“But you didn’t mention him to the Grand Jurors, correct?”
“If you say so, Ms. Rematti.”
“If I say so? Let’s take a look at page 326 of your Grand Jury testimony. Mr. Oz asked you: ‘Who did you see in the house in the two days before Mr. Richardson was killed?’ Do you remember your answer? ‘Only Juan Suarez.’ If you need it, I’ll give you a copy of the transcript.”
“I don’t need it.”
“And that was a lie, wasn’t it?”
“It was. It wasn’t the whole truth.”
Raquel walked away from the easel, but made sure that the list of lies she had written on the big white page faced the jury. At the podium, Raquel said, “Ms. Harding asked you about the Borzois, the dogs. They were killed when your husband was killed, correct?”
“Obviously the same person who murdered Brad killed the Borzois as well. They did nothing to attack the man who killed Brad. Their teeth had no traces of blood or clothing. Only Juan knew the dogs so well that they wouldn’t have tried to attack. They’re hunting dogs, after all.”
Raquel decided not to engage Joan Richardson’s blatant, angry effort to damage Juan. She asked, “Do you remember testifying that taking care of the Borzois was part of Juan’s job, part of what he was paid to do?”
“That was part of his job.”
“Did you ever see Juan play with the dogs?”
“I did.”
“Did you see Juan feed the dogs?”
“I did.”
“Did you see Juan groom the dogs?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever see Juan hit the dogs?”
“No.”
“Mistreat them?”
“No, never.”
Raquel turned slightly to look at the jurors. She let ten seconds pass. “And you lied to the Grand Jurors about who you were with on the day your husband died, isn’t that right?”
“I shouldn’t have. I wanted to protect someone.”
“And that person was your other lover, Senator Rawls, correct?”
“I didn’t think it was anybody’s business.”
“You also lied to Detective Halsey, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And you lied to the prosecutors, didn’t you?”
“At first.”
“And you lied to the Grand Jurors?”
“I shouldn’t have. It was meaningless, it was stupid. I was afraid and confused.”
“And finally, Ms. Richardson, listen to me carefully. There was another man in the house in the days before your husband died?”
“I told you, Ms. Rematti, there were always many people in the house, both the day before Brad died and many other days before that.”
“And one of them was named Oscar Caliente, isn’t that right?”
“Brad said he was new to East Hampton, a polo player from Argentina who wanted to buy a horse farm. He knew people Brad knew who were involved with horses and the August polo shows in Southampton. Oscar Caliente, who Brad said was renting one of those old mansions on the beach in Southampton, wanted to be introduced to the horse people Brad knew.”
“You met Oscar Caliente, didn’t you?”
“At the house.”
“When?”
“Not long before Brad died.”
Raquel paused, stepping away from the podium and standing alone in the well of the courtroom without pencils, easels, or props of any kind. Raquel-tall, composed, and a master of these scenes-looked steadily at the fourteen anonymous jurors seated in two rows, one higher than the other, a kind of choir. “Ms. Richardson, you didn’t see Juan Suarez kill your husband, did you?”
“No.”
“You didn’t see Juan Suarez steal money, did you?”
“No.”
“You were 120 miles away when Brad Richardson was killed, isn’t that right?”
“Yes.”
“You never saw the weapon used to kill Brad Richardson, did you?”
“No.”
“And you never saw the weapon used to kill the Borzois, correct?”
“Never.”
In unison, like the choir they resembled, all the jurors had been looking back and forth from Raquel Rematti to Joan Richardson as the questions were asked and the answers given. At that moment, after Joan Richardson said “Never,” they were looking again at Raquel.
“No further questions,” Raquel said.
When Raquel sat at the defense table between Juan Suarez and Theresa Bui, the judge, in one of those frequent interludes that happen after a lawyer finishes a long series of questions, turned off her microphone and whispered to one of her clerks. As they waited, with Joan Richardson plainly angry and impatient, still on the stand, and the jurors staring into space ahead of them, Theresa leaned forward toward Raquel, whispering, “That was amazing.”
Raquel, who knew that people Theresa’s age and younger used the words amazing or awesome to describe anything they liked, whispered, “Thanks, but take it one step at a time. Amazing or not, it doesn’t matter until there’s a verdict.”
A feverish sweat shined on Raquel’s face. She was exhausted and in pain. When Theresa saw that there were even droplets of sweat on Raquel’s upper lip, she put the edge of her hand next to the edge of Raquel’s elegant, long-fingered hand. It radiated sick heat.
Overcoming the stillness in the courtroom, Judge Conley switched on the sound system. “Ms. Harding, do you expect to have re-re-direct examination?”
Margaret Harding stood. “One or two hours.”
“In light of that,” Judge Conley said as she turned to the jurors, “we’ll break until tomorrow morning.”
As the jurors were being led out of the courtroom through the side door reserved for them, Juan Suarez said to Raquel, “You did something very wrong, Raquel. Bad.”
They were still standing. Raquel glanced at him without speaking. She had never before heard this tone in Juan’s voice: it was harsh, furious, even threatening, so altered that it was scary, as if another person were speaking through him. “You should not have said the name Oscar Caliente to anyone. I told you that.”
31.
Central Park was absolutely black when Joan Richardson rose from the back seat of the car to the sheltering cone of the umbrella the doorman Frank held over her head. Streams of rain fell in rivulets from the eight points of the umbrella. A cold trickle struck the back of her neck. As he kept the umbrella above her on the short walk from the car to the awning, Frank said, “Nice to have you back, Mrs. Richardson.” Doormen, who knew everything, also liked to appear impervious to everything. She was certain that Frank had followed every word she said during the televised trial, yet his tone was the same as if he were welcoming her home from a vacation.
As soon as she reached the awning, Joan took out her cell phone, pressed the button for Hank Rawls’s number, and put the sleek instrument to her ear. This was the tenth call she had placed to him since leaving Riverhead. His cell was turned off. As she waited, she looked out from under the dripping awning into the massed black tree trunks and branches of Central Park. Cold rain blew through the street lights on Fifth Avenue. Yellow taxis created a constant hissing noise as they sped down the avenue, tossing wings of rain water from their tires.
At the seventh ring, just before his message was about to start, Hank Rawls answered. “Joan?”
She had been certain she’d lash out angrily at him, or treat him icily, because of his vanishing act. Instead, she was deeply relieved to hear his voice. “God, Hank, I’m so glad you answered.”
“Things suddenly got crazy for me.”
“Are you upstairs?” For months the doormen had just waved Senator Rawls in. He had his own key to the apartment. She added, “I’ll be right up.”
“Joan, I’m in Miami. I’ve been here a few days. I got a call out of nowhere for a role. Donald Sutherland cancelled a short part at the last minute, and, if you can believe it, they called me.”
She didn’t believe him. She sensed throughout her body an anxiety more profound than anything that had happened since the night she received the call from Bo Halsey. Even though she was actually trembling, she stepped out from under the awning, which had radiant heaters under the canopy that cast warming light down onto the sidewalk, into the sleety darkness. She didn’t want anyone to hear her. “I really need to lie down with you, to hug you,” she said.