“I saw pieces of the trial on TV, sweetie. You were a real trooper. But it must have been painful for you.”
“Hank, I really want you to come home.”
“We’re in the middle of this. Another two or three days.”
“I’ll fly down. I can leave tonight. Where are you staying?”
“Joan, I’m working my tail off. I’ll be on the set for the next two days. I won’t have time to see you.”
She stared into the alluring comfortable glow created by the lights from the awning. To her left the monumental Fifth Avenue building rose into the mist and sleet; the stone surface of the building was streaked with wet stains. When she focused on the conversation that was now unfolding, she remembered the very few times when a man had spoken so evasively to her. She had only been dumped twice in her life, once, twenty years earlier, by the young George Clooney. Two years before she had married Brad Richardson, the scary-looking Salman Rushdie had dumped her with his convoluted locutions. It sounded like a philosophy lecture. She had cut him off. “Just do it,” she had said.
But tonight, wanting not to hear what she imagined she was about to hear, she said, “I don’t mind staying in the hotel room while you’re out, Hank. I could read Trollope again.” This was painful to her. She felt desperate.
“Joan, I really need to concentrate on what I’m doing. For some reason, I really don’t want Fred Thompson to be the only ex-Senator to make millions on television.”
Joan thought of saying, “I can give you millions,” but she sensed that would be like a lash, one that would hurt her more than it would hurt Hank and might give him a reason to utter angry, decisive, irretrievable words. She asked, “Is there a woman with you?”
“That’d never happen, sweetie. All I need is a few days.”
“It’s all right,” she said, as quietly as she could in a world where there was noise all around her-the sibilant rain, the rushing tires on the pavement of Fifth Avenue, the sound of slamming taxi doors.
Joan closed the lid on her cell phone. She was crying. She wiped the rain from her forehead and cheeks. Smiling for the doormen, she walked under the awning and into the lobby.
Hank Rawls, who was in New York and not Miami, never had to tell Joan Richardson that Rain Chatterjee, a gorgeous, 32-year-old Pakistani woman educated at Oxford and now a weekend anchor at CNN, was in his apartment, as she had been for three days. Hank Rawls never had to tell Joan Richardson that because he never saw her again.
32.
Detective Halsey was one of those crisp, no-nonsense cops who made great witnesses because they were laconic, informative, and impossible to ruffle. Almost all of his answers were yes or no; when he had to say more, his sentences were terse, the modern version of Sergeant Joe Friday. Generally, as Raquel Rematti knew, it was best to get witnesses like Halsey off the stand as quickly as possible and not to linger on cross-examination. Through Margaret Harding’s own crisp questioning, Halsey had spent his two hours of direct examination describing the emergency call that led him to the seaside estate in East Hampton, his entry into the office where Brad’s body and the bodies of the two Borzois were already covered under the tarpaulin-like sheets, the arrival of Joan Richardson, and his sending of two detectives upstairs after Joan told him that Brad kept cash in the bedroom.
And he testified that the two detectives, Cerullo and Cohen, came downstairs with nothing. Bo Halsey didn’t testify that several weeks earlier Ang Tien had shown him a clear video that unmistakably depicted Cohen and Cerullo carrying brick-like stacks of cash out of the Richardsons’ bedroom.
Raquel Rematti asked, “Detective Halsey, let’s just be clear: there were no eyewitnesses to the killing of Brad Richardson, correct?”
Halsey leaned forward to the microphone slightly, just as he had in all his answers to Margaret Harding’s questions. His shaved head glinted. He looked at the jurors each time he answered a question: years earlier he had learned that jurors found witnesses who looked at them were trustworthy. He said, “None.”
“And there were none of Mr. Suarez’s fingerprints in Mr. Richardson’s office, were there?”
“That’s right.”
“And there was no DNA from Mr. Suarez at the crime scene, was there?”
“None.”
“And no weapon was found in Mr. Suarez’s possession?”
“None.”
“And no cash was found in Mr. Suarez’s possession, right?”
“None.”
“And the only reason you sent Detectives Cerullo and Cohen to look for cash was because Mrs. Richardson told you there might be cash in the bedroom, isn’t that right?”
“Not right. She told me there was cash in the bedroom. Well over two hundred thousand dollars. She didn’t say it might be there. She said it was.”
“And Cerullo and Cohen reported to you that there was no cash, is that right?”
Detective Halsey again leaned forward to the microphone and, looking at the jury, said, “The cash was gone. That’s in their report.”
“Let me understand: the only reason you, as the lead investigator, believe that Mr. Suarez stole more than two hundred thousand dollars is because Mrs. Richardson told you there was cash in the bedroom, isn’t that right?”
“Not right, counselor. Point one, she said it was there. Point two, it was gone.”
“And you didn’t ask Jimmy if he saw cash there the day before Brad was killed, the day Mrs. Richardson said Jimmy was in the house, is that right?”
“We never heard of Jimmy, counselor.”
“When did you hear about Jimmy?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“Did you look for him?”
“We did.”
“Did you find him?”
“We did.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Not much.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he was in a drug rehab in Arizona trying to recover from crack addition during the month Mr. Richardson was killed. The records at the place, which is very expensive, show he was there. He said he was a drug user, not a drug dealer.”
“Did he say he knew Brad Richardson?”
“He said he did.”
“Did he say he visited the Richardson home?”
“He did.”
“Why?”
“Mr. Richardson paid him, he said, two thousand dollars a pop-his words-for oral sex.”
“Did Jimmy say there was cash in the bedroom?”
“He said if there was he never saw it.”
“And you never asked Trevor Palmer if he saw cash in the bedroom, right?”
“Never heard of him either until two weeks ago. When we interviewed him, he said he thought there might have been cash there, but he said he wasn’t sure.”
“So this could be phantom money, Detective Halsey?”
Margaret Harding rose to her feet. To Raquel’s surprise Judge Conley said, “Overruled,” before Harding could even object.
Halsey was an experienced witness. He knew he had to answer the question as though no objection had been made. “I don’t know what phantom money means, Ms. Rematti.”
“Money that never existed?”
“Mrs. Richardson said it had been there. And when my officers looked it wasn’t there. Is that phantom money?”
It was time, Raquel knew, to wind down the cross-examination.
33.
At the end of Bo Halsey’s testimony, Ang Tien, who had been sitting in the back row of the gallery, walked out into the crystalline late winter afternoon. He’d waited to hear Bo Halsey’s testimony, hoping Halsey would describe the surveillance tape. That hadn’t happened.