The Warriors

by Paul Batista

  Hugo then found the expensive Chanel bag Lydia had bought at Saks with three thousand dollars he had given her two weeks earlier. She had treasured the bag. He emptied it out on the kitchen counter and spread out the contents: lipstick, makeup, keys, aspirin, a condom packet, and sixteen one-hundred-dollar bills. He took all the cash. He tossed the rest of the contents back into the Chanel bag.

  Her new diamond-studded iPhone was on the dining room table. He slipped it into his pocket, knowing that he would soon crush it on the street and throw the pieces into a series of public trash cans. He wanted no traces of himself or Lydia anywhere. Oscar Caliente had arranged for one of his technical experts to insert a sliver of a chip in each cell phone that would at all times track their movements and locations.

  It was yet again time for Hugo Salazar to disappear into another life and another name.

  CHAPTER 34

  BEFORE DAWN ON Monday morning, Raquel Rematti routinely tapped the icons on her iPad for the New York Times, the New York Post, and the New York Daily News. Checking the headlines had become part of her morning ritual, like brushing her teeth, even before she made her Spartan breakfast of hard-boiled eggs, toast, and coffee. Her months with Hayes Smith had imbued her with that habit.

  The perfectly illuminated iconography of the front pages of both the Post and the Daily News displayed almost identical headlines, and they instantly arrested her attention. From the Post: Angie Juror Dead on Coke OD. And from the News: Juror 12 OD. Raquel then turned on the two local all-news stations, WCBS and WINS, which she normally avoided like a plague because of their merciless, loud, and repetitive advertising, instead of her usual NPR station.

  As she ate, showered, and dressed, she heard the stream of excited, clashing announcers’ voices and recurrent words: “A Hispanic juror … a woman, a Bronx beautician found dead on Sunday morning in the bathroom of a luxurious penthouse in Midtown … NYPD detectives and FBI agents investigating …”

  Several times she tried, with no success, to reach Angelina Baldesteri. Everything Raquel sent had gone unanswered: voice mails, text messages, emails, messenger notifications on the private messenger screen on Facebook. She had even gone to the reception desk at the Waldorf, where she was told by the hotel’s security staff that information as to the Senator couldn’t be released. “But I’m her lawyer,” Raquel had said. And in response they gave her a wordless, implacable smile.

  In reaching out to Angelina, Raquel had several purposes—a tongue-lashing about the blatant lies regarding Robert Calvaro’s nights at the Waldorf, a speech about the unspeakable stupidity of carrying on a relationship with Calvaro in the first place, a loud reminder as to how Angelina’s wiseass arrogance led her to take the stand in the first place, and a lecture on how, from Raquel’s standpoint after years in this very arcane and difficult business, Angelina would likely have won the case without putting on any kind of defense since, in Raquel’s view, there was no proof beyond a reasonable doubt that the Senator had given directions to anyone to divert money, to mask the source of funds, or to sign intentionally false filings. Raquel privately believed all of that was true and that the Senator had in fact done all those things, but proof beyond a reasonable doubt was altogether a different issue.

  And now Raquel had the urgent need to talk about the overdose death of the exotic Lydia Guzman. And the bribery.

  Raquel had even taken her pristine and rarely used black Porsche—her gift to herself after she was miraculously told she was at last free of cancer—from the parking garage on the far West Side across 96th Street to the glittering Triboro Bridge on the East Side. Guided by the voice on the GPS unit of the powerful car, she drove north off the first exit of the bridge to the New York State Thruway. It was only a fifteen-minute drive to Larchmont. Raquel drove through the bucolic suburban streets to 45 Forrest Avenue. The Tudor-style house that was the Senator’s official, but illusory, New York residence was empty.

  Normally not a news junkie, Raquel listened for hours to multiple sources of information. She talked to no one. She returned none of the dozens of messages she received by email, cell phone, and text. She would only respond to the Senator if she ever made contact.

