“How did you find out?”
“From Mrs. Richardson.”
“What did she say?”
“She said he was dead.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“That he was murdered.”
“Did she say when she found out?”
“No, but I assume while we were at the party. Clearly she didn’t know before that.”
“What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything, Mr. Oz. I didn’t know what to do. It’s way beyond the range of my experience in life to have a woman tell me that her husband had just been murdered.”
“How did she react?”
Hank Rawls waited. He was genuinely baffled, even annoyed, by the question. “She was upset, Mr. Oz. As you would expect. She loved her husband.”
“Did she cry?”
“No, Mr. Oz. Was she supposed to?”
“What happened next?”
“She left. She said she was going to East Hampton.”
“Did you go?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“What could I have done, Mr. Oz?”
Standing at the podium on which documents and an open bottle of Evian water were spread, Menachim Oz again flipped through the pad of yellow paper in front of him. The subject shifted as he asked, “How well did you know Brad Richardson?”
“Not well. He was a friendly man, somewhat shy, I thought.”
“Did he know you were having an affair with his wife?”
“Come on, Mr. Oz, how would I know that?”
“Did he know it?”
“I didn’t tell him.”
“Did Mrs. Richardson tell him?”
“Ask her.”
“It’s you I’m asking, Mr. Rawls.”
“I didn’t hear her tell him, if she did. What did she tell you?”
“Did she ever talk about divorcing Mr. Richardson?”
“Not to me. Did she, Mr. Oz?”
Like other men who had no sense of humor, Menachem Oz made it obvious when he took a stab at it. His voice was a shade higher as he said, “Remember, I get to ask the questions, Mr. Rawls.”
No one laughed.
But several people did laugh when Hank Rawls said, “So, is that what’s been going on here?”
“Mr. Rawls, do you know if Mr. Richardson had any affairs?”
“To be honest, I didn’t know Mr. Richardson well, but it seemed to me he didn’t take an interest in other people that way. So I don’t know the answer to your question. I never saw him in bed with anyone.”
After another interlude in which he shuffled the papers on the podium in front of him, Menachem Oz moved on to new territory. “What did you know about Juan Suarez?”
“He worked for Brad and Joan.”
“What kind of work?”
“All that I saw him do was greet people at parties.”
“Did Mrs. Richardson ever say anything about him?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“That he was an attractive man who was also very sweet and smart. And that he took good care of his family.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“Mr. Oz, I know it’s not politically correct to say this. But he was a servant, plainly an illegal immigrant, he wasn’t someone she mentioned often, and I never asked about him. I had no reason to.”
“Has she said anything about Juan Suarez since her husband died?”
“That she wishes she’d never seen him. She feels responsible for bringing him into their lives.”
“Did she tell you what his real name is?”
“Real name? Juan Suarez.”
“Did she ever use another name for him?”
“No.”
Menachem Oz spent at least a quiet minute at the podium, using a pencil to check off subjects he had covered. Hank hoped this was a signal that Oz was winding down.
“Mr. Rawls, did you ever have sex with Mrs. Richardson in a public place?”
“Repeat that, Mr. Oz. I can’t have heard that correctly.”
Oz was looking down at his notepad. “Did you ever have sex with Mrs. Richardson in a place where other people could see you?”
“Enough, Mr. Oz. That’s it. I’m not going to answer that.”
“You have to.”
“No.”
“Is that no, I didn’t?” Oz asked.
“No, as in no I won’t answer.”
“A judge will order you to do that or hold you in contempt.”
“Listen to me, sir. Let me keep it simple for you. I will not answer that.”
“We’ll see,” Oz said. He looked up from his notes. “Do you know a man named Trevor?”
“You mean any Trevor in the span of my entire life?”
“Since you met the Richardson?”
“I’m a well-known man, Mr. Oz. I’m not a private person. I meet many people every day. Some of them, maybe many of them, are named Trevor.”
“Did you ever see a man named Trevor with Mr. Richardson?”
Hank did remember a flamboyant man, undeniably gay, who had spent most of the last Fourth of July party with Brad. “I did, I think. If it’s the man I think it was, he was with Brad at the party.”
“The same Fourth of July party you attended with Mrs. Richardson?”
“Please, Mr. Oz. We’ve been over that party again and again and again. Nobody gave me a roster of who was there.”
“What is Trevor’s last name?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t introduced to him, Mr. Oz.”
There was less than a five-second lapse before Menachem Oz veered to yet another subject. “What plans do you and Mrs. Richardson have?”
Hank felt a sudden and vivid anger: he was tired, he was annoyed. “I don’t understand the question.”
“What plans do you and Mrs. Richardson have?”
“We talked about having dinner tonight.”
“How often have you talked about marriage?”
“You know, the only thing I remember from law school is that you need a foundation for a question.” He took a sip of water. “You’re assuming we discussed getting married. We didn’t.”
“How much money does Mrs. Richardson have?”
“More than God, I assume. At least that’s what the newspapers say. She doesn’t give me any of it. Hell, I pick up the check at dinner.”
“Did she ever tell you how much she inherited from Brad Richardson?”
“Let’s stop this game, Mr. Oz. I’m not stupid, sir. And the folks behind you aren’t either. So let me be clear-I didn’t conspire with Joan Richardson to kill her husband. We didn’t hire a hit man to kill her husband. I have no plans to marry Joan Richardson. And I never got a dime from Joan Richardson.”
“Are you finished, Mr. Rawls?”
Hank leaned forward in the witness chair. He sat back. He looked at Menachem Oz with his stony, cowboy gaze. “Are you, Mr. Oz?”
Menachem Oz said, “For today. We’ll let your lawyer know when you’re coming back.”
It was a drizzly afternoon when he left the grim, utilitarian Riverhead courthouse. The landscape was dreary and sad: bare wet trees, ramshackle houses, and rusted Toyotas and pick-up trucks parked on the streets. A wet, heavy snow had fallen two days earlier, quickly melted, and now made dirty streaks on the ground.
In that barren landscape, the only new object was the black Mercedes that Hank Rawls had summoned from his cell phone as soon as he walked out of the Grand Jury room. Just as he was about to slide into the car, he was suddenly surrounded by a group of reporters. He was blindsided by this. He had assumed that his appearance was a secret and that no one outside the DA’s office would know the date or place of the appearance of the legendary Hank Rawls before a Grand Jury.
Instinctively beaming that engaging smile that had made his life so easy from boyhood, he slipped into the back seat without saying a word. He was furious. He recognized the subtle hand of Raquel Rematti in the unexpected appearance of reporters, and he wanted to find a way to punish her. Joan Richardson, he now realized, had been right to hire private investigators to find something to discredit her, to intimidate her, even to drive her away from the case. Let’s find a way to make the bitch suffer, Joan had said. Yes, let’s, Hank now thought as he told Davey, “Don’t run anybody over, but get the fuck out of here.”