The Warriors

by Paul Batista

  “Who has their guns?”

  “The FBI. All of the weapons have been examined. They were all used. Which is not surprising. There was a tremendous amount of gunfire. You heard it and saw it on the tapes.”

  “No, actually, I haven’t looked at any of it. I never will.”

  “I surely understand that.”

  Raquel’s typical strength was reasserting itself. “Let me cut through this, Willis. Are you saying that one of Hayes’ guards killed him?”

  “No, I’m not saying that. No one is sure. Or at least no one is saying so. While there’s a lot of film footage, not all of the guards are in it.”

  “What about the ones who used their guns?”

  “Two of them are in the footage. They were close to Hayes, kind of like defensive linemen, and they are all facing away from him, shooting at the Greeks or at the refugees or into the air.”

  “And was one of them next to Hayes?”

  “Yes. He’s not in any of the footage. Actually, it was a she—she says she was at the perimeter of the group. Apparently, their training is to form protective rings rather than all gather together.”

  “What does she say?”

  “Her weapon only fired one shot. She says she aimed and fired at the ground just in front of one of the refugees who had jumped over the razor-wire cyclone fence around the camp. According to her, the man jumped right back as soon as her bullet kicked up dirt.”

  Raquel was staring out at the darkness of Riverside Park as she spoke. In the deepening dark there were strands of street lamps, and on the sinuous walkways there were men and women holding hands, men holding other men’s hands, fathers, mothers and nannies pushing strollers, boys balanced on skateboards, innumerable runners, and bicyclists. Everything was as it normally would be on a mild spring night.

  Yet Raquel, who loved to gaze out at all that vitality of living while the majestic Hudson flowed in the background, stepped away from the open window.

  “If you learn anything more, Willis, you’ll let me know, promise?”

  “Sure thing, Raquel. Is there anything we can do for you now? I don’t have to remind you we’re a big organization. You are a single warrior.”

  “I can take care of myself, Willis. Thanks for calling. You didn’t have to.”

  “Come on, what else could I do? We’re always here for you. Tell me you know that.” It was a sincere, beguiling, confidence-inspiring drawl. It alleviated her fear while she heard it.

  “I know that, Willis.”

  “One last thing for now, Raquel. Hayes was a worldwide celebrity.”

  “Honestly, Willis. He hated those words.”

  “I know he did. He wore his fame like a loose garment, not a chain-mail armor.”

  “This sounds odd, because he might have been able to use a chain-mail outfit in Lesbos, but he was grace personified. So, no chain-mail outfit for him.”

  “There is one other thing, Raquel.”

  “What?”

  “Teddy Franks wants to arrange for NBC to do a huge, tasteful memorial for Hayes at Riverside Church up in Harlem, near the Columbia campus.”

  Teddy Franks was the President of all the NBC News and entertainment divisions. It might be that Rupert Murdoch was more powerful in the television news world than Teddy Franks, but not by much.

  Raquel said, “That can’t happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “Did you know that Hayes had two estranged brothers still living on the prairie in South Dakota where they grew up? Hayes was the youngest. One of them is a small-town pharmacist. The other doesn’t work. He’s an opioid addict. Hayes sent both of them money every month.”

  “What’s the problem? We’ll bring them here.”

  “They never wanted to meet me. Must have been something about my last name. Too Italian for them, I guess. They’re the only two people mentioned in his will. Even though he hadn’t seen them for ten years, they have all the power. Beneficiaries, executors, trustees, even the decision-makers on memorial services and burials. They want him buried, with no muss and no fuss, next to their daddy on the Dakota badlands. They have an old lawyer—their daddy’s former law partner—who’s made all the arrangements to fly Hayes’ body right away to South Dakota. That’s what’s happening even as we speak, Willis.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me? I’m a cypher. I don’t have what we lawyers call ‘standing to do or say anything.’”

  “No,” Willis said. “You’re a goddess. But I’m sorry, so sorry to hear all this. It must hurt.”

  “You know, Willis, it does. That’s our secret.”

  “Raquel,” Willis said, “you be careful.”

  “Always,” she answered.

  * * *

  She walked to her dining room table, where she had left her shoulder-carried briefcase. She took out the Ruger; a bullet-filled magazine was locked firmly in place.

  The last person who told me to be careful, she thought, was Juan Suarez.

  CHAPTER 25

  “THE MONEY ARRIVED in cash, Ms. Rematti.”

  Raquel continued, “How often, Mr. Ramos?”

  Jacinto Ramos, in a Brooks Brothers suit and a red-and-white regimental tie, looked more like a bank teller in a small town than the manager of a Chase branch on Park Avenue. “At least once a week. Sometimes more often.”

  “Over how long a period?”

  “Starting more than sixteen months ago.”

  “And when did that end?”

  “When the Senator was indicted.”

  “And you testified when Mr. Decker examined you that there was, as I think you said, something nontraditional about the deposits, is that correct?”

  “There was.”

  “What was that?”

  “They were all in cash. And they were all between $9,000 and $9,998 in a variety of denominations.”

  “And by that you mean bills? Ten-dollar bills, twenty-dollar bills, one-hundred-dollar bills?”

