The Warriors

by Paul Batista

  Raquel said, “And on the velvet curtain in the background, in neon lights, is the name of the club. Batista y Batista. The club was once on Mercer Street, in the Village, near the Angelika Theater and Houston Street. That neighborhood is open all night—the tempo never subsides until dawn. You’re a good suburban husband and father. You probably have no idea where these places were or are, or how they look when the sun is coming up after a long night.”

  “Whoever would have thought Raquel Rematti knew the tempo of Lower Manhattan nightlife?”

  “Listen to me carefully, Hunter. Batista y Batista closed down five years ago. It’s been locked ever since. No one has taken any pictures of me or anyone else there at a party in five years.”

  He stared at Raquel, waiting for her to continue. She did: “And one other thing. When Curnin and Giordano or these idiots I assume are working for you left the Crawford Doyle neighborhood, I walked across the avenue and rummaged like a bag lady through the wastebasket they were stupid enough to throw the phony picture in, and I have it. They’re obviously not street-smart New Yorkers or they wouldn’t have left it so I could retrieve it. And no one but me will be able to find what is now my copy. I couldn’t stand George W., but he once said something interesting: I’ll do things at a time and place of my own choosing. And, Hunter, I can quote Shakespeare, too: King Lear said, There are things that I shall do, I know not what they are, but they shall be the terrors of earth. I’ll crucify you, Cardinal, if you ever try to use that picture against me. I have something you don’t have. Unlimited access to the press. That’s one benefit of fame. You may be royalty, but nobody knows your name.”

  Balancing her cafeteria tray, she stood up and walked to the brightly colored, segregated trash bins, slid the debris into the narrow holes of the garbage containers, and neatly stacked the tray on the top of one of the containers.

  * * *

  As soon as he saw her leaving the cafeteria, Hunter Decker tapped the speed dial of his cell phone. And he spoke, “Do you idiots want to tell me what you’ve been up to?”

  CHAPTER 29

  AS THEY WAITED tensely at the defense table for Naomi Goldstein to emerge into the courtroom, Raquel whispered, “You have one last chance not to do this. If you get up on that stand, you’re in free fall. Maybe you’ll alight in the Land of Oz like the Good Witch of the West and with an emerald wand and ruby-red slippers. Or maybe you’ll crash and burn. Once it starts, I can’t stop it.”

  Angelina, not bothering to whisper, said, “What are you afraid of? How many times do I have to tell you that my mind is settled, I’m clear, I make the decisions. You know the questions, I know the answers. No one, but no one, is going to accuse me of cutting and running.”

  “I’m through,” Raquel said, “giving you lectures that you have a Fifth Amendment right not to testify.”

  “I knew that in the second grade. I’m not a fool. The Fifth Amendment is the kiss of death for politicians.”

  “And for most defendants, testifying is the kiss of death as well. Once you take the first step, you can’t pick and choose the questions you want to answer and those you don’t.”

  Impatiently, Angelina said, “You’re repeating yourself. You’ve told me that before.”

  Raquel pulled away ever so slightly. “You’re doing this against my advice.”

  “That,” Angelina said, “is my decision. Final, end of story. And who are you worried about? Me or you?”

  “Don’t ask me stupid, insulting questions. I’m worried about the cross-examination. I have no way of controlling what Decker will ask you on cross. I can’t just say Game over if things get dicey.”

  What Raquel really wanted to say was that she knew Angelina Baldesteri was a consummate liar. And Raquel had the same obligations that, in theory, every lawyer had: not to permit willingly a client under oath to lie, and that if Raquel knew the Senator was lying, to let the judge know that.

  The commanding baritone of Cyrus Johnson, the courtroom bailiff, resonated through the cavernous room as the door to Naomi Goldstein’s chambers opened and the woman began to climb the three steps to her bench.

  “All rise,” Johnson commanded like a Marine drill sergeant, which was precisely what he had once been. “The court is in session. United States versus Baldesteri.”

  Even though the resplendent, newly renovated courtroom was filled with light on this bright morning, Naomi Goldstein clicked on her reading lamp. “Mr. Johnson, I understand all the jurors are here. Would you please have them brought in?”

  The now-familiar men and women filed obediently, like tired schoolchildren, into their assigned seats. They never spoke to each other. Their clothes were the usual motley assortment of the casual attire of people on vacation waiting at the airport, except for the chic styling of Lydia Guzman.

  Formal as always, Naomi Goldstein announced, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I hope you enjoyed your evenings.”

  There was no response, just a rustle of slight movement.

  Goldstein then adjusted the slender neck of her microphone and spoke to Raquel Rematti and Angelina Baldesteri. “I now want to ask the defendant some questions. Ms. Baldesteri, will you stand, please?”

