The Warriors

by Paul Batista

  Like a willing lover, she laced her fingers through his and simulated pleasure with a low moan after he kissed her again. Clutching her fingers, he led her in the direction of the bedroom.

  The dining room table, messily covered with the remnants of her day, running clothes, her wallet with her IDs, her keys, crumpled cash, and the runner’s pouch, was within reach of her free hand as she passed it. She was terrified that somewhere in Juan’s black, Zorro-like clothing was one of his hidden knives. She knew how to fight—her father’s legacy—but she didn’t know anything about how to exceed the speed of a trained swordsman.

  Before she could make the crucial, life-threatening decision as to whether to lunge for the running pouch, an utterly unexpected sound resonated through the apartment. It was the iron service door through which Juan had entered the apartment. His entrance had been quiet, but this new noise was explosive, the full door striking the adjacent wall.

  In the entrance of the service door, she saw Willis Jordan, in one of his beautifully tailored suits, staring at the naked Raquel and the black-clad man. The expression on Willis’ normally tranquil face was stunned, confused: Had he intruded on lovers’ impassioned movement to a bedroom, the seduction by Raquel of a Latin man she had just met at a downtown club?

  And then Raquel shouted, “Run, Willis!”

  Willis Jordan was as large as a football lineman, but it was obvious his size was comprised of loose muscle and bone. Visibly frightened, Willis shouted, “Are you all right? I’ve tried to contact you for hours.”

  “Is this fat ass your boyfriend?” Juan asked.

  Watching Juan but ignoring his words, Willis said, “Raquel, the night porter is dead.”

  At that point Juan, now concentrated and furious, began to lunge in the direction of Willis.

  Raquel simultaneously grabbed the pouch and for an agonizing pulse of a moment had trouble sliding open the zipper. But then it slid just wide enough for her to pull the Ruger out; it had a magazine of bullets locked into its deadly slot.

  She had no hesitation. Juan, a blade in his hand, was well within striking distance of the innocent, benevolent Willis Jordan, who was unable to move, completely immobilized by fear.

  Raquel’s single shot from the Ruger entered Suarez’ body precisely where she aimed: the center of his spine. Even in the weapon’s explosive, instantaneous din, she heard the crack of his bones. As he fell to the floor, he spun around to see, in the last moments of his life, a naked woman with a black pistol.

  Unhurt but stunned, Willis had dropped to the floor on his knees. She saw tears streaming from his eyes and over his cheeks. Still carrying the Ruger, Raquel, entirely calm, walked toward Salazar’s body one foot away from the kneeling, crying Willis Jordan.

  When she looked at Hugo, Raquel saw, or imagined she saw, his eyes watching her. He appeared to still be alive. She bent forward, placed the Ruger at his temple, and shot again. The side of his head exploded, blood and fragments of brain splattered over the floor and nearby walls, and on her naked body. She slid the Ruger across the room, away from her and from the dead man.

  Raquel then, still naked, knelt down to console the trembling Willis Jordan. They embraced. He was shuddering from a place deep within his massive body. She was not shuddering or shaking.

  CHAPTER 50

  SEVERAL WEEKS HAD passed since Raquel Rematti had been in a courtroom. She easily made arrangements with the local director of the United States Marshal’s Service to gain access to Naomi Goldstein’s ornate courtroom as television vans and crews crowded Foley Square on a cool cloudless morning. Courthouses were public buildings, and, once people had waited for an hour to pass through the airport-like security stations, they were in theory free to wander through all the courtrooms.

  On this morning, however, there was one courtroom to which there was no free access, and that was Naomi Goldstein’s courtroom. Raquel was one of the late arrivals as the hour for Senator Angelina Baldesteri’s guilty plea was approaching. Naomi Goldstein would, as ever, prove herself a prompt judge.