  She was riveted by only one item of information. “We believe,” the FBI director for the New York region said in an interview on WCBS, “that Ms. Guzman was a frequent user of cocaine. But we are not yet identifying this as a drug overdose. That is because preliminary reports indicate that the lethal substance ricin was interlaced in the cocaine in her body.”

  * * *

  It was eight thirty on Monday morning when Raquel next saw Angelina Baldesteri, and it happened in the courtroom. Naomi Goldstein’s young, efficient law clerk, whose job was to make sure that the judge had the papers and water and other things she might need, had the email addresses in case of an emergency of all the lawyers, the jurors, and Angelina. Goldstein, old-fashioned as she was, but alert enough to be drawn somewhat into the digital world, had arranged to send out through her law clerk a message that she would like the lawyers and the Senator in her courtroom thirty minutes earlier than the jurors were expected to arrive.

  Raquel was seated alone at eight fifteen at the defense table when she heard behind her the sharp clicking of Angelina’s high heels accompanied by the soft shuffle of the Secret Service agents’ comfortable rubber-soled shoes.

  Raquel did not turn to look at her client. She simply waited for the Senator to take the wooden seat beside her. Angelina didn’t say good morning. Nor did Raquel. They didn’t even glance at each other.

  Raquel, pretending to make notes on a pad, spoke first. “Where were you this weekend?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I reached out to you in every possible way. You never got back to me.”

  “I was busy. There were many campaign issues I had to deal with.”

  Still staring at the almost hieroglyphic markings on her pad, and without looking up, Raquel said, “Your campaign? Tell me: Are you in this world?”

  “You have only one world, Raquel. I have many.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that you don’t know that the twelfth juror, Lydia Guzman, died of an overdose?”

  “I know that.”

  “And didn’t you think we might have things we needed to discuss? There are no more alternate jurors. This is unprecedented, it raises dangerous issues.”

  “We have enough time to talk now,” Angelina said.

  “No, we don’t. Goldstein will be calling us all—Decker, the other prosecutors, you, me—into her chambers soon.” Irritation in her expression, she finally glanced at Angelina. “And besides, as you can see, I’ve got notes in front of me for a letter I have to write to another judge for another client. All my clients are equally important to me. You are not my Alpha and Omega.”

  The Senator abruptly stood up and walked to the courtroom windows overlooking the bright, sun-glinting surface of the East River. She said nothing as Hunter Decker and his six assistants entered the courtroom like a platoon of well-disciplined, grim soldiers.

  Cyrus Johnson, the massive bailiff, signaled all of them by banging on the door with his boxer’s palm to follow him to the judge’s chambers.

  In her chambers, the never-changing Naomi Goldstein, always in a simple black dress, was already seated at the head of her immense table covered with orderly files from this and other cases. Decker and his staff knew they were expected to sit at her right. Raquel and Angelina were in the chairs at her left. Just behind the judge was the court reporter.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Goldstein began.

  There was a responsive murmur of voices, barely audible. Angelina didn’t say a word.

  Goldstein glanced at the mute court reporter, who began to type as soon as the judge said, “We are on the record in United States v. Angelina Baldesteri. Present in chambers are the defendant, together with her attorney Raquel Rematti, and Hunter Decker, the United States Attorney for the Southern District
of New York, together with six of his prosecuting assistants.”

  Goldstein referenced words on a sheet of paper in front of her. “It has been brought to my attention that the last of the twelve jurors, Lydia Guzman, died over the weekend. Mr. Decker, is that information correct?”

  “It is.”

  “Let me be clear,” Goldstein said. “It is not the court’s concern as to how Ms. Guzman died, although, of course, I have sympathy for her family and friends. Instead, my concern is that death’s impact on this trial. When we selected a jury, there were eighteen men and women seated and sworn as jurors. In other words, there were six alternate jurors. My concern at the time, as in all criminal trials, was that there were seated jurors who might have to be excused as the long trial progressed. And in fact, as it turned out, we had six jurors who had to be excused for a variety of legitimate reasons, such as illness. All of those reasons for excusals were set forth on the record at the time they happened. I just want to say, possibly unnecessarily, that in all my years on the bench I have never had more than six alternate jurors for a criminal trial. It is not and never has been my practice to excuse any seated juror for anything less than compelling reasons.”

