by Paul Batista
“And can you tell me this, Raquel? When you recognized that Salazar was your former client during the Baldesteri trial, why didn’t you tell anyone?”
“The real reason?”
“Yes, that one.” He smiled, gently.
“Because I broke commandment number two of my profession. I had fallen in love with him during the Hamptons trial. I’ve missed him ever since. You know that old Willie Nelson song? ‘Always on My Mind’? Like a lot of corny popular songs, it has been uncannily on target.”
“That was crazy, Raquel.”
“I know. But I convinced myself of something else. I am, as much as I wish it weren’t so, the lawyer for Angelina Baldesteri. I was her lawyer, obviously, when it became clear as day to me that Calvaro was Caliente and Salazar was Juan Suarez, Anibal Vaz, or any of the varieties of identities he has, the one constant of which was that he was a murderer called The Blade of the Hamptons.”
“And?”
“Think it through. I am in the middle of the Senator’s trial. I see that men who are close to my client, for whatever reasons she has, and even if she has no idea who these people are, are flat-out criminals. I take my role as a lawyer seriously—it’s the quaint old-fashioned lady in me. If I took what I know to Decker, I would then become an informant for the Government against my client. I’m giving the Government evidence against my client. My loyalty is to my client, as despicable as she is. There are so many subtleties in this profession. But some things are clear—I can’t become a handmaiden to the prosecution. I have to protect my client.”
Willis was a reporter, of course. As a reporter, he asked, “Did you mention this to the Senator?”
“You know my answer. I can’t tell you.”
“I have a different question, then,” Willis said. “Does she know?”
“That is a different question. She knows now. I have no idea when she first knew. I can’t tell you about what we say to each other. But I can tell you I never asked the question of when she first knew, and she never said anything about that.”
Willis leaned back in his chair. He exhaled deeply, as though he had just run a hundred-yard dash. “Raquel, I do want some coffee. Do you mind?”
“Of course not. I need some, too. I have more I want to say, because, while I don’t want your protection, I need your help, and I can help you. I can give you leads.”
Raquel did not turn to look at Willis as she poured water into the gleaming coffee maker, ground the coffee beans, and waited for the coffee to brew. She heard behind her the clicking sound of Willis typing quickly, like an agile teenage girl, on his iPhone.
“How do you take your coffee, Willis?”
“Black,” he said.
Raquel put the coffee mug in front of Willis. She took her seat. She said, “Here’s a lead, Willis. The dead men were definitely not FBI agents. They were not Curnin and Giordano.”
“How do you know that?”
“Hunter Decker told me.”
“He did?”
“Have one of your reporters call him. Use my name. He has the pictures you have. They are not, he admitted to me a few days ago, Giordano or Curnin. They were strangers to him, or so he claimed. He said he would find out who they are. I think Decker was lying to me.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning that Decker already knew who those men were.”
Deftly, Willis sent another message on his cell phone. “One of our people will reach out to him.”
“He will deny it, of course. But I can give you a boost.”
“How?”
“I recorded the conversation with Decker. These smartphones are miraculous. I’ll forward the recording to you now, and you can relay it to your reporter.”
Willis smiled. “You’re a shady lady.”
“Let me ask you this, Willis.”
“Shoot. Although that sounds like one of your lawyer questions is coming.” He had a bright, engaging smile.
“You said the two dead men were hired by NBC to shield Hayes. You must have known who they are.”
“We had names, resumes, and recommendations for them. Social Security numbers.” He sipped the hot coffee. “They were all fake, falsified. We learned that an hour ago.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
Willis said nothing.
* * *
Raquel knew nothing about Willis other than the fact that he had been Hayes Smith’s longtime producer, that he had been devoted to Hayes, that he was raised in rural Georgia, and that he was, Raquel instinctively sensed, a friend.
She said quietly, almost demurely, “Can you stay the night?”
“If you want that,” he said slowly.
“I do. In my bedroom. On the bed. With me.”
“Raquel,” he said calmly, “I’m gay. I can comfort you. But nothing else.”