  Raquel took a seat in the spectator gallery next to Willis Jordan who, as a senior press corps member, had access to the courtroom. Seated at the defense table was Senator Baldesteri, her back turned to Raquel and the rest of the gallery as she waited stoically for Naomi Goldstein to emerge from the judge’s door. To the Senator’s left was silver-haired Michael O’Keefe. Raquel, accustomed to endless surprises, wasn’t surprised to see the legendary Michael O’Keefe, now Angelina Baldesteri’s lawyer. As one of Raquel’s longtime mentors, Michael O’Keefe had often told her that, in this profession, a lawyer had always to expect the unexpected.

  Willis, in a half-whisper, asked, “And how does Michael O’Keefe come to be her lawyer? Seven million of the eight million people who live in New York are lawyers. Why him?”

  “To lawyers like Michael O’Keefe, loyalty means nothing. I went to him not long ago to help me with Baldesteri. And now, magically, he is Baldesteri’s lawyer. He was also—and I didn’t know this when I went to him for help—at one time the lawyer for Salazar and Caliente. I once idolized Michael O’Keefe. He’s like Zelig: he changes all the time.”

  “Zelig,” Willis mused. “Our Jewish friends call them Golem.”

  “Willis, how does a farm boy from Georgia learn what a Golem is?”

  In the moments of subdued murmuring before Goldstein entered, Raquel whispered to Willis, “How are you?”

  “A happy man. No stories on NBC ever gave me more pleasure than the ones where we reported that you were instantly vindicated by self-defense, that you saved my innocent ass, that there was never anything other than an imaginary grand jury investigating you for bribery, and that clients were yet again clamoring for your miraculous services. You survived.”

  Raquel pressed his fleshy arm. “You know, you’re a brave man. Most people would have run for their lives when they saw poor Jose dead in the basement. You didn’t have to come up to my apartment. You saved me, Willis. I did not save you. Now, how is that for honesty?”

  “No, most men, and certainly every man who knew you, would have done what I did: find you and protect you. And in my case, I just wanted to sleep in your bed again. Just that, just to comfort you.”

  Suddenly there was a slight commotion at the defense table. While Willis and Raquel were whispering, the Senator for the first time, noticed that Raquel Rematti was in the gallery. Raquel was attuned enough to the all-too-familiar defense table and the sibilance of Baldesteri’s voice to hear her say to Michael O’Keefe, “Does that bitch have a right to be here?”

  O’Keefe, calm and soothing, whispered, “She does if she wants to waste her time. We have more important things to think about.”

  At that moment, Cyrus Johnson pounded the judge’s door three times, saying, “The court will come to attention in the matter of United States v. Baldesteri.”

  As Naomi Goldstein made her way up the three steps to her bench and switched on her useless reading lamp, everyone in the courtroom stood. The Senator was erect and betrayed none of the tension that must have permeated her as she waited to plead guilty to felonies that were bound to lead to a prison sentence, her immediate expulsion from the Senate, and obviously the end of her presidential campaign.

  Stone cold, Raquel thought. She was always stone cold.

  In her distinct voice, Goldstein began by announcing, “I understand the purpose of this hearing is for the defendant to withdraw her prior pleas of not guilty, and instead to now plead guilty, to certain charges in the indictment while the Government will in exchange move to dismiss the remaining charges. Is that correct?”

  A lawyer at the crowded prosecution table stood. She was obviously Hunter Decker’s successor. She said, “That’s correct.”

  “Mr. O’Keefe,” Goldstein said, “to which counts of the pending indictment does your client intend to plead guilty?”

  “Those counts involving perjury and false statements to United States law enforcement of
ficials and conspiracy to obstruct justice.”

  Goldstein shifted her gaze downward to the new prosecutor. “And what charges does the Government intend to move to dismiss?”

  “Conspiracy to defraud the United States,” the woman answered. Even in those few words, and even with the brief view of her position and gestures, Raquel recognized, as an experienced baseball manager would recognize in young players the few who would evolve into exceptional professionals, that this young woman had the poise, the necessary intensity, and the focus to become a great trial lawyer.

  Goldstein, as always, was unemotionally direct: “Ms. Baldesteri, I ask that you continue to stand so I can pose questions to satisfy myself that you are voluntarily and intelligently prepared to proceed with your guilty pleas. This is, as you know, a serious day for you.”