  The two slender women stood. Raquel was slightly taller than the Senator. Behind them every seat in the large gallery was filled. The Secret Service agents, normally unobtrusive, stood, too, but they faced the men and women in the gallery rather than looking forward toward the lawyers and the judge as they usually did. Raquel had learned over the months of their presence as part of the background scenery of her life that Secret Service agents concentrated on people’s hands, not on their faces, since it was a hand that represented the most obvious possibility of danger. The intent of eyes was difficult to read. Far more easily predictable were the movements of hands.

  “Ms. Baldesteri,” Naomi Goldstein began, “please understand that I am about to ask you formal but important questions I ask every defendant at this stage of a criminal trial. I want the jury and everyone else to understand that as well. You’re not under oath. Nothing I will ask you, nor will anything you say, have any bearing on guilt or innocence. It’s simply the case that the rules that govern my role as a judge require me to pose some questions and satisfy myself that you understand the juncture we’ve now reached. I have no opinion about anything. I’m not the trier-of-fact. The jurors are. Nothing I am about to ask or say should suggest to anyone that I have any views or impressions. I don’t.”

  In her remarkably calm, typically poised voice, Angelina answered, “I understand.”

  The jurors had until now heard her voice, at least in this courtroom, only on surreptitiously recorded tapes, not live. Some of them, possibly all of them, had for years heard her voice on television shows, radio interviews, speeches, documentaries—any number of the myriad ways that, in the era of computers, live-streaming, and digital technology, the voices of famous people had become as familiar as the voices of family members, coworkers, and lovers.

  “You understand that the Government has rested its case against you, don’t you, ma’am?”

  “I do.”

  “You understand that it was, and remains, the Government’s sole responsibility to prove a defendant’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt?”

  “I do.”

  “You understand that you are entitled at all times to the presumption of innocence?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You understand that you are not required to prove anything?”

  “I know.”

  “You understand that you and Ms. Rematti are not required to present a single witness?”

  “Yes.”

  “Or put forward a single document or any other type of evidence?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that you are entirely free not to testify?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that if you do not testify, I will instruct the jury that it is not allowed to draw any inference against you for that?”

/>   “Yes.”

  “And that you have that right because the Fifth Amendment to our Constitution gives you, just as it gives everyone, the right to remain silent?”

  “Yes.”

  “You understand that if you do testify, however, you will be under oath to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

  “I do.”

  “And you understand that if you do testify, the prosecution will have the right to cross-examine you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that the prosecution can ask you any question, if I deem the question relevant, that it may choose to ask to discredit you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that if you and Ms. Rematti put on any evidence, whether you testify or not, the Government has an absolute right to put on rebuttal evidence, including witnesses, documents, recordings and the like, that it elected not to use before this point and which it’s foreclosed from using now unless you put on a defense?”

  “Certainly.”

  “And that if you elect, as is your right, to put on no evidence now, we will move to the lawyers’ summations and my jury instructions and that the jury will then retire to deliberate?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that I will instruct the jury that any decision it might ever reach to convict you must be unanimous? That you cannot be convicted unless every juror believes that the Government has proven its case beyond any reasonable doubt?”

  “I understand.”

  “And that I will instruct the jury that each of them must use his or her own independent judgment and not be swayed to abandon that judgment even if every other juror reaches a different conclusion? In other words, that what happens in that jury room is not a political balloting?”

  “I understand.”

  Goldstein paused. For the first time she glanced at Raquel. “Ms. Rematti, is there anything else you suggest I ask your client?”

  “Ask whether the Senator has considered these issues before.”

  Goldstein glanced from Raquel to the Senator.

  “This is not the first time you’ve considered these issues, is that right, Ms. Baldesteri?”

  “That’s correct.”

  Goldstein directed her gaze at Hunter Decker. “Do you have any suggestions?”

  “No.”

  “Very well, then,” Goldstein whispered, leaning backward. “Ms. Rematti, what is your client’s intention?”

  Without hesitating and without sitting, Raquel said distinctly, “The defense calls Senator Angelina Baldesteri to the stand.”

  CHAPTER 30

  THE SENATOR WALKED to the witness stand as if she were striding forward to a stage to accept a nomination. She did everything but give a victory wave to a convention. As she stood next to the witness chair, she waited for Naomi Goldstein to run through her familiar, almost religious ritual. “Do you swear or affirm to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  “I do.”

  As Angelina settled into the witness seat, Raquel remembered that one of the messages she had conveyed to her client was Be humble. Raquel now thought, Well, that’s another suggestion out the window.

  From that unbridgeable gulf of thirty feet that always separated Raquel from a witness, and as Angelina stared expectantly at her lawyer, Raquel finally asked, “Ms. Baldesteri, you’re employed, are you not?”

  “I am.”

  “As what?”

  “I’m a United States Senator from the State of New York.”

  “How long have you held that job?”

  “Seven years.”

  “Had you held a job before that?”

  “I did. I once some time ago taught economics at the University of Texas.”

  “I take it you have college and graduate degrees?”

  “I have a bachelor’s degree in economics from a college in Massachusetts. Wellesley, a small college for women.”

  “And graduate school?”

