The Warriors

by Paul Batista

  At least ten emails were from “Senatorangelina@usgov.gov.” The insistent emails and texts from Baldesteri were all peremptory and essentially the same: “We must meet today, call me.”

  Not a word of sympathy, regret, compassion.

  Finally, Raquel emailed: “Will be at my office at five.”

  * * *

  In the reception area of Raquel’s office were the four or five young men and women who followed Senator Baldesteri wherever she went. Each of them carried laptop computers and other electronic devices. To Raquel, they all gave the impression of characters from the Star Trek movies: people dressed in the same style, all wedded to the same devices. Some even wore outdated heavy black-framed glasses.

  As Raquel hurried through her own reception area, a timid female voice spoke out: “We’re so sorry, Ms. Rematti.”

  Raquel smiled in gratitude.

  When she opened the door to her big inner office, Raquel saw Angelina turn sharply toward her. The Senator had been standing impatiently at the office window, gazing at the traffic flowing uptown and downtown on Park Avenue, divided by the straight median strip of flowers and ornamental trees that ran in well-tended rows from 44th Street to 96th Street.

  “I hope,” the Senator said as soon as Raquel firmly closed the door behind her, “that this does not mean you’ll ask for a mistrial.”

  “The thought never crossed my mind,” Raquel answered, “until just this second.”

  “Would the judge do it on her own?”

  “Not in a million years. That’s not the way the system works. Judges react, particularly during trials. A lawyer needs to ask for something. Judges respond to initiatives.”

  “Would Decker ask for a mistrial?”

  “Not a chance.” Raquel stared coldly at her. “Where, Angelina, are these thoughts coming from?”

  “Where? Everybody knows Hayes Smith. And everybody knows you were his—what can I call this—his partner.”

  “Only people who read the gossip pages of the Post and the Daily News. I don’t think those are on her everyday reading list.”

  The Senator said, “A mistrial would be a disaster, as I’ve said before.”

  “Listen to me, Angelina. I said there would be no mistrial. He wasn’t my husband. He wasn’t the President of the United States. He was a journalist. He was killed in the line of duty. I can’t even be sure that old Naomi Goldstein knows who he was. And she certainly is not likely to know I was in love with him. Anyhow, judges don’t call mistrials because a lawyer’s lover dies. In fact, I’ll be amazed if she lets me take an afternoon off for his funeral service.”

  “I have to get this trial finished. If she called a mistrial, I could end up on trial in the middle of my campaign.”

  Still standing, Raquel folded her arms. “So that’s what you’re thinking? That’s it? That’s your universe? You are a nasty piece of work, Angelina.”

  “What did you just say?”

  “You’re a nasty piece of work.” She stopped speaking as she felt her muscles shake with the onslaught of rage. “Do I need to repeat it?”

  “No, but maybe you can explain it.”

  “Sure. You know a man I loved was killed. You haven’t even expressed a sympathetic word.”

  “A man I loved, too, was killed, Ms. Rematti. And that man happened to be the President of the United States. And my husband.”

  “And you were the noble, stoic widow. The cool Jackie Kennedy of the twenty-first century, weren’t you?”

  “What’s your problem, Ms. Rematti? Are you losing your nerve?”

  “No, I’m losing my patience. I don’t trust you.”

  “And what do you mean by that?”

  “You’ve never told me that you know who Robert Calvaro really is or why he has such a connection to you that you find so deep.”

  “Robert Calvaro is Robert Calvaro.”

  “Or that you know who Hugo Salazar is.”

  “What is this? Hugo Salazar is Hugo Salazar. He works for Robert Calvaro. Anyhow, we’ve had this conversation.”

  “They aren’t who you think they are. You are not telling me the truth about what you know. You’re playing a dangerous game, Senator. Do men like this appeal to you?”

  “What can that possibly mean? Let’s not get unhinged.”