  Angelina, a fighter with no tolerance for condescension from anyone, said, “Judge, I do not understand how you can even suggest that I don’t recognize what is or is not serious.”

  In the gallery, Raquel whispered into Willis’ left ear, “She just added two years to her sentence. Two years for arrogance.”

  Goldstein impassively said, “Before we proceed, I want everyone to understand that, while the Government and the defendant have signed an agreement contemplating a plea of guilty to certain offenses and a dismissal of other existing counts, I am not bound by that agreement or any aspect of it. For example, the Government and defendant have agreed that the offenses of conviction indicate a range of twenty-four to thirty-six months of imprisonment. That does not bind me. Over the next several weeks I will receive reports from investigators and letters from private citizens who may wish to make comments that are favorable or unfavorable to the defendant, which may lead me to impose a different sentence.” She halted, looking at Michael O’Keefe. “Does your client understand that, Mr. O’Keefe?”

  “I explained it to her.”

  “No, no, Mr. O’Keefe. That was not my question. My question was, does she understand that?”

  Angelina Baldesteri spoke out. “Yes, obviously, I understand that.”

  “Ms. Baldesteri, when I address a question to your attorney, he answers, not you.”

  Michael O’Keefe, summoning that gentle brogue Raquel Rematti now hated because she saw it as an integral part of the repertoire of a skilled liar, said, “I can assure you the Senator understands.”

  “Mr. O’Keefe, what is your motion?”

  “My client’s motion is to withdraw her plea of not guilty to counts one, six, and ten of the superseding indictment and to enter instead a plea of guilty to each of them. These all relate to perjury, bribery, and obstruction of justice.”

  “And you anticipate that the Government will, if I grant your motion, which I’m not required to do, move to dismiss the eleven remaining counts?”

  “That’s my understanding.”

  Goldstein turned her attention to Baldesteri. “I first have to assure myself, from hearing Ms. Baldesteri’s own words, that she, in fact, did those acts as to which she is pleading guilty. It’s not enough that she says she is guilty as to specific enumerated sections of the law. In other words, I need to hear, in layman’s language, what you did, Ms. Baldesteri. For example, I can’t have you say you conspired to kidnap the Lindbergh child if you weren’t even alive when it happened.”

  As Raquel knew, nothing—not even a vital moment like this—ever interfered with Angelina Baldesteri’s ego.

  The Senator said, “I arranged with a man I knew as Robert Calvaro to bribe a juror to vote for my acquittal.”

  “Who is Mr. Calvaro?” Goldstein asked.

  “He’s dead.”

  “No, no, I didn’t ask you that. Let me repeat it: Who is Mr. Calvaro?”

  “Mr. Calvaro told me he was Mr. Calvaro.”

  “Ms. Baldesteri, I’m at a loss to understand you. Unless you cooperate with me, unless you are honest and thorough with me and not evasive, I can reject your plea agreement. At that point, you can either plead guilty to every one of the counts in the indictment, which carry under the federal guidelines that bind every federal judge a two-hundred-year sentence if you are convicted. Your only other choice, Ms. Baldesteri, is to go to trial with a new jury as if this hearing never happened. Possibly, Ms. Baldesteri, you’ll be acquitted. I’m a judge, not Nostradamus.” Goldstein then stopped and stared steadily at Baldesteri. “What,” she stated, “do you really want to tell me?”

  “Robert Calvaro was, or so he told me, a wealthy South American who later became a naturalized United States citizen.”

  “That tells me nothing more than what you just said. And the sum total of that is nothing.”

  Raquel Rematti gently pushed Willis Jordan’s arm. “This is great,” she whispered. “Baldesteri is her own worst enemy.”

  Goldstein’s voice was as loud as she could make it: “You still haven’t said a word to flesh out what you did. Are you understanding this process? What crimes did you commit with Mr. Calvaro and anyone else? That is what I need to hear.”

