As usual, Theresa prepared supper; it consisted mainly of heating food they regularly picked up from a stop at the fancy Citrella store in East Hampton. She set the food on the table. Raquel, who poured one glass of wine for each of them, ordinarily put the dishes in the washer.
Each night Raquel used the small guest bedroom. It was closer to the sound of the sea than her own bedroom. She believed the rhythm of the waves might ease her into fitful moments of sleep. Theresa always seemed uncomfortable with the idea of using Raquel’s far larger, well-decorated bedroom, but Raquel quietly insisted on it.
Not long after they started regularly using the Montauk house they started embracing before Raquel left for the small bedroom. It was Raquel who initiated the embraces. They lasted for thirty seconds, sometimes a minute. At first uneasy about them, Theresa soon became comfortable. Raquel obviously derived something comforting from them.
Tonight, at the end of the embrace, they pressed their cheeks together, almost kissing. Raquel said, “Thank you, my sweet friend.”
Raquel, wrenched up from another fitful sleep, had no doubt that the odd pop-pop-pop sounds she heard were rifle shots. As always, she was naked when she was in bed. She jumped to her feet and, naked, sprinted toward her bedroom.
As soon as she entered the room she saw that the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the beach was shattered. She turned on the lights. Tiny shards of glass glinted over the bed and floor. Panting, shouting Theresa, Theresa, she glanced all around the devastated room.
Theresa Bui’s body was slumped against a wall. The bullets had struck her head. Blood drenched her jet-black hair.
Raquel, oblivious to the shards of glass under her bare feet, ran to the body and knelt, praying, beside it. She instinctively knew that the sniper thought the person he had killed in Raquel’s bedroom was Raquel herself.
34.
The trial resumed five days later. When Raquel drove into the parking lot, it seemed to her that thousands of reporters and spectators were gathered there to see her. Although she had refused police protection, three cruisers followed her from Montauk to Riverhead. When the cruisers pulled into a protective triangle around her car as she parked, and as several policemen formed a protective corridor for her to walk to the building, she was grateful that Richie Lupo had ignored her polite “No, thank you” when he had called over the weekend to offer her the protection and to say he was “sorry” about the loss of Theresa Bui.
It was early. Ordinarily the jury was led into the courtroom at nine-thirty but Judge Conley had asked that the lawyers report to her chambers at eight. The austere, unattractive building was locked at that time because it officially opened to the public at nine. Once Raquel entered the building, two court security officers led her to the judge’s chambers.
Helen Conley was, as always, bland. Not wearing her black robe, she sat quietly behind her large desk; her hands were folded like a parochial school girl waiting for class to start. Margaret Harding and a court reporter were already there.
As Raquel took a seat at the long conference table directly in front of the judge’s desk, she was surprised when Helen Conley said, “Ms. Rematti, before we go on the record, I want to express my deep sympathy for what happened to Ms. Bui. It’s terribly, terribly disturbing. And it was obvious to me from where I’ve sat every day at this trial, facing the two of you, that there was a bond between you.”
“Thank you, Judge,” Raquel said. “This has been very hard on me and, more importantly, on her family. She was an only child. There was a tremendous attachment between her parents and her. It’s heart-breaking to see them.”
“Where do they live?”
“In Chinatown.”
“What are the funeral arrangements?”
“Theresa was raised in Chinatown, but born in Taiwan. She has already been flown back there for burial.”
“When you speak to her parents, please convey our condolences. She was well-liked and well-regarded here.”
Margaret Harding said, “Yes, Raquel, please do the same for us. We got to know her over the last three or so years. She was a terrific young lawyer.”
And then, as if on some unseen cue, Judge Conley said to the court reporter: “Ready to proceed.”
He settled into position above his machine, like a dancer poised to start. “Yes, Your Honor,” he said.
As though dictating, Helen Conley said, “This is an in camera session in the case of the People of the State of New York against Juan Suarez. Present in my chambers are Margaret Harding for the People, and Raquel Rematti for defendant.”
Conley glanced down briefly at an index card in front of her. She had written down the subjects she wanted to cover. She was a careful person. “This session is being held for two reasons. The first is to discuss the impact of the death five days ago of one of the defense attorneys. The other is to address an email the Court received yesterday from Ms. Rematti requesting that Detective Bo Halsey, who testified last week for the prosecution, be recalled to the stand and re-examined by Ms. Rematti in light of the public disclosure of a video that purports to describe, according to Ms. Rematti’s letter, two Suffolk County police detectives apparently carrying something from the bedroom of Brad Richardson, the victim.”
Margaret Harding said, “The People are prepared to address both issues.”
Raquel said, “I can simplify the first.”
Conley looked surprised. “Go ahead.”
“I am not seeking a mistrial. The defense will proceed with the trial. I do ask that you interview the jurors as soon as possible to determine whether one or more feels that his or her ability to be fair is compromised by the murder. I think we can assume they all know about it. I also think we can assume that they will say they can be fair and rule on the basis of the evidence at trial and nothing else.”
Conley turned to Margaret Harding. “Do you want to comment?”
“Certainly. This is not what we expected. We anticipated a motion for a mistrial. If the defense waives that, we want to go forward.”
Conley was an efficient woman. “So, that resolves that issue. I’ll interview each of the jurors separately. If I conclude they can be fair, we’ll go forward with the trial at ten today. If any one of them presents a problem, we have four alternate jurors. Anything further on this subject?”
“No,” Raquel said.
Relieved, Margaret Harding said, “No.” Since she had expected Raquel Rematti to urge a mistrial, she wondered whether the legendary lawyer seated across the table had some intuitive sense that the trial was evolving in her favor.
“What we’re about to discuss,” Conley said, “will be sealed, as will all of this conference. No one is going to discuss with the press or anyone other than your client, Ms. Rematti, what happens here.”
Raquel never allowed her personal emotions-such as the flash of annoyance she felt now or the chilly change in the atmosphere of the room-to interfere with the work she had to do.
Conley said, “Ordinarily what happens outside of the courtroom is no concern of mine. But in this case it does concern me when I see a broadcast that certainly suggests that there is information, important information, that I’m not aware of.”
Raquel waited through the pause. It was important not to volunteer anything until she had a sense of this plain woman’s direction. She waited just long enough for Margaret Harding to say, “We knew nothing about this video, Your Honor.”
“That’s not what concerns me right now, Ms. Harding.”
While the judge paused again, Raquel again waited. An essential rule: when there’s no need to speak, keep your mouth shut.