  “Stop playing games with me, Senator. Calvaro and Salazar aren’t apparitions who just appeared out of nowhere, South American oilmen with the power to direct unimaginable, untraceable money into super PACs that happen to believe you are the most desirable lady in all the land. They’re men who want you to be President because then you control the attention, or more precisely, the actions of the DEA, the FBI, the Border Patrols, the IRS. The quid, the pro, and the quo. And you know they would have no problem fabricating a background more credible than Pope Francis.”

  “You know what? I don’t think you really know who I am. You’ve been deranged by the last twenty-four hours. Or maybe the trial is too much for you; maybe you’re out of your depth. But you listen to me: I’m a United States Senator. I was the First Lady of the United States. I lost a husband to a terrorist bomber. That husband was the most popular President since Reagan. You are not my equal, not by any conceivable stretch of the imagination.”

  “I know that I’m a hired plumber here to fix a leak in your mansion.”

  “I’m not here to share grief counseling about lost husbands and lovers with you. Or about plumbing. This is not a sisterhood that we have. You are my hired servant. I’m here because I want to know how strong you are, how firm, how much of a ball-buster. It’s my life and my reputation that are at stake here. My future. My legacy. I need to save myself. You need to save me. You, in fact, need to do anything and everything to protect me. So, to be blunt, you—the legendary Raquel Rematti—don’t matter. I do.”

  Raquel asked, “Who is Lydia Guzman?”

  Despite all the icy fury she felt, Angelina was taken aback by the question. “What? A pole dancer? A Miami pop singer?”

  “She’s a juror.”

  “Great. I do well with Latina voters.”

  “Let me tell you something. Hunter Decker and the FBI believe Lydia Guzman is being paid a bribe to vote for your acquittal.”

  “Really. Best news I’ve heard in some time.”

  Raquel’s voice was controlled, sibilant and angry. “I need answers. I think you have the answers, but don’t want to tell the truth. Is she being bribed?”

  “Omertà,” Angelina coldly said. “It was you who taught me about omertà.”

  And, gathering her scarf and handbag, the Senator left Raquel’s office, to which she never returned.

  CHAPTER 23

  EVEN THOUGH RAQUEL Rematti was bold, assertive when necessary, and rarely fazed by anyone, she was impressed by Lydia Guzman. A genuinely exotic woman, Lydia was escorted by three beefy and bland U.S. Marshals into Naomi Goldstein’s grand private chambers. It struck Raquel that Lydia, a hair stylist, had probably never been in a room like this in her life, yet she strolled in with the same relaxed attitude she probably used when she entered the salon where she worked in the Bronx.

  Certainly, as Raquel intuitively knew, Lydia Guzman had never been suddenly plucked from a crowd of people—the other jurors—and brought into a closed room and asked to sit down among people like the paper-dry old federal judge, Hunter Decker, Raquel, Angelina Baldesteri, three anonymous young law clerks, and several men in nondescript, inexpensive suits standing along the wall.

  And yet Lydia showed no sign of confusion or concern. If anything, Raquel thought, Lydia’s face conveyed a “what-the-fuck-are-you-bothering-me-for” demeanor that Raquel, raised in that tough, working-class neighborhood in grimy Lawrence, Massachusetts, quietly and defiantly admired.

  Once the room was completely silent, Naomi Goldstein, not wearing her judge’s robe, said, “Good morning, Ms. Guzman. Thanks for seeing us.”

  Lydia simply raised her chin, waiting. No reciprocated greeting, no “Good mor
ning,” no “Yes, Your Honor,” no words at all.

  “Ms. Guzman, my only real work here is to ensure that the defendant, Ms. Baldesteri, has a fair trial. I have no views about guilt or innocence, or anything else. No stake in the outcome. Do you understand?”

  “What’s not to understand?” As if exasperated, Lydia repeated the same words in Spanish.

  The bewildered court reporter glanced at the judge. “I didn’t get those last words, Your Honor. I don’t understand Spanish, if that’s what it was.”

  Goldstein waved her heavily veined hand at the court reporter, saying to him, “No need to ask for a translation, Mr. Shaw. Ms. Guzman simply repeated what she had just said in English, isn’t that right, Ms. Guzman?”

  “I guess.”