  No one else spoke. Raquel knew that even Naomi Goldstein, as a federal judge with tenure for life, was protecting herself. She was building what lawyers called a “record.” Even judges needed a record if there were appeals because no trial judge was happy with a reversal from the appeals court.

  Goldstein continued, “The Senator, like all defendants, is absolutely entitled to a jury of twelve of her peers. And the law also gives her the right to require that the Government prove her guilt beyond a reasonable doubt to all of those twelve jurors. If even a single juror is not persuaded of her guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, then Ms. Baldesteri cannot be convicted.” She stopped briefly. “But you all know that.”

  Angelina, who was behind Raquel and so not visible to her, made a soft groan of exasperation, as though this whole process, and even this moment, were distractions to her. Only Raquel heard the groan and only Raquel, after months of exposure to this difficult chameleon woman, understood her client’s mood.

  Goldstein continued, “I have never been confronted in any of my criminal cases with this situation before. But the law does allow the defendant to elect to proceed with a jury of eleven if the twelfth juror is disqualified, becomes unavailable, or dies.

  “The defendant, if he or she makes that decision, continues to enjoy all his or her constitutional rights: the presumption of innocence, the right to have guilt proven beyond any reasonable doubt, the right to cross-examine witnesses, the right to a jury of her peers—without the loss of any other constitutional rights.”

  Goldstein glanced at the Senator. Raquel could not see the old judge’s expression and detected simply by registering Goldstein’s reaction that Angelina was in Sphinx mode, without expression, impassive.

  The judge said, “So the only issue now, simply put, is how the defendant elects to proceed. She has two alternatives. One is to exercise her right to a full jury of twelve. If she makes that election, then there must be a mistrial, and then we start this process all over again as if the last five or six weeks never happened. I would then schedule a new trial, with a panel of twenty-two seated jurors, only twelve of whom will at the end be randomly designated the final twelve actual jurors who will decide the case.”

  Raquel said, “Obviously, Judge, the Senator will need time to consult with me and probably others. That will take time.”

  “How much time?”

  “Two days.”

  “That long?”

  “At least.”

  “Mr. Decker, is there anything you want to say?”

  “Nothing except that the remaining jurors will have to be excused for a day or two while the defendant decides. I’m concerned, too, that one or more of the remaining jurors will be intimidated, or fearful, or concerned that Lydia Guzman’s death was somehow related to her presence among the jurors.”

  Staring without even blinking at Decker, the judge said, “I’m not going to require you to answer this because judges don’t investigate deaths or any kind of potential crime. But can you tell me what caused Ms. Guzman’s death? That might help me more fully understand what concerns you think the other jury members might have.”

  “I can’t answer that in detail for a host of reasons. But Ms. Guzman was a drug addict. She died in the apartment of a man whose picture has appeared in an exhibit at this trial and whose name has been mentioned several times at the trial, Hugo Salazar. The FBI and the NYPD are conducting the investigation. There are suggestions she may have known Hugo Salazar before the trial, but under a different name or a fictitious one. Law enforcement officials are searching for the man who was with her in the apartment, the man whose picture we showed at trial and whose name the jurors have heard. We believe Lydia Guzman saw him many times during the course of the trial. He left the apartment either before or after she died. We know from the staff at the building, and from the building’s surveillance system, that he had arrived with her and five hours later left alone.”

  Goldstein said, “That’s enough for my purposes. I will tell the jurors on the record when they arrive that a tragedy has taken place and that Ms. Guzman is dead, which I’m sure they already know. And that they should return to court at noon tomorrow for more guidance about the direction of the trial.”

  Raquel was surprised, even angry. “So the Senator has slightly more than twenty-four hours to make this important decision?”

