The Warriors

by Paul Batista

  Hugo moved across the crowded dance floor in Lydia’s direction. Most of the dancers were unattached women. When he reached Lydia, he simply faced her and joined her as she danced. He took her hand. He held her hand and his aloft as she spun around under their joined hands, almost ballerina-like. Soon they were both sweating: in its own way, that was erotic. It was a sensual bond.

  * * *

  Lydia remembered him. Several years earlier, this handsome man, whom people called Juan the Goodguy, had often arrived at two or three a.m. at the teeming downtown after-hours clubs. He was always treated by the managers as royalty and always accompanied by big men and expensively dressed, stylish women who actually handed over the cocaine, heroin, and pills they had ordered from the Goodguy while he was on the dance floor. The subtle handoff of the goodies only happened after Salazar gave the signal that he’d been paid in cash. There were never any refunds, as he enjoyed saying. But there were never any mistakes: once the users paid, they got what they paid for. Juan the Goodguy was a reliable businessman.

  But then, for several years, he had simply vanished. Lydia knew enough about drug dealers to know that they were elusive—they moved from place to place frequently. She had also learned that some vanished because they were arrested. And some, she had heard, were murdered.

  Hugo Salazar was a great, sexy dancer. He had lost none of that skill in the years of his total, unexplained absence. He was changed now only because over those few years his thick black hair had grown so much that it was tied into a long ponytail, a change that made him even more attractive, more sexy, more hot.

  Within seconds Lydia pressed her large breasts into his chest. In Spanish, barely audible in the total immersion of the throbbing music, she said, “Hey, we’ve missed you. Where have you been, man?”

  Gently pushing her black hair from her left ear, Hugo whispered, also in Spanish, “I’ve been in Miami and L.A. You’re still the most beautiful woman anywhere, my love.”

  Playfully, Lydia Guzman, spreading her fingers, pushed at his chest. “You’re good at what you do, aren’t you?”

  She danced around him. She wasn’t going to let him go.

  * * *

  She was, as Hunter Decker and Raquel Rematti both recognized, the least attentive of the jurors. Lydia didn’t recognize that the man with whom she was now dancing was the man who had appeared clearly in Government Exhibit 673 talking to Angelina Baldesteri, as her hand rested on the shoulder of the stylish man standing in front of her. She also didn’t know that this gorgeous man had been tried on Long Island several years earlier for the machete murder of Brad Richardson. Nor did she know that Raquel Rematti had represented Hugo Salazar, then known as Juan Suarez, The Blade of the Hamptons, whose conviction for murder had been set aside when two boys discovered the actual murder weapon, a machete, and the clothes the killer had worn in the Sag Harbor landfill soon after the trial. None of that contained any traces of the DNA of the convicted man, and Raquel successfully moved to have that conviction vacated before he was deported to Mexico.

  Deportation for a man like Juan Suarez was a joke. Easily returning to the United States with yet another assumed identity, Hugo Salazar now had a special assignment: to make certain that Lydia Guzman would never vote to convict Angelina Baldesteri. His way of winning her loyalty and her commitment was by sex, cocaine, and money. Robert Calvaro, the source of the assignment, had learned Lydia Guzman was an easy target. “She’s a slut and an addict,” he had told Hugo. “You can’t lose with her, Hugo. Grab her and don’t let anything happen to her.”

  “Nice of you to give me fun work, Oscar,” Hugo Salazar answered. “I’ll have her fast.”

  CHAPTER 12

  UNLIKE MANY OF her peers—and there were only four or five others in the entire country, all men in New York, Miami, Chicago, and Los Angeles, who were the best, the go-to criminal defense lawyers—Raquel Rematti never resorted to shouting at a witness. She often started her cross-examinations by making even the most seasoned witness let down his or her guard. But she was a panther pretending at first to enjoy playing coyly with the young antelope before surging for the kill.