“I need your warmth.” She thought about Theresa Bui, murdered with a single gunshot from the foggy dunes at Raquel’s house in Montauk. She had wanted Theresa’s warmth, just as she had treasured Hayes’ warmth. And, when Hayes was killed, the warmth of another human had been taken away from her: death’s awful finality.
In her dark, comfortable bedroom, she and Willis undressed entirely. In the darkness she could barely see the features of his body, just his muscular black silhouette. She lay down on her left side under the fragrant blankets. He stretched out behind her, draped his arm over her shoulders, and lodged his penis against her lower back. It never stirred.
They slept for eight hours.
CHAPTER 39
IT WAS PRECISELY nine in the morning. Angelina Baldesteri and Raquel Rematti, in the five minutes before Naomi Goldstein took her seat on the bench, did not even glance at each other. Every seat in the gallery behind them was filled. There was a murmur of voices and a rustling of paper since most of the seats were occupied by reporters from all over the world. But there was no clicking of computer keys. Naomi Goldstein banned from the spectators in the courtroom all electronic equipment—no iPhones, no iPads, no cameras, no laptops.
Impassive as always, Goldstein switched on the small, useless reading lamp on her bench, the signal that she was about to start.
“Very well, ladies and gentlemen. I want the record to reflect that the defendant and her attorney are present. Mr. Decker and his assistants are present for the Government. The remaining jurors are all in the jury room. They are prepared to proceed.” She looked at Raquel. “Ms. Rematti, are you prepared to proceed?”
Raquel stood. “That, Your Honor, is a question only my client can answer.”
“I take it you’ve spoken to your client about this?”
“I have. But she knows the answer to your question. I don’t.”
Shifting her gaze to the Senator, Goldstein said, “Ms. Baldesteri, the issue, as you know, is whether you elect to proceed with a jury of eleven and to waive your right to a jury of twelve. As I explained to you yesterday, all your constitutional rights are preserved with a jury of eleven—guilt must be found beyond a reasonable doubt, you preserve the presumption of innocence. You understand all of that, Ms. Baldesteri, do you not?”
“I do.”
“And you understand that if you decide to adhere to a jury of twelve, which is your right, I will declare a mistrial?”
“I understand.”
“And that I will, if the Government insists on retrying you, schedule a prompt retrial?”
“I understand.”
“What is your decision?”
“I want a jury of twelve.”
The gallery was startled into movement and anticipation.
Naomi Goldstein was all efficiency. “Very well. I declare a mistrial. Before I call the jurors in to thank them for their service, I want to ask the Government if it intends to retry the defendant?”
Hunter Decker stood. “Without a doubt we do. Yes.”
“I’ve looked at my calendar. The retrial will start thirty-two days from today, August 28.”
“That date,
” Decker said, “is fine with the Government, Judge.”
“Fine or not, Mr. Decker, that’s the date.”
Angelina Baldesteri spoke out firmly. “Excuse me, but that’s impossible for me.”
“That does not matter, Ms. Baldesteri.”
“That leaves no time to prepare.”
“Ms. Rematti is familiar with the case.”
“I’ve fired Ms. Rematti. She is no longer my lawyer.”
“That, Ms. Baldesteri, is no concern of mine. There are many competent lawyers who can prepare themselves adequately in thirty-two days.”
“I have no reason to believe that.”
“What you believe or do not believe is not a concern of mine,” Goldstein said.
“Judge Goldstein,” the Senator said in the same authoritative tone she used when she herself was examining witnesses at a Senate hearing, “this is profoundly unfair. I’ve fired Ms. Rematti because she has an impossible conflict of interest.”
“Ms. Baldesteri, I ask that you sit down.”
“No. When I do my work as a Senator, I insure that a record is complete. Ms. Rematti’s conflict is that she is herself the target of a grand jury investigation for the bribery of Lydia Guzman, the dead juror.”