  “Use English from now on, Ms. Guzman,” Goldstein said. “You don’t need an interpreter, do you?”

  “An interpreter? Don’t disrespect me. I still don’t know why I’m here. Tell me. And in English.”

  “At the beginning and end of each day’s testimony,” Goldstein said, herself unfazed by this unintimidated woman, “I remind everyone on the jury to keep an open mind only on the evidence they hear and see in the trial and not to be subject to any outside influences, such as newspaper, television, iPhones, Twitter. None of those.”

  Lydia said, “How many times have I heard you say that? Fifty?”

  “And I know you understand. However, it’s been brought to my attention that, from time to time, you’ve come into contact with a man whose face has appeared in at least one of the trial exhibits. In one of the pictures, the man is speaking to Ms. Baldesteri.”

  “I’ve seen lots of pictures at this trial. And I know lots of men. I go out dancing almost every night.”

  “At this point I’m not concerned with casual contact with other dancers, Ms. Guzman. Some of the men you see along the wall are FBI agents. They have pictures of you entering and leaving this particular man’s apartment.”

  “Wow, you know, sweet Jesus, I thought this was a free country. These goons must have lots of pictures of me entering and leaving men’s apartments. Are you joking? What kind of job do these guys have, following me around and taking pictures? It’s like sick, you know. Snooping. Sick stuff. What do you call it—stalking? And you knew about this?”

  “Have any of these men you’ve seen given you any money?”

  “Say that again?”

  “You heard me, Ms. Guzman.”

  Lydia was plainly angry, utterly undaunted by this old federal judge. “Men don’t give me money. Ever. Unless I color their hair at the salon. I work for any money I get.”

  “Has any woman given you money during this trial?”

  “Women pay me, like men do, when I work at the salon.” She glared at the judge. “How much of this mierde do I have to listen to?”

  Goldstein was impassive. “Let me show you a picture, Ms. Guzman,” Goldstein said, handing a glossy photograph to one of her young law clerks, who stood up and put it in front of Lydia. She didn’t even glance at it.

  Goldstein folded her hands. If she were angry or impatient, she didn’t show it. “I have to ask you to look at that picture, Ms. Guzman. That’s why I had it put there.”

  Lydia glanced down. “So,” she said, almost instantaneously pushing the picture away from her.

  “What is the name of the man in the picture with you?”

  “Hugo. Hugo Salazar.”

  “Where did you meet him?”

  “Dancing.”

  “Had you ever seen him before?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t you see him in a photograph marked as an exhibit at the trial?”

  “Like I said before, there’s been lots of pictures in this trial. I don’t memorize them.”

  Goldstein stared at her through her age-occluded eyes. After a long wait, she said, “I just have one more issue I want to address to you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Do you still believe, as you told us during jury selection, that you can keep an open mind and determine the facts solely on the basis of the evidence in court?”

  “Listen,” Lydia said, “I take this serious. It’s important. I never even heard the name Baldesteri before. I’m not even sure what a Senator is or does. I’m told her husband was President. If I ever thought about him, I guess I would have thought he would have a wife, and would’ve thought they had the same last name. I’m from Puerto Rico. I’m a citizen. Like you. I always knew that a citizen might also have to be doing this, be on a jury.”

  There was absolute silence in the room.

  “Very well, Ms. Guzman. You may leave. Thank you for your time. You can resume your seat on the jury.”

  Lydia didn’t move. “You know what? Now you wait a second. I’m not finished yet. I still want to know why it’s me and not anyone else who was brought in here. Is it because I’m a Latin woman?”

  “Of course not,” the judge calmly said. “There are pictures of this man in the trial. And the pictures of the same man with you. I had an obligation to ask you about this. It’s my job. You have your job, I have mine.”

  An expression of scorn on her face, Lydia stood. She went out alone. None of the U.S. Marshals who had escorted her left the room until after Lydia, almost slamming the door, was gone.

  * * *

  Naomi Goldstein slowly gazed around the room. “Do you have anything you want to say, Mr. Decker? You asked for this conference.”

  “No.” He glanced disapprovingly at Giordano and Curnin and the other FBI agents.