  “Yes, cash.”

  “And you knew that it was done that way to fabricate a reason not to have to fill out and file with the IRS a Currency Transaction Report, correct?”

  “I knew that. I knew that if I didn’t—if the bank didn’t—file a CTR, then the person who delivered the money had to do that.”

  “And the arrangement you had was that no one filed a CTR?”

  “Right.”

  “And you were the person to whom the cash was delivered?”

  “Always.”

  “You weren’t a teller at the window, were you?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “You were the regional branch manager of a branch with fifty-three people who reported to you?”

  “I was.”

  “Did you accept cash deposits for any other account?”

  “No. Only for the CTEB account.”

  “The Committee to Elect Baldesteri, is that right?”

  “That was the name on the account opening statement.”

  “You had no idea what those words really represented, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Who brought the cash to you?”

  “Almost invariably, as I told Mr. Decker, a man named Salazar.”

  “So, whenever this man entered your branch, he went to your office and handed cash to you?”

  “Yes. My office was at the back of the main service floor. Everyone knew this man Salazar had the right to walk into my office any time he wanted to. The bank has what are called ‘Personal Wealth Clients.’ He was certainly one of them.”

  “Did you ever speak to him?”

  “Just pleasantries.”

  “Pleasantries? Such as How are you? Good morning? Good afternoon?”

  “Just that. I knew why he was there, he knew why I was there. We had no need to talk.”

  “And you deposited the cash into the CTEB account?”

  “I did. I made out the deposit slips for the CTEB account. Salazar didn’t want to put his handwriting on anyt
hing or touch any paper. He discreetly slipped on plastic gloves as soon as he walked into my office. He only touched the bills if he had the gloves on.”

  “And you prepared Currency Transaction Reports each time?”

  “I did.”

  “But you never submitted them to the IRS, correct, sir?”

  “No, I created them for the bank’s records only so that the bank’s internal auditors could see them.”

  “But they were never for the full amount Mr. Salazar handed you, isn’t that right?”

  “They weren’t.”

  “That’s because your original deal with Mr. Calvaro was the seven percent solution, isn’t that what you told the jury?”

  “Correct. I kept seven percent of every deposit.”

  “And you thought this nutty arrangement would work?”

  “I did at the time.”

  “But it didn’t work, correct?”

  “As it turned out, no, it didn’t.”

  “But you did get a real benefit from it, didn’t you?”

  “Did I? I had to turn over all the cash and penalties to the Justice Department. I lost my job.”

  “You were given immunity from prosecution, weren’t you, for testifying here against Senator Baldesteri, isn’t that right?”

  “Is that a benefit?”

  “Listen to me, sir. You committed, according to what you’ve said here, money laundering, bank fraud, tax evasion, theft, but you’ll never have a criminal record, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you’ll never go to jail, correct?”

  “No.”

  “And that’s not a benefit to you?”

  “It is, Ms. Rematti. In a way.”

  “You had a lawyer who worked out that benefit for you, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who was that lawyer?”

  “George Harper.”

  “And Mr. Harper until a year ago was the Attorney General of the United States?”

  “He was.”

  “Under President Spellman?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How did it happen that Mr. Harper became your lawyer?”

  Ramos glanced warily at the prosecution table. “Mr. Decker recommended him.”

  “When?”

  “After I was arrested.”

  “Was it after you decided to cooperate with the Government?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know it is unethical for a prosecutor to recommend a lawyer?”

  Hunter Decker’s voice was sharper than usual: “Objection.”

  Always surprising, Naomi Goldstein said, “Overruled. Go ahead, Mr. Ramos—you can answer Ms. Rematti’s question if you know the answer.”

  “I thought so,” Ramos said. “But I didn’t feel I could disregard Mr. Decker.”

  “Did Mr. Decker tell you that his referring you to a lawyer was an ethical problem for Mr. Decker himself?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t pay Mr. Harper for the work he did to get this benefit for you, did you?”

  “No. He never asked to be paid.”

  “And you don’t know who paid him, do you?”

  “I’ve always assumed it was the bank.”

  Pointing at Angelina Baldesteri, Raquel asked, “Mr. Ramos, do you see the woman at the table where I was seated when Mr. Decker was examining you?”

  “I do.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Senator Baldesteri.”

  “You never spoke to her, did you?”

  “Never.”

  “You were never in the same room with her until now, were you?”

  “Never.”

  “She never saw you, correct?”

  “Never. Not until now.”

  “As far as you know, the CTEB account could have been for anything, right?”

  “I only know the name Committee to Elect Baldesteri because that was the name Mr. Calvaro at the beginning told me to arrange to put on the account’s outgoing checks and on any wiring instructions when money was sent out of the account. This is when he mentioned that Mr. Salazar would always be the courier.”

  “Senator Baldesteri had no authority to have money wired out of that account, did she?”

  “No.”

  “Or to write checks out of it?”

  “No.”

  “Or to come to the bank and withdraw money?”

  “No.”

  Raquel had an expression of genuine contempt on her face.

  “Does it trouble you, Mr. Ramos, that you’re a thief, a liar, a cheat, and that you are here to ruin another person’s life?”