  Like every other style, hers sometimes failed. Raquel picked up quickly that it would never work with Carol Bronson. She was a lawyer with a huge Washington law firm who had been put on the stand by one of Hunter Decker’s associates to explain, as an expert, what a super PAC was. Skilled lawyer as he was, Hunter Decker knew the jurors had heard the two odd words often, but could not be expected to fully grasp their meaning.

  “What again is the name of the firm you work for?” Raquel asked as soon as Naomi Goldstein said, “Your witness.” It was not going to be possible to discredit the carefully dressed, corporately immaculate, thoroughly prepared Carol Bronson on her accurate and lucid description of a super PAC. So Raquel’s job was to make the jurors dislike Carol Bronson, even to hate, and to distrust her. If Raquel couldn’t discredit her on the merits of her testimony, she would make her thoroughly unlikable. In Carol Bronson’s Republican, corporate, non-Manhattan demeanor, she was different from every member of the jury. There was a secret truism in Raquel’s business—if you represented an obvious murderer, you would defend the client by trying to show that the victim “deserved killing,” as did any witness who testified against the defendant.

  “SloaneJones.”

  “You testified that is a law firm, correct?”

  “It is.”

  “Mr. Sloane is a former United States Senator, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Jones is a former U.S. Congressman, is that right?”

  “He is.”

  “Both are Republicans?”

  “Yes.”

  “And isn’t it true that SloaneJones is a registered lobbying firm, not simply a law firm?”

  “That’s accurate.”

  “And you’re a registered lobbyist, too?”

  “I am.”

  “And lobbyists get paid for advocating with Senators and Congressmen and Congresswomen, even with Presidents and their staffs, for the benefit of their clients, correct?”

  “No, that’s not correct. We provide information that lawmakers need to hear.”

  “You spend much more of your time as a lobbyist than a lawyer?”

  Standing, Hunter Decker said, “Objection, beyond the scope of the direct examination. Ms. Bronson was called by the Government as an expert on super PACs. And Your Honor qualified her as that based on her experience, education, and articles to assist the jury in a full understanding of words—super PAC—the jurors have heard and will continue to hear but may not fully understand.”

  “Overruled,” Naomi Goldstein whispered distinctly. “This is Ms. Rematti’s cross-examination. She has a right to try to demonstrate the bias of a witness, including an expert.” Goldstein added, “If in fact the witness has any bias. That’s for the jury to hear and decide. I don’t have any views on that.”

  Raquel repeated, “And you spend more of your time as a lobbyist than as a lawyer, correct?”

  “I do. That’s what the firm’s website states. I lobby for corporations, trade associations, even individuals.”

  “For the oil and gas trade associations?”

  “Among others.”

  Unusual for her, Raquel raised the volume of her voice. “And the others include the national Right to Life Committee?”

  “Yes.”

  “The National Rifle Association?”

  “Yes. We do have a Second Amendment, as the Supreme Court not long ago reminded us.”

  Although Carol Bronson’s tone of voice remained corporate-style and spare, Raquel sensed that she was gaining ground on her as a witness. Bronson was too condescending, even supercilious. This was good, because Raquel had a pathway now for pressing forward. The panther steadily on the chase, relentlessly closing the distance between her and her prey. “And you never lobbied for NOW, or for the ACLU, or the Sierra Club?”

  “I was never asked.�
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  “And you are an expert on super PACs, correct?”

  “I am.”

  “You’ve written articles on super PACs, correct?”

  “Certainly. It’s on my resume. That resume was posted on the computers as an exhibit.”

  “You’ve written many times for the Wall Street Journal, correct?”

  “Several times.”

  “For the American Spectator?”

  “Yes.” Carol Bronson paused. “I didn’t create super PACs, Ms. Rematti. The Supreme Court allowed them on freedom of speech grounds.”

  “You’ve been interviewed on the Breitbart site, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you are often a guest on Fox News, correct?”

  “I am.”

  “You are a friend of Stephen Bannon, aren’t you?”

  “I know him.”

  “And Ann Coulter?”

  “I know her.”

  Raquel shifted ground, asking, “Where do you vote?”

