The third picture was certainly of Juan-full face, close, as if he were posing for it-but with no context. It was impossible to know where it was taken: nobody was around him and there was no recognizable background. He did appear to be wearing the same expensive black shirt as the man in the other pictures.
As she slid the three photographs back to Margaret Harding, Raquel said, “Pictures can be deceiving. I can’t tell who the gay blade at the party is in the first two pictures. The third is a nice headshot of Juan Suarez.”
“Obviously the DEA and now we know more about the context of those pictures. They may not be the only ones we have.”
“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me who took these pictures and when. Or give me the other pictures you have.”
“Not today.”
After a pause, Theresa asked, “So what do you want from us?”
Margaret Harding was surprised that it was Theresa Bui who spoke. But the question itself didn’t surprise her. “Obviously,” Margaret said, “we want cooperation from him. The DEA would like to know who he knows and who he worked for. They are in the business of rolling up drug distribution rings. If Mr. Vaz, or Mr. Suarez, knows who a man named Oscar is and where Oscar is, then the DEA may want to urge us to do something for Mr. Suarez.”
Raquel said, “Let’s assume Juan knows this Oscar…”
“We don’t have to assume. There’s a surveillance tape from a Starbucks on Montauk Highway that shows Oscar and Juan talking.”
Raquel never allowed herself to be deflected from a question and was too experienced to reveal any surprise. “So let’s assume Juan can help the DEA, what does that do for you? You and Richie are not in the business of rolling up drug rings. You’re in the business of getting a conviction for murder. And, although I shouldn’t say it this way, you have the most sensational murder of the century so far and an accused man who says he’s innocent. Let’s assume he pleads guilty to a lesser murder charge and helps to bring down a drug ring. What plea deal involving murder or manslaughter can lighten up his sentence in exchange for exposing a drug ring?” Raquel paused, staring at Margaret Harding. “Where’s my incentive to give you any cooperation at all if I can’t expect anything important in return?”
Both of them loved engaging in this game. It was a world of suggestions, of tentative concepts and of negotiating options that might not exist. “You’re right,” Margaret said, “I could care less about drugs. You put it exactly as it is, Raquel. My office is in the business of getting murder convictions. But even when there’s only one murder, and we have only one dead man, and only one defendant, we want to get multiple convictions when we can.”
“Margaret, I don’t think you will even get one. At least not Juan Suarez.”
Margaret laughed lightly. “This is what I love about our business. I see black and you see white. And at the end of the day, unlike most situations in life, we get to learn whether it’s black or white. Who wins and who doesn’t. We have no doubt that we will nail Anibal Vaz.”
“Thank God,” Raquel answered, almost smiling, “Juan Suarez wins. It’s too bad about Anibal Vaz.”
“We think your client was not alone. He had accomplices, there were people, such as Oscar, who we think had an interest in Brad Richardson. Those people didn’t want to do the dirty, dirty work of getting up close and personal with Brad. Blood is messy, so is brain splatter. Your client knew Brad, knew the house, knew his schedule, knew the security system. And knew the Borzois. Not to mention, and most important of all, he knew where to find hundreds of thousands of dollars in cash in the house. And knew that the Borzois would never bark at him or bite him. This case would have been just a bit easier if your client had bite marks on his ankles.”
When Margaret Harding stopped, Raquel smiled at her, trying to lure her into saying more.
“There is one other thing. Six or seven months ago there was a knifing of three men at 101st Street and First Avenue, in East Harlem. It happened just after midnight. Two of the men were seriously injured, the other only slightly. He said the attacker handled a long knife as though he was one of those ninja characters in the movies, or Zorro. The blade flashed around like a sword, this guy said.”
“Aren’t there twenty knifings in the city every night of the week?” Theresa asked. “I live there.”
“Sure, but it was an unlucky coincidence for the knifer. One of the injured men was the son of a cop, a captain. You know what cops are like: you hurt one of their kids and you get tracked down as if you hurt one of the Obama girls. It gets real priority.”
Raquel said, “It’s a nepotistic tribe. They never heard of equal justice for all.”
Margaret shrugged. “They hunted for the guy. They didn’t find him. But they did find the knife.”
Raquel raised a hand. “And you’re going to tell me Juan Suarez’s fingerprints and DNA are on the knife?”
“That’s right, Raquel,” Margaret said. She gathered up the glossy pictures and slowly slid them back into the valise. “I hope we’ve given you enough to work with.”
“Is there anything else?” Theresa asked.
“Not today,” Margaret said, smiling again. “Maybe later. Let’s see what you come back with. I’ve put enough food on your plate for now. You need to feed me something now. It’s only fair, don’t you think?”
24.
Always quietly watchful, Juan sensed that Raquel Rematti was uneasy. Usually she was a woman who looked steadily into people’s eyes. Instead, when Juan sat at the plastic table across from her and Theresa Bui, Raquel was staring at a sheet of paper in front of her.
“Raquel,” he said, “is something wrong?” He glanced at Theresa. Over the last few weeks he had become comfortable with her presence at these meetings. He was an instinctively smart man: he knew Raquel could not defend him all by herself and recognized that Theresa brought skills that could help Raquel and him. But Theresa’s face, usually conveying compassion and sympathy, was at this moment blank, her eyes unblinking.
“I’ve always said, Juan, that you need to tell me the truth. I have to know what the truth is to help you.”
Juan gazed steadily at her, nothing evasive in his expression. “I have, Raquel.”
“I’m not sure, Juan. A knife was found in New York City. The fingerprints and DNA on it match your fingerprints and DNA.”
“I washed dishes in a restaurant in New York before I come out here.”
“You told me that, I know that already. But listen to me: a large knife, almost the size of a sword, was used in an attack in the city. It has your fingerprints. And it has your DNA. The victim’s injuries were like those Brad Richardson sustained, although the man didn’t die.”
“Raquel, one night a waiter who didn’t like me told me he was going to get me after my shift. Why does he say this? I don’t know. I didn’t do anything to him. He said, ‘I’ll get you outside.’ I was afraid he had friends, because he say he did. I don’t have any friends, no one to help me. So I took a knife with me. The place is uptown, it was dark. I was on the sidewalk. I had to go to the subway, long walk. The man was across the street. Two guys with him. They run at me, and I run away. Then they all around me. They have knives. I take out my knife. That’s how it happened.”
“What happened, Juan?”
“I hurt them, Raquel. And then, I don’t know, I ran away.”
“What did you do with the knife?”
“The guy cut my hand. I couldn’t hold onto it.” He held up his right hand. On the web between the index finger and the thumb was a white scar. Raquel hadn’t noticed it before.
“What happened then?”
“I didn’t go back to the restaurant ever again. The cops were all over the place. I was afraid.”