  “Yes. Yale University in Connecticut. A doctorate degree.”

  “Also in economics?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ms. Baldesteri, are you married?”

  “Not for several years. My husband died.”

  “How long ago did your husband die?”

  “Nine years ago.”

  “Your husband was the President of the United States, correct?”

  “He was.”

  “And he was murdered?”

  “He was.”

  “How long were you married to President Young?”

  “Seven years.”

  “Did you have children?”

  “No, none.”

  “Stepchildren?”

  “No, I was the President’s only wife.”

  “Ms. Baldesteri, did you ever hold an elective office before you became a Senator?”

  “No. All I ever wanted before meeting Jimmy Young was to be a teacher.”

  “Let’s step back for a second. Please tell the jury where you were born.”

  “Jefferson Parish, Louisiana. I was raised there. I left when I went to college in Massachusetts.”

  The rhythm of testimony: it was always important, Raquel told her students, no matter how well known your client was, to create an intimate back-and-forth when he or she started to testify. Anyone, Raquel said, could be and had to be humanized, had to be made tangible and real and, if possible, sympathetic to jurors. Even when the client was once the First Lady of the United States. Or even a dedicated, murderous member of a Ukrainian gang.

  “Did your father work while you were growing up?”

  “He was an oysterman. He fished for oysters.”

  “How long did your father work as an oyster fisherman in Louisiana?”

  “Until he was seventy-five. And then he had to stop because of the oil blowout years ago in the Gulf of Mexico. The Louisiana coast became a no-man’s land.”

  “Was he working as an oysterman when you were the First Lady of the United States?”

  “He was. The yield was gradually coming back by then. He wanted to go back to work.”

  “How old is your father?”

  Hunter Decker at last stood. “Objection.”

  Naomi Goldstein didn’t glance at him. “Overruled.”

  Baldesteri said, “Eighty-three.”

  “Is he here today? Is he in this room?” Raquel asked.

  “Objection.”

  “Overruled.”

  “He is.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She passed. Years ago. My daddy raised me.”

  “Let me ask you this, Senator: You know why you’re here, correct?”

  “I do.”

  “And that’s because you are accused of crimes, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the list of these crimes is something called an indictment, isn’t that right?”

  “It is.”

  “And you heard that indictment read to the jurors by Judge Goldstein at the start of the trial?”

  “I did. It was painful to hear, Ms. Rematti. I had read it all before, but I knew the judge was doing what the law required her to do.”

  “And you heard Mr. Decker and his team five weeks ago give opening statements about what they intended to do to prove that you did those things?”

  “Yes, I did, Ms. Rematti. Every word. This is my life, this is my reputation, this is my integrity, this is my liberty. So I listened to every word.”

  “And you heard me speak in my opening statement to the men and women on the jury?”

  “I did.”

  “You never saw any of these jurors before, is that right?”

  Attentive and calm, Angelina Baldesteri said, “I may have. I ran for the Senate twice. I met as many men and women and children as I could all through the State of New York who wanted to see me and ask me questions, and I answered them. So, in a way, all of these people are familiar to me.”

  Raquel knew the Senator was hard to control
, but she also acknowledged she had to give Angelina Baldesteri a range of freedom to be herself. Raquel was a realist, not an egoist, a seasoned evaluator of the endless varieties of men and women, including people like Angelina, who had been her clients. Raquel had to be flexible, a skillful reactor to the nuances of other people. And, in Angelina Baldesteri, she had to concede something else. The Senator had a skill, a dimension, a talent, an instinct, that had led millions of people to vote for her. Raquel had once said to one of her paralegals, a slender man with spiky orange hair, “No one would ever vote for me for dog-catcher. But I do have a skill even though I can’t add two plus three. And that skill? I could have represented Einstein without ever knowing his general theory of relativity. Baldesteri has her own skills. I have to give those skills some range.”

  Now Raquel smiled gently at the Senator. “But, it’s fair to say, isn’t it, Ms. Baldesteri, that you have no recollection of ever meeting or speaking directly to any of these men and women in the jury box?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And when each of them told Judge Goldstein weeks ago that none of them had ever spoken to you directly, or seen you face-to-face, you never doubted that, correct?”

  “No. And you know what, Ms. Rematti, I only wanted men and women who would put aside any thought they ever had about me, if they ever had any thought about me. Just to put it aside. To think only about what they heard, saw, touched, experienced in this courtroom.”

  “You agreed with Judge Goldstein?”

  “I certainly did and do, Ms. Rematti. I’m an innocent woman. I never did anything Mr. Decker has said I did, and never knew any of the things he said I knew.”

  Raquel heard an abrupt snort of derision from the prosecution table. Hunter Decker cast a cold eye in the direction of one of the women lawyers to his left.

  Raquel Rematti, the master of exploitation of the unexpected, said without visibly reacting to the snort of contempt even though she was certain it would have a negative impact on the jurors, “Senator, do you know Gordon Hughes?”

  “I do.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  “Almost eleven years.”