  Hunter Decker stood. “Objection.”

  “Overruled.”

  Raquel repeated the question with a slight variation. “You’re registered to vote in New York, aren’t you?” When cross-examining a hostile witness, the premium was on the art of surprise, of making a witness confused and wary.

  “I am.”

  “Have you ever voted for Senator Baldesteri?”

  “Isn’t that my business?” Bronson asked.

  Goldstein intervened: “Just answer the question.”

  “Never.”

  “Did you ever vote for President Young, the Senator’s husband?”

  “No.”

  And now another shift of ground, as Raquel asked, “A person or corporation can give unlimited amounts of money to a super PAC, correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “But not to an individual candidate, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And super PACs can, in turn, give the same money to a politician’s campaign or issues or positions?”

  “So long as it’s properly accounted for and publicly disclosed.”

  “So the PAC money can be used to fly a candidate with his or her entourage from Bangor, Maine, to San Diego, all expenses paid, if the candidate’s views are consistent with the PAC’s?”

  “Perfectly legal.”

  “And the PAC’s funds can be used to buy meals and drinks and lodgings?”

  “I testified that was so to the extent the expense is tied to an issue endorsed by the super PAC. Do you want me to repeat it for you?”

  Raquel relished Carol Bronson’s fully obvious hostility. “Who decides when and on whom a super PAC’s lavish spending will be bestowed?”

  “Each PAC has a steering committee.”

  “Selected by the PAC’s major donors?”

  “I said that before.”

  “Selected by the PAC’s major donors, Ms. Bronson, correct?”

  “Again, yes.”

  “And most PACs have Chief Executive Officers?”

  “Every one that I’m familiar with does. At last count there were two thousand super PACs created in the last several years. The major ones I’ve been in contact with have a CEO—a Chief Executive Officer.”

  “And he’s the face of the organization, right?”

  “Often. But many of the CEOs are women, Ms. Rematti.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Bronson, for the correction. Why do super PACs need a public face?”

  “That’s because the names of the donors and the amounts of their donations don’t have to be disclosed. If you, Ms. Rematti, were in an anti-Muslim march and shouted anti-Muslim slogans, you wouldn’t be forced to disclose your name. Donors have the same privilege of anonymity as you do, no matter what their views are. So the Chief Executive Officer is the only real name and face of the PAC.”

  Raquel, quiet and persistent, had brought this quintessentially corporate woman where she wanted her. Bronson was irritated, as if she felt her time were being wasted. She was a busy woman.

  “You’ve sat in that witness box for four hours, Ms. Bronson, is that about right?”

  “I don’t know. This is a beautiful courtroom, as we can all see. However, the impressive new clock over the door isn’t working. And I’m not wearing a watch.”

  “And you prepared a ten-page expert report on super PACs?”

  “I did.”

  “And it was distributed to the jury?”

  “It was. You saw that happen.”

  “When did you write it?”

  “When?”

  “That’s the question. When did you write it?”

  “Three years ago. I revise it frequently.”

  “Are you being paid by the Government for that expert report in connection with this trial?”

  “Of course. You teach courses at law schools and bar associations, as I understand it, and you’re paid, or so I assume.”

  “What is your hourly rate when you testify about super PACs for the Government?”

  “Fifteen hundred dollars.”

  “And that’s for each hour, correct?”

  “It is.”

  “How much have you been paid by the United States so far for this ten-page outline and your time here today?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Do you expect to be paid more?”

  “I do. I have a contract that requires a final installment of $25,000. And I get paid, Ms. Rematti, whether your client is convicted, or acquitted, or there is a mistrial. My expert role and fees don’t depend on victory.”

  “Let me ask you this: Have you ever met President Spellman?”

  “From time to time.”

  “Did you ever discuss Senator Baldesteri with him?”

  “In what context?” Bronson asked.

  “Any context?”

  “Yes,” Bronson said.

  “Were any of those conversations connected to this trial?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “What have you ever heard the President say about the Senator?”