“That’s enough, Ms. Baldesteri. That has nothing to do with this process.” Her voice rising, Naomi Goldstein was genuinely angry. “This is my courtroom, Ms. Baldesteri. I control it. You don’t. Sit down now or I will hold you in contempt.”
Angelina, stone cold, sat down. Raquel, always a proud woman, was rigid, stunned, furious: every television station, every blog, every newspaper in the world would immediately broadcast the news that a grand jury was investigating her for the bribery of a now-dead juror and that she had been fired by a United States Senator. Despite years of high-profile trials, notorious clients, tense contacts with prosecutors and others, no one had ever questioned her integrity. There had been anonymous bloggers who made cutting, often illiterate statements about her, usually after one of her television appearances. There were those who made anonymous posts commenting on her legs when she wore short dresses and sat on a couch during a televised interview. There were creeps out there in the world who posted sites called “Upskirt,” which broadcast on the Internet views of her when she crossed and recrossed her legs. She pretended that these things amused her; in fact, they annoyed her.
But most of the hundreds of entries about her on Google, Yahoo, and Bing were flattering. And she took pride in the fact that no client had ever sued or criticized her, that no disciplinary committee had ever investigated her, that no one, at least in public, had ever faulted her work.
But now, in one gratuitous sentence, one of the most powerful women in the world had said in public that Raquel had been fired and was the target of a grand jury investigation for the bribery of a dead woman. Raquel felt as though her face had been slashed, leaving irreparable scars.
“Mr. Decker,” Judge Goldstein said, “I will expect to see you on August 28, ready to select a jury.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And, Ms. Baldesteri, you will be here at the same time and ready to pick a jury.”
“That’s impossible, Judge, and not fair.”
“You can always represent yourself. Or you can be here with a new lawyer.”
Raquel stood. “Your Honor, I have a motion.”
Judge Goldstein stared at her for five seconds. “Ordinarily I expect motions to be made in writing, Ms. Rematti. What is it?”
“I move for leave to withdraw as counsel to the defendant, on the basis of the statements made this morning by her. I do not want any further responsibility for this client.”
“Mr. Decker, do you have any reason to oppose that motion?”
“None.”
Angelina stood. Goldstein looked surprised, even upset, saying, “What is it, Ms. Baldesteri? Do you oppose the motion? Like any other lawyer who has appeared for any client in any case, he or she continues as the client’s lawyer unless and until a judge signs an order relieving the lawyer. Those are the rules. Do you oppose Ms. Rematti’s motion?”
“Ms. Rematti received half a million dollars to represent me. I want that money returned.”
“Ms. Baldesteri, that is not a concern of mine either. That is between you and Ms. Rematti. Do you have a substantive reason?”
“I’m not even sure I know what that means. The reason I gave is a substantive one.”
“Ms. Baldesteri, you are trying my patience. Given what you said a few minutes ago, I cannot imagine you have a substantive reason for opposing the motion.”
“I want her withdrawal granted, but only on the condition that she return the money she received.”
“That’s nonsense. It is, in any event, a private civil issue between you and Ms. Rematti.” She appeared to wait for a moment before her words registered with the Senator. And then Goldstein said, “Ms. Rematti’s motion is granted. And as of this moment.”
Acting deliberately, as always, even though nothing like this had ever before happened to her, Raquel locked her two bags, stood, and left the courtroom. Dozens of reporters followed her into the marble hallway.
Raquel answered none of the shouted questions, which she heard as if the voices were submerged. She was making a transition, she recognized, into a new world. It was the same sensation she experienced several years earlier when three doctors told her she had breast cancer.
CHAPTER 40
AS RAQUEL EMERGED from the revolving door of the courthouse, she recognized that three Secret Service agents—two men and a woman she had come to know quite well and liked—had already been told that Raquel was persona non grata. The agents, who stood near the four black SUVs in the clear sunlight, turned to face the street, making no effort to open any door for her. They were under orders not to drive her anywhere.
Raquel was followed from the moment she left the courtroom by many reporters. She said repeatedly, “No comment,” but knew that wouldn’t deter any of them from pursuing her.
