“Did he tell you his name was Anibal Vaz?”
“Not that I remember. Just the name Anibal. I didn’t know whether it was his first or last name, or whether it was his name at all. I never heard the name before.”
There was no transition, no skip of a beat, between that answer and the next question: “Did you have a sexual relationship with Mr. Suarez?”
There was a sudden audible stir in the courtroom. The reporters in the gallery became even more rapt. Joan Richardson felt that the lens of the television camera was drilling a hole through her forehead. “I did.”
“For how long?”
“Weeks.”
“Where?”
“At my house. And twice I brought him to my home in Manhattan.”
“Where did you have sex with Mr. Suarez when you were at your house in East Hampton?”
“Many places, Ms. Harding. Kitchen, library, our bedroom.”
“And when you were in your bedroom in East Hampton did Mr. Suarez see the cash?”
“He saw that. And Mr. Suarez said that Brad should keep the cash locked up.”
“How much money did your husband have in the house on the day he died?”
“I knew he always kept at least two hundred thousand dollars, sometimes as much as five hundred thousand dollars. My husband was careless about money.”
“How careless?”
“Brad and I were in the bedroom once, getting ready to drive back to the city. We had forgotten to pay Mr. Suarez that week. Brad was in a hurry. He called out to Juan to come into the room. When Mr. Suarez was in the room, Brad reached into the safe three times and took out many thousands of dollars, spreading the money on the bed. He said to Juan ‘Take what you need, Juan.’”
“What did Mr. Suarez do?”
“What he always did. He picked up some of the cash, he put it in his pocket, and he said thank you.”
“Did you say anything when that happened?”
“I always told Brad I thought he should be more careful.”
“What did Mr. Richardson say?”
“That he trusted Juan.”
“He trusted Mr. Suarez?”
“He did. I did, too.”
Margaret Harding waited as Joan Richardson sipped water from a small Evian bottle. “Did Mr. Richardson know about your relationship with Mr. Suarez?”
“He did.”
“How?”
“I told him.”
“Why?”
“Ms. Harding, I wanted to see how he would react.”
“How did he react?”
“He was upset.”
“How do you know that?”
“He said he was, he said he couldn’t believe Mr. Suarez would betray the trust.”
“Was he angry, loud, excited?”
“Never. Brad Richardson was always quiet, determined, focused.”
“What happened next?”
“Mr. Suarez was in the yard, raking leaves from a flower bed. Brad asked him to come into the house. He told Mr. Suarez that he was fired, not to come back. He handed Mr. Suarez several hundred dollar bills.”
“Did Mr. Suarez ask why?”
“No, he knew why.”
Raquel watched the jurors. None of them even glanced at her. They were focused on Joan Richardson. Juan Suarez, who on Raquel’s instructions had not said a word, put his hand near her left ear, whispering, “Lies, Raquel. Those are all lies.”
Raquel, without looking at him, raised her hand, the signal for him to stop.
“When,” Margaret Harding resumed, “was Mr. Suarez fired?”
“The day before my husband died.”
“How do you know that?”
“Brad made me watch it, and I did.”
Raquel knew there were only a few fundamental truths about a trial. One truth was that you had to expect the unexpected, as she often told her students. It was adjusting to the unexpected, she said, that was one of the markers of a top trial lawyer. Being first in your class at Harvard Law School didn’t equip you for the fast, erratic play of the courtroom. Like a basketball player, you needed quick and sure reactions.
And now the unexpected happened in the absolutely silent courtroom, somehow still resonating with the last few words Joan Richardson spoke. Judge Conley said, “We’ll adjourn until tomorrow. Unfortunately, I have a commitment in another case. Please report to the courthouse no later than nine tomorrow. I believe Ms. Rematti will start her cross-examination when we get back.”
For once in this trial, Raquel had been handed an unexpected gift-the time to craft a strategy overnight. Expect the unexpected, she whispered to Theresa Bui.
28.
Raquel Rematti regretted her first question. “Mrs. Richardson, we’ve met before, haven’t we?”
“Yes, Ms. Rematti. You’ve been at two or three of our parties. I think you even invited us to one of your parties in Manhattan when you published your book. We weren’t able to come.”
It wasn’t often that Raquel stumbled in the starting blocks. Her first reaction was almost admiration for Joan Richardson. She was smart. No one could have prepared her for that answer.
“But we’ve never met to talk about Mr. Suarez or this case, have we?”
“No.”
“The prosecutors-Ms. Harding-told you not to talk to me, isn’t that right?”
“Not in so many words.”
“But you met with the prosecutors, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“With Ms. Harding, right?”
“I did.”
“With Detective Halsey?”
“Yes.”
“With detectives Cohen and Cerullo?”
“Sometimes, not too often.”
“In fact you met with Ms. Harding the day before the trial started, isn’t that right?”
“I did.”
“How many times did you meet with the prosecution?”
“I’m not sure; many.”
“And you rehearsed your testimony, correct?”
“Not a rehearsal, Ms. Rematti. We discussed the facts.”
“What do you know about facts? Mrs. Richardson. You lied even to them, isn’t that right?”
“Sometimes. About insignificant things. I’m telling the truth now.”
“We’ll get to that, Mrs. Richardson.”
Joan Richardson simply stared at her, contempt in her expression.
Raquel asked, “Before your husband died you came to know a man named Jimmy, isn’t that right?”
Joan’s expression didn’t change, but Raquel had the innate recognition that Joan Richardson was surprised, even rattled. She answered, “I did.”
“Did you ever know Jimmy’s last name?”
“Never.”
“And your husband knew Jimmy?”
“I think so.”
“You think so? You saw Brad and Jimmy together, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Many times?”
“I’m not certain. Many times? Several times.”
“And did you see Jimmy with Brad five days before Brad died?”
“I think so.”
“Four days before?”
“I could have. I’m not sure.”
“Were you in the house the day before Brad died?”
“I was. That was the day Brad fired Juan.”
“And was Jimmy in the house that day?”
“Yes.”
Joan stared intently at Raquel. And Raquel gazed intently at her.
“Did you ever tell Margaret Harding about Jimmy?”
“No, I didn’t see why I should.”
“Did you ever tell Detective Halsey about Jimmy?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Truly, Ms. Rematti, I was embarrassed by Brad’s use of cocaine, and I didn’t want cocaine to be part of his legacy.”
At the prosecution table, Margaret Harding sat in complete stillness, staring at Joan Richardson.
“Did you ever speak with Brad about Jimmy?”
“I did. Jimmy was a pest, Ms. Rematti. He would come to the house without calling ahead, as far as I knew. And Brad never told me who he was. I wanted to have an open, welcoming house, yet I wanted to know who the people were who visited us.”
“Did you ever see Brad hand cash to Jimmy?”
Finally the objection that Raquel had anticipated came. Margaret Harding, to her right, was on her feet.