  Goldstein stared at her. “I have to take your skills and the Senator’s skill and experience into account. Both of you are experienced and intelligent. That’s more than adequate time to decide. The jurors, on the other hand, are making sacrifices of time and emotion. And my job is to give the Senator due process, not a perfect world for herself.”

  “Your Honor,” Decker said, “we would ask that as soon as the eleven remaining jurors leave the courthouse they be assigned security details of four agents each and sequestered in hotel rooms.”

  Normally utterly impassive, Naomi Goldstein said, “Early on, Mr. Decker, you asked me to have the jury completely sequestered. Ms. Rematti made a very effective argument against that, emphasizing that to do so would at least unconsciously lead the jurors to believe the Senator was guilty or had dangerous people under her control. I ruled against you. Now, in effect, you are asking for the same thing. I’m not inclined to change my mind.”

  “Circumstances have changed, Judge.”

  “How so?”

  “Lydia Guzman was a rogue juror.”

  “You claimed that just a week ago, Mr. Decker. Out of respect for your office, for the position you hold, I brought her in here. I examined her. She was, I admit, tough.” Almost smiling, she glanced at Raquel. “I liked that in her.”

  “This is different, Judge,” Decker persisted.

  “Tell me how?”

  “Preliminary toxicology reports suggest it was not just a cocaine overdose. Traces of the deadly poison ricin were found in her bloodstream as well as the cocaine.”

  Naomi Goldstein leaned back in her uncomfortable-looking wooden chair. Raquel had always thought that as people aged their faces became more and more set like masks, unreadable. Did Goldstein now look angry, concerned, unconvinced? The mask had loosened, yet its message was not clear.

  But her words made clear she was irritated with Decker. “No, no, no.”

  “Will you at least remind them that they should talk to no one about the trial?”

  “I say that every day.”

  “And they shouldn’t listen to anything about the Guzman death?”

  “I’ll say that.”

  “And will you instruct Ms. Rematti or anyone associated with her not to speak to the jurors?”

  “That,” Goldstein said, “is completely unnecessary, Mr. Decker. She is one of the most experienced lawyers I’ve ever had in my courtroom. She knows she can’t do
that. I’m not going to order her to do something she would not do.”

  Decker said, “You might have forgotten the photographs we gave you, Judge, just before we let you know our concerns about Lydia Guzman’s being bribed and corruptly influenced.”

  “I remember the photos,” Goldstein said.

  “But you’re busy, Judge, so you may not have completely focused on the one that shows Guzman and the man named we think Hugo Salazar, an associate of the person known as Robert Calvaro, recently standing in a tight trio with Raquel Rematti.”

  Raquel, quickly and powerfully standing, pushed the chair in which she had been seated so forcefully that it fell on its side on the floor. “Decker,” she shouted, “you know that picture is a fake, a total phony. We’ve talked about this. You’re lying. I’m going to make you wish you had never set foot in a court.”

  Raquel reached across the wide table toward Hunter Decker. She was a tall, powerful woman. When she was a blossoming young teenager in Lawrence, her father, a failed semi-professional boxer, had said, “Boys are going to look at you in ways I don’t like. I can’t be with you to protect you all the time. So I’m going to teach you things about how to hurt men.” And he did. “And after you kick them in the balls and knock them down,” he had said, “you never let them get up. Use a garbage can or anything you can find to beat them down and keep them down. Word will get out—don’t even think about fucking around with Tony Rematti’s daughter.”

  The Lawrence Girl: there was a part of her that still treasured the Lawrence Girl, the street brawler, and not all the years at Ivy League colleges and law schools had ever taken that internal core from her even though she had never had to use it after the age of fifteen. It was what she had sensed, and admired, about Lydia Guzman when Lydia had been brought into Goldstein’s chamber.

  Hunter Decker could not control his stunned surprise and even fear. He thought Raquel was setting herself in a position to lunge at his eyes. And then, although no one spoke or moved, Raquel simply stopped. She picked up the chair and, still standing, pushed the chair into its place. She remained standing.