As she stepped briskly from the sidewalk to the street, she had only two choices for a way to return to her office: a taxi or a subway. Across Centre Street was a nondescript plaza with the entrance to the number 6, 5, and 4 subway trains, all of which had stops two blocks from her office. But the reporters, she knew, would follow her.
As she waited for the light to change so that she could cross Centre Street, a yellow taxi suddenly materialized from the left. She nodded and the driver stopped. Raquel opened the rear door, saying, “Good morning, sir. Fifty-Seventh and Park.”
The reporters were stranded on the sidewalk. There were no other cabs in sight. Raquel laughed: she thought about the Road Runner cartoon and the bewildered expression on Wile E. Coyote’s face when the Road Runner always made his or her miraculous escape.
For the first time in seven months, the orange police cones had been removed from the parking spaces on Park Avenue in front of her office building. Ordinary civilian cars were already parked there. There were many reporters on the sidewalk. She moved through them without speaking. None of them would be able to enter the elevator with her since the security system and staff in her office building were rigorous about controlling who was allowed through the turnstiles leading to the elevators; that was true even before Angelina Baldesteri came into her life and would stay true now that she had passed.
It was only when she sat down alone in her sun-filled office that, breathing in and breathing out deeply, she started to take account of where she now was in her life. She had managed to live in total independence or, as she sometimes thought, in total isolation. Even when she was with Hayes, she really had not believed, although at times she had hoped, that she had found a companion for life. In any event, she now knew that any hope of a lifetime with Hayes was certainly an illusion even if he had not been killed. She remembered that she made no effort to learn where Hayes’ cell phone was, for she had always been worried about the secrets it might contain, and she d
idn’t doubt for a second the hurtful words about Hayes Angelina had spoken.
And her isolation as of this moment went beyond that. Hayes was gone. She had just been publicly humiliated. Like a wicked seer, Angelina had said she had the power to do that and she did it. Raquel had spent virtually all of her career as a darling of the media, and now there were reporters everywhere wanting to ask her questions about a grand jury investigating her for the bribery of Lydia Guzman. No matter what Raquel might say, and even if she said nothing, there must already be stories flooding the Internet in which her public humiliation was proclaimed to the world. She resisted the temptation to type her name into a Google search where she would see the most recent postings about her. By now, even though it was only an hour after she’d left the courtroom, she was certain that Reuters, the Associated Press, Bloomberg, and others had already distributed articles about the mistrial and, of course, about her. The bloggers, she knew, would be in full rant. Project “Upskirt” would seem to be the trivial nonsense it was.
And there was another issue, another sense that her life had suddenly crossed a dangerous line. Raquel now, for the first time in her career, had no work to do. For months she had dedicated her life to the former First Lady of the United States. The world of potential clients appeared to be aware of that. For six months, only two or three men and women—wealthy people suddenly in trouble for insider trading or tax evasion—had approached her. They were all told that, while she appreciated the overture, she was completely engaged with the Senator’s trial and the preparation for it.
And then another thing made her hands involuntarily tremble: money and the precarious sense of not having enough. She hadn’t looked at her bank account for many weeks. Tapping the icon on her cell phone that gave her access to weeks of transactions in her main Citibank account, she felt as if the floor were collapsing under her. The account into which she had placed the infamous $500,000 fee now had less than $100,000.
By scrolling through several months of transactions, she focused for the first time on the fact that she had paid from the account more than $150,000 in fees to accounting and other experts whom she, as a careful lawyer, thought might be necessary for the trial. In addition, many thousands of dollars had been paid out for her expensive office and salaries for the two young lawyers and two paralegals on her staff, one of whom had her authority to sign checks. Paying the court reporters for daily copies of the trial testimony accounted for more than $50,000. She had expected to be ultimately reimbursed for these huge outlays, but it was a certainty of her life now that that was never going to happen. She’d forgotten, as she looked at the electronic bank statements, one of the key adages of the profession of criminal defense lawyers: Be careful;your first check will be your last. It was one of those adages that had never applied in her career until now.