such as Senator Rawls to locate a match for the unknown semen. The prosecution refused Kathy Schiavoni’s request for those warrants. And Ms. Schiavoni would have also testified that, when she sought to re-examine the sheets, they were missing from the evidence locker maintained and strictly controlled by the DA’s office.”
Raquel paused briefly while a jet roared overhead, leaving a vapor trail across the acutely blue winter sky as it headed out and over the Atlantic. When the sound could no longer submerge her voice, Raquel said: “Bravely, when Ms. Schiavoni realized she wouldn’t be able to complete her report and certainly would not be called as a witness by the prosecution, she approached me to disclose the results of her work. While she can’t be called as a witness for my client’s defense, I wanted to acknowledge, publicly, that she stepped forward to do what was obviously right—let the public know crucial information was suppressed by the state about the events surrounding the death of Brad Richardson. Her information, while no longer able to assist Juan Suarez, reveals not only her integrity but also the obvious lack of integrity that has afflicted this prosecution.”
One of the reporters, Gloria Arroyo, wearing a baseball cap on which the word “Fox” was woven, asked, “Raquel, is there any information about the missing man?”
“None. That was precisely what Ms. Schiavoni wanted to learn.”
Her blonde face squinting in the harsh sunlight, Gloria asked Kathy, “Ms. Schiavoni, who did you show your report to in the DA’s office?”
Kathy Schiavoni stepped slightly to her right, toward the microphones, as Raquel moved to make room for her. Her voice was defiant. Kathy had her chance. “I gave the report to Margaret Harding.”
37.
Bo Halsey actually smiled as he sat across the scratched wooden table from Gary Upchurch and Vanessa Strong, who tersely had introduced themselves as Assistant United States Attorneys leading a criminal investigation. They were in their mid-thirties. Santangello and Arena stood behind them. Halsey had often used this bleak and windowless room as the place where he interrogated men and women.
“Hey, guys, I guess I’m under arrest,” Halsey said.
Upchurch responded, “To be honest with you, Mr. Halsey, you should be aware of the fact that you are the target of a federal criminal investigation that was initiated when the video was released. We have reliable information that you saw this video months ago and instructed someone who worked for you to hide it. So you’re the target of a federal criminal investigation for obstruction of justice.”
“Hot shit.”
“You don’t have to speak with us today. You know that, don’t you?”
“Do you think I need a twelve-year-old to tell me that?”
Upchurch glanced at Vanessa Strong. He didn’t respond to Halsey. Instead, he gave a signal to Santangello to open a laptop and turn the screen toward Bo. On the small screen the scene of Cerullo and Cohen, who stumbled around almost like comic characters in a silent movie, was played from start to finish, a span of no more than three minutes. At several points they were crawling on the floor, rear ends up in the air like clowns. At other points they were glancing furtively around the room in search of cameras. And, through most of the video, they were carrying packets of cash.
The video already had more than a million hits on YouTube.
“When did you first see this?” asked Vanessa Strong, an attractive black woman with blonde-streaked dreadlocks.
Halsey was still grinning. “Wrong question, fella. It’s not when, it’s if. Never saw this Keystone Cops routine until it came up on the Internet.”
“Are you sure?” Upchurch asked.
“Does the sun come up in the east?”
“Maybe,” Strong said, “you should think about that. Lying to federal agents, even if you’re not under oath, is a crime.”
“You know what I know? A gook with spiky hair has told you he showed me this. He’s lying.”
“Why would he do that?” Upchurch asked.
“Why would flies buzz around shit? Have you ever heard that people who work for you are either at your feet, kissing them, or at your throat, trying to strangle you? Maybe he’s got grievances because I have more hair than he does.”
Vanessa Strong said, “Maybe you should think about your
answer again. Take your time.”
“Let me tell you something: all I’m thinking about is why you would waste your time treating me like this. Do you think that anybody is going to believe him? I’ve been around a long, long time. Nobody but nobody has ever said I lifted a pencil from the office and took it home.”
“Ang Tien took a lie detector test yesterday,” Upchurch said.
“Let me guess? He passed.”
“How would you like to help yourself,” Strong said, “and take a lie detector test?”
Halsey repeated words that he had often heard when he was interrogating people in this room. “How’d you like to take a good flying fuck for yourself?”
38.
It was two in the afternoon when Judge Conley suddenly emerged from the rear door of the courtroom. At the words “All rise,” everyone in the crowded courtroom stood until she said, “Be seated.”
Escorted by three guards, Juan Suarez quickly emerged from the holding cell. Raquel Rematti noticed that there wasn’t a trace of anxiety or confusion in his expression. He smiled at Raquel when he sat.
Since Raquel expected that the jurors had a question—they had only deliberated for a day—she was surprised when Conley announced, “We have a verdict.”
For Raquel, that was too sudden. Usually a fast verdict meant a conviction. She put her hand on Juan’s shoulder as the jury filed into the box.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Judge Conley said, “I understand you have a verdict?”
A 72-year-old woman with silver hair, a retired school teacher who had been picked as the foreperson, said in a voice remarkably similar to the judge’s, “We do.”
Not one of the jurors had glanced at Raquel or even in the direction of the defense table since entering the courtroom. They stared at the courtroom deputy as he took a slip of paper, the verdict form, from the hand of the foreperson. He carried the paper, folded, to the judge. Her face absolutely expressionless, she glanced at it for no more than a second and handed it back to the deputy.