  Naomi Goldstein raised her voice, but just slightly. “Don’t answer that question, sir. Ms. Rematti, withdraw that question.”

  Calmly, Raquel said, “Withdrawn.”

  She had done what she wanted to do. The jury had heard her words. She sat down.

  CHAPTER 26

  IT WAS A remarkably mild late May afternoon. Although Raquel’s meetings with Angelina Baldesteri were still taking place at the end of each trial day, they now ended quickly, after only a few desultory words. Raquel couldn’t recall a time when she had developed more of a dislike for a client. Baldesteri shared the dislike even though she had confidence in Raquel’s ability. The Senator said, “You scored points today,” before she left, trailing behind her the Secret Service detail. Raquel was relieved to see her go, as if a troublesome mosquito had conveniently flown out an open window.

  As during most of her trials, Raquel, who often ran on the curving drives of Riverside Park, had done almost no exercise other than carrying her own heavy litigation bag and the shoulder-carried valise in which she deposited her makeup, a notebook and pen, as well as now the Ruger and the extra bullet magazines.

  She decided to walk at least part of the way to her apartment. She slipped off her signature high-heeled shoes and put on her new suede slip-ons.

  Before she left the office, Raquel methodically turned off all the office lights and closed the computers, which could be restarted only with the code symbol: SmithHayes007.

  Her last act before she locked the expensive glass door to her office suite was to look into the shoulder bag to check again that the Ruger was there. It was, as were its extra magazines. The sight of them was always a source of relief.

  * * *

  She loved Madison Avenue and, without planning, she found herself walking briskly uptown. A mild flow of cleansing wind flowed over her. She wasn’t drawn to the stores on Madison, although from 57th Street to 96th Street the avenue was lined with world-famous small shops, all burnished and elegant, like Parisian boutiques. What attracted her was the magic of the natural geography on the avenue’s gradual upward rise toward Carnegie Hill and the trees allowing the sky’s incandescent light to fill the air. And, of course, there were always the crowds of walkers, all well dressed, many European, but over the last few years many Asian as well. Conversations she briefly heard were in French, Italian, German, Mandarin, Korean, and others she didn’t recognize.

  Tonight there was a freedom that the fast walk gave her, which she recognized as joy. Although a devoted Roman Catholic, a frequent Sunday Mass-goer who derived peace from the incense-scented and quiet interiors of churches and the comforting predictability of the Mass, she paused briefly at the steps of the modest but beautiful Saint James Episcopal Church, with its exterior of weather-pocked, dark-red, and hewn sandstone, at 71st and Madison. There were homeless people, as usual, on the steps. She put ten dollars each in the empty paper coffee cups at their feet. One spoke in a distinctive, cultured voice: “God bless you.” The other two were silent, unresponsive.

  Raquel stopped at the corner, one block away, at 72nd Street, a crosstown street, where traffic rushed by in both directions. To her left, as she waited for the light to change, she could see the thick early green foliage of Central Park. The last time she had glanced at the park weeks earlier from the windows of Hayes’ apartment with its panoramic
view of the entire park, the trees bore only buds that still looked wintry.

  Years in New York—and the unexpected, always upsetting sight of too many collisions between people and cars in which the cars always won—had made Raquel a docile watcher of street signals. It may have been, she thought, her only remaining obedient Catholic schoolgirl habit. So only when the light changed at the broad intersection of 72nd and Madison did she step off the sidewalk. Before the change of signals, at least a dozen self-absorbed men and women were already walking through the intersection, utterly focused and transfixed on texting on their cell phones in the midst of hurtling yellow cabs.

  As she approached the middle of the intersection, she heard a man’s polite voice over her shoulder. “My God,” he said, “you’re not only generous to the poor but obedient to the street rules.”

  She turned slightly to glance at him. He was comely: neatly dressed, tall, but with short blond hair like a Midwestern schoolboy except that just above his left ear were two small zigzag shapes deeply cut into his hair and distinctly visible. They were a symbol of something. And that something eluded Raquel. Not really intending it, she laughed, saying, “Didn’t anyone ever tell you street pickups are almost impossible in Manhattan?”

  “Really? I did get your attention. But your email address and cell number would be even better.”

  She was almost flattered as she made her way to the northern sidewalk. He was at least ten years younger than she. The man continued to walk behind her. He couldn’t see her smile.

  As soon as she stepped up on the sidewalk, another attractive man in a suit and the short-shorn haircut with the small zigzag etching in his hair was waiting for her; everyone around him was walking, most in a hurry. The man behind her stopped. Suddenly she was between them, halted as well. The new man said, “We need to talk with you, Ms. Rematti.”

  “And who are you? And who is your handsome friend?”

  “We’re FBI agents.”

  “I’m Mother Teresa.”

  And she began to walk, pushing her way between the two men. They didn’t resist. They let her pass, following her, one on each side. “Do I need to call 911?” she asked.

  The man who first spoke said, “Your cell is in your shoulder bag. Take out the cell and call the police if you want. The phone is next to your Ruger. If we see it, we’ll have to arrest you.”