  “Do you,” Bronson asked, “really want to know that?”

  Raquel said again, “Tell the jury what you heard President Spellman say about Angelina Baldesteri.”

  “That she’s never been a grieving widow. That she’s power hungry. That her candidacy is a joke. That she’s dangerous for the country.”

  “Did you ever hear him say that her candidacy had to be stopped at any cost?”

  “Never.”

  “And let me ask you this: Did you ever discuss Senator Baldesteri with Attorney General Harrington?”

  “Objection,” Hunter Decker said.

  In her sepulchral voice, Naomi Goldstein said, “Overruled.”

  “It was the Attorney General who hired me for this case.”

  “What did he say about Senator Baldesteri?”

  “I can’t specifically remember.”

  “Can you generally remember?”

  “Yes. That she probably had the President, her husband, blown up in order to open the door to the presidency for herself. He was joking, of course.”

  “How often have you met the Attorney General?”

  “Only that one time.”

  “And you came to know him so well that you know when he’s joking, is that your testimony?”

  Carol Bronson said, “I have a sense of humor, Ms. Rematti. I can pick out people who have a sense of humor. It’s a skill I’ve developed.”

  “And another skill you’ve developed, Ms. Bronson, is to use your expertise to bolster the people who hire and pay you?”

  “I resent that.”

  “You know the expression He who pays the piper gets to call the tune?”

  One or two of the jurors laughed, audibly.

  “Never. I never heard that.”

  Raquel stared at her, scorn in her gaze. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Bronson.”

  Carol Bronson didn’t respond.

  CHAPTER 13


  HUGO SALAZAR’S APARTMENT on East 62nd Street and Third Avenue was, Lydia Guzman instantly saw, a miracle of modem decorating. To her left, in the quiet lighting from above the burnished oven, the kitchen gleamed. Directly in front of her was a wall of windows beyond which hundreds of thousands of city lights in other apartment buildings and office buildings glittered and glimmered. Lydia was uncertain in which direction of Midtown Manhattan the windows faced. But for her, it was a breathtaking view. She was now in a world she had always desired, far above the Emerald City of Midtown Manhattan.

  Hugo Salazar was not just a handsome man, he was polite and respectful. At that first night of dancing, he asked, over the music, for her name, email address, and cell phone number, all of which he already had, although Lydia didn’t know that. He made a pretense of entering all of that information into his iPhone.

  Three days later he called her and asked her to dinner. She was so anxious to see him that when the U.S. Marshals returned her cell phone at the end of a trial day, she immediately returned his call from the monumental steps of the old federal courthouse on Foley Square. Hugo asked, in Spanish, whether she could meet him at seven at Michael’s, a very expensive restaurant on West 55th Street in Manhattan. She decided she didn’t have time to return to her apartment in the Bronx to change into the kinds of clothes she would want to wear on this date—a dress, moderately high heels, a tailored coat—but instead slowly made her way by the No. 6 Lexington Avenue subway to Midtown and wandered among the stores such as Saks Fifth Avenue, Bergdorf Goodman, and the modernistic Apple store in the underground of the GM Building in which she liked to gaze at objects she could never buy.

  At that dinner at Michael’s, where Robert de Niro and his wife were eating quietly at a corner table, Hugo asked her nothing about the trial. He gave no hint he knew she was on the jury, and she volunteered nothing about it because, in reality, she didn’t care about it. What she did care about was how beguiling he was, how gracefully he dealt with the tuxedoed host, and how smoothly he slipped the plastic bag into her hand during the meal, a bag that she quickly took with her to the privacy of the women’s room, where she spread the magic powder on the gleaming counter, used the edge of a crisp dollar bill to create three straight lines of powder, then rolled the same dollar bill into the shape of a straw and, holding back her fabulous black hair, quickly inhaled. Not a trace of the white powder remained on the counter but, to be certain, she used the tip of her moistened index finger to touch the area where the coke had been spread, and then licked her fingertip. With all the powder inside her, she passed over into the world of calm and potent ecstasy.