  “Ms. Rematti, is there anything you have to say?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Have you ever met this lady outside of the courtroom during the trial?”

  “What?” Raquel asked, surprised and indignant. “To be frank, Judge, I resent the question.”

  Goldstein had other glossy photographs spread out in front of her. The morning glare through the windows shining on the surfaces of the photographs made it impossible for anyone else in the room to see what they depicted. “Let’s get back to work,” Goldstein said.

  Although Raquel was angry, she concealed it with her customary expression of calmness. She led the way out of the room, followed by Hunter Decker, the U.S. Marshals, and the several FBI agents, including Giordano and Curnin. Raquel knew they were agents. At that point, she didn’t know their names. The Senator was the last to leave.

  * * *

  One of the photographs in front of Judge Naomi Goldstein showed Raquel, Hugo Salazar, and Lydia Guzman standing together. In the background, men and women were dancing at an after-hours club. Raquel, Hugo, and Lydia were not dancing. They were talking, not touching. No words were recorded. The picture was digitally dated a week earlier.

  CHAPTER 24

  HAYES SMITH’S BODY was flown back to New York two days after he was shot. Doctors performed an exhaustive, muscle-by-muscle, organ by-organ analysis. Just a day after the autopsy was complete, Willis Jordan—the Executive Producer of NBC Nightly News and, at least technically, Hayes’ boss—left a text message on Raquel’s iPhone during the day. The message read: Please call me when ur trial day is over. WJ

  As soon as the trial day was over and Raquel recovered her iPhone from the security station at the courthouse’s door, she took a taxi to her Riverside Drive apartment. She scrolled through her iPhone for Willis Jordan’s contact information. She pressed his name, and the magical instrument soon connected her directly to him. He was an intelligent and ambitious black man born into poverty in southern Georgia. A Harvard graduate, Willis spoke with that complete assurance endowed on him during four years on Harvard Yard, with just an endearing trace of a lilting rural Georgia accent. Hayes had genuinely liked and respected him. So, too, did Raquel.

  Willis spoke first. “Raquel, I should have called you before this. Hayes talked about you all the time. He loved you, young lady. I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you, Willis. He had tremendous respect and admiration for
you.”

  “He was a pleasure to be with. None of that prima donna stuff you see so often in people in this business.”

  “I know.” Raquel suddenly felt her throat swell and thicken, a sure sign of grief. Once again, she dwelled on the inescapable reality that she was alone now in the world because Hayes was dead. It was the reality of death: she would never see or touch him again.

  Willis said, “I do have something I need to tell you, Raquel. It’s difficult, and we don’t know what to make of it.”

  “Go ahead.” Her swelling throat made her ordinarily clear voice sound like a rasping whisper.

  “We sent him to Lesbos with a security detail. I didn’t pick any of them. We have a department here—all military veterans—that selects freelance security people to protect reporters when they are out of the country and in dangerous areas. On this trip there were at least ten who always kept Hayes in sight.”

  “Just before he left, he told me that. He said they were all veterans who had once worked for Blackwater, that company with mercenaries. I told him, jokingly, that was the part that most worried me.”

  “Well, I don’t know anything specific about what jobs they once had. But I do know one thing. They all were enthusiasts for a weapon—and I don’t know anything about guns—called TEC-DC9 automatic pistols. They’re apparently very rare.”

  Raquel simply waited, asking no questions, saying nothing.

  Willis was blunt. “The autopsy shows that the single bullet that killed Hayes was from a TEC-DC9.”

  “There were Greek soldiers there. Do they use TEC-DC9s?”

  “I asked that. No.”

  “Didn’t people in the refugee camp have guns?”

  “They do. The likelihood that any of them had a TEC-DC9 is low, low indeed. In any event,” Jordan added, “the kill shot was from close range.”

  “Are you,” Raquel slowly asked, “saying that someone in his security detail shot Hayes?”

  “I’ve asked that, of course. These were all supposedly battle-tested, thoroughly vetted pros. The FBI is in the process of talking to all of them.”