She stopped briefly when someone, a heckler, shouted, “Come on, lady, cut the bullshit.”
“Juan Suarez is human. When he heard the verdict, he was very disappointed, he continues to assert his own innocence-and I fully agree with him-on the accusation that he killed Brad Richardson. But Juan Suarez is also a stoic. He’s never once raged at the racism that brought about this prosecution. He’s never once complained about the unfairness of the trial. He is now what he always has been: patient, decent, and respectful.”
Raquel Rematti began to turn away from the microphones when someone asked, “Can you comment about Theresa Bui, the woman who was killed at your house?”
“Theresa was a remarkable woman-intelligent, caring, attractive in every imaginable way. She was also growing into a great lawyer. She enriched my life. Now that this trial is over, I’m going to join her lovely family and join in their grief.”
“There’s information that you were the target, not Theresa. It that so?”
Raquel was already making her way through the dense crowd. Two microphones followed her. “If that’s so, then it would have been far better if I was the one who died.”
“What steps are you taking to protect yourself?”
Struggling steadily through the press of men and women, Raquel Rematti thought about the months of her cancer. She said: “I always pray for God’s will.”
40.
A chain link fence with razor wire on top encircled the landfill on the edge of the Sag Harbor-Bridgehampton Turnpike. In the twenty years since the landfill was closed the fence had steadily decayed. There was a rip in the mesh through which anyone could pass.
Billy Jones and Robert Hedges, both of them kids from the long-time colony of blacks who lived along the old road, often went through the rip in the curtain of fence. They were both thirteen. The rip was large enough not only for them but also for the worn mountain bikes they had waited all winter to ride. There had been a string of warm, spring-like days. After school they took long trips around Bridgehampton and Sag Harbor. At some point on each of those trips they went through the hole in the fence. The landfill was like a private preserve for them, a playground. They were able to smoke there.
After all the years of dormancy, the landfill sometimes gave up its secrets, just as in warm weather it gave up a sweet aroma of rot. Metal cans, broken glass, shattered plastic toys somehow appeared on the surface. Rain, moisture, snow, dirt, and time made anything Billy and Robert found completely useless, but the boys still felt like treasure hunters when they discovered something.
The landfill was a small mountain of dirt and grass draped over a steadily decomposing mound of garbage and debris that had accumulated from 1920 to the early 1990s. In any kind of sunlight, even in winter and early spring, the area of the landfill became warm. Its decaying debris was a heat source: snow melted more quickly over it than anywhere else.
Loose dogs often made their way through the fence to the landfill, attracted by the scent of decades of waste. Each time Billy and Robert went into the landfill they found new holes left behind by the dogs. Sometimes the boys kicked dirt back into the holes, and at other times they widened the holes.
Billy was the one who saw the ripped plastic bag that had been pulled part of the way out of a hole. The boys clawed and kicked and dug around the bag. It came apart. They reached inside it.
Inside was a large yellow rain poncho and a long knife. There were big brown stains on the poncho and the knife. These were the most interesting things the boys had ever seen this stale landfill give up. The poncho looked cool to them-it was still intact, as they saw when they stretched it between them. And the long, curved knife was even cooler than the poncho. They rolled the poncho around the long knife and took them home.
41.
Shock and awe.
Bo Halsey had done it so often himself that it long ago became a routine part of his work: the appearance, just after dawn, of the police at your door, shouting, Police, open up. People were vulnerable when they were sleeping, or just awake, disoriented. And, when they saw five or six strangers, sometimes holding guns, they were afraid. Arresting people at dawn infused them with terror, with a sense of the enormous power of a government that had suddenly turned on them.
But Bo Halsey couldn’t be shocked or awed. He had already been awake and had breakfast and coffee when at dawn he heard the three cars and two SUVs pull up on his lawn. He knew what was happening.
He opened the front door before the phalanx of men could cross the lawn and knock. He wasn’t surprised to see Santangello and Arena in the lead: their bosses knew that the two agents liked Halsey and they had to prove that they could do their jobs without letting emotions such as loyalty and friendship interfere.
“What is it,” Bo said, “you guys never heard of a cell phone? You could’ve called.”
Vic Santangello said, “I know, but the fucking kids made us come out here this way.”
“Must’ve been because I talked fresh to them, right?”
“Something like that,” Arena said. “You were fresh, Bo. It was fun to watch. Can we come in?”
“Hey, my door’s always open. I don’t even use locks.”
Santangello and Arena stepped inside. The others remained on the porch. The kitchen had not been renovated in years. It had brown cabinets, a linoleum floor, and a yellow refrigerator. It was neat and orderly.
Arena said, “I have to say this, Bo. You’re under arrest. I have to read you your Miranda rights.”
“I have the right to remain silent. Anything and everything I say can be used against me. I have the right to have a lawyer represent me.”
Arena repeated those words.
Bo Halsey laughed, crossing his wrists. Arena snapped on the plastic handcuffs, loosely. As Bo began to lead the way to the door, Santangello said, “Slow down. We have a search warrant.”
“Not a problem,” Bo Halsey said. “The sheets from the fucking Joan Richardson bedroom are in the basement next to the oil tank.”
Vic Santangello shouted at the other men who stood like phantoms in the semi-dark on the porch. “Get back to the vehicles, get back.” Since Vic was the senior guy, the other men receded, not speaking.
Arena was already on the stairs leading to the basement. Halsey and Santangello heard the uncertain footsteps. “Man,” Santangello said, “we’ve known each other a long time. Just between us-I swear this is just between us-what the fuck were you up to with the video and these sheets?”
“Just between us girls, this was the last and biggest job of my life. I did lots of work, made lots of decisions. There was no way I was going to let a kid with a videotape and a sad girl with sheets mess up my conviction. It worked.”
“No,” Santangello said, “it really didn’t.”
42.
Raquel Rematti was in her office when the call came at two in the afternoon. She had done nothing since mid-morning as the waves of relief and peace, the quiet ecstasy of safety, passed over her. Her day started with that early morning dread she had so often experienced in the last year. After she ate breakfast and dressed herself in her most expensive business clothes, she had taken a taxi, through heavy traffic, to Columbia Presbyterian Hospital on the East Side. Although she tried to read the Times on her black Kindle during the wrenching half-hour ride, her attention barely registered the headlines. She finally gave up and just stared at the congested traffic on York Avenue, always chaotic, the only two-way avenue in the city.
Zain Anil, an Indian-born woman who had been her main doctor for the last year, had developed real affection and respect for Raquel Rematti. Only 42, Dr. Anil managed all of Raquel’s treatment, coordinating a small army of surgeons, radiologists, oncologists, and technicians who were involved in the complicated process of saving Raquel’s life.