  “Soon after the trial started, Robert Calvaro said he did not believe it was going well for me and that Raquel Rematti was not nearly as effective a lawyer as everyone had claimed. Certainly not, Mr. Calvaro said, a woman worth half a million dollars in legal fees. And so Mr. Calvaro told me he knew of a better way to gain my acquittal. He said he had an associate named Hugo Salazar who would be able to attract and bribe a female juror to vote to acquit me. Calvaro said, as I remember it, that John Gotti was the Teflon Don and acquitted three times because a juror in each of those trials had been bribed for a vote of acquittal. Those acquittals were not the work of Gotti’s lawyers, they were insurance. Mr. Calvaro called it American justice at its best level.”

  “And tell me more. What did you say or do?”

  “I gave him my blessing.”

  “Your blessing? What does that mean?”

  “I said he and Salazar should go ahead.”

  “How?”

  “By Salazar’s befriending her, by becoming her lover, and by giving her one hundred thousand dollars in cash and cocaine.”

  “Who was that juror?”

  “I’m not sure of her name. Lydia Guzman?”

  “Don’t mislead me, Ms. Baldesteri. What was her name? You know it and so you must say it.”

  Defiance in her tone, Angelina Baldesteri said, “Lydia Guzman.”

  “And she is dead?”

  “So I’m told.”

  “Do you have any reason to believe she is not dead?”

  “I never saw her body.”

  “Don’t do that again, Ms. Baldesteri. Even I remember a song from the time I was a cloistered young woman. Play with me and you ‘Play with Fire.’ Is Lydia Guzman dead?”

  “She is.”

  “Did she ever receive any of these bribe payments?”

  “She did.”

  “Who gave them to her?”

  “Calvaro or Salazar, as far as I know.”

  “Did you?”

  “I never saw her outside of this courtroom.”

  “Did you?” Goldstein persisted.

  “Never.”

  “But you authorized it all, correct?”

  “I said that already.”

  “Ms. Baldesteri, listen carefully. Did you authorize and direct giving Ms. Guzman cash and drugs?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve mentioned Calvaro and Salazar, both of them now dead. Did anyone else know of the conspiracy?”

  There was a long, profound, and very tense silence in the courtroom. Willis Jordan’s hand squeezed Raquel Rematti’s.

  Baldesteri said, “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Listen to me carefully. Did Raquel Rematti know of or participate in this conspiracy?”

  “You would have to ask her.”

  “No, no, no,” Goldstein said, her voice even louder. “Did she? I am asking you.”

  Another profound silence dominated the courtroom. “No, she didn’t.”
<
br />   Willis squeezed Raquel’s hand even more tightly.

  Goldstein leaned back slightly, as if she herself were relieved. Then she glanced at a piece of paper in front of her. “There is yet another charge against you for conspiracy to obstruct justice. And it relates to photographs that appear to show Ms. Rematti, Mr. Salazar, and Ms. Guzman together recently in a dance club. Is there anything you can say about those pictures?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “Mr. Decker, two FBI agents, and Mr. Calvaro—all now dead—arranged to take old photographs and alter them.”

  “Why?”

  “Mr. Decker and his agents wanted to ruin Ms. Rematti.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “The dead agents reported that to me. So did two men whose names I did not know but who had strange markings—like zigzags—etched in their blond hair. They told me they were separately and secretly working for both Mr. Calvaro and Mr. Decker.”

  “Did you know their names?”

  “No.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell me about them?”

  “They were part of a group that murdered Hayes Smith, the television broadcaster, on the island of Lesbos.”

  “Did they say why?”

  “To intimidate Ms. Rematti.”

  “Do you know where they are now so that I can issue warrants for their arrest?”

  “Dead.”

  “Who ordered them to kill Mr. Smith?”

  “Oscar Caliente.”

  “Who is Oscar Caliente?”

  “As I understand it, Oscar Caliente was the real name of Robert Calvaro.”

  “I didn’t ask you that,” Goldstein said. “Who is Oscar Caliente?”

  “He was the head of the Sinaloa drug cartel in Manhattan and the Hamptons.”