by Paul Batista
As they had on many nights during the trial, Raquel and Theresa drove to the seaside house in Montauk when they left Sag Harbor, almost deserted at this time of the year and profoundly attractive. The drive to the house took less than forty-five minutes. The Montauk Highway, essentially a two-lane street after it passed through East Hampton, had almost no traffic.
Raquel was bone-weary, as she had been on most nights for the last two weeks. She hadn’t called her doctor for the simple reason that she was afraid about what she might hear. Raquel was not convinced—or she didn’t want to believe—that the cancer had recurred because she didn’t have the pain through her entire body that had first alerted her a year ago to the possibility that she might be sick. But for the last two weeks the pain and lassitude, and the deep-down, secret fear, had destroyed her sleep.
Raquel loved to drive her black Porsche—another of the few toys she had given herself when she recovered—but on this night as on many others she let Theresa drive. In multiple ways Theresa had witnessed Raquel’s rapid transformation. She saw how blanched Raquel’s vibrant, dark face was by the end of each day. And she also saw Raquel’s daily strength as she rallied during each trial day to be alert and strong until the jury left the room to go home. At that point, Raquel would sit with her head resting on her hands in the private, usually empty room reserved for lawyers next to the courtroom.
On the quiet drive they listened to the local NPR station with All Things Considered set at low volume. The familiar, subdued cadence of Robert Siegel’s cultured voice, a throwback to the days of baritone-voiced broadcasters like Edward R. Murrow and Walter Cronkite—seemed to soothe Raquel. She and Theresa both smiled when a ninety-second summary of the day’s trial was broadcast—even NPR regularly covered the trial.
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 a
t 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.
“What concerns me right now is how to secure the source, the original, of this video. It’s obvious to me that the authenticity, the completeness, of this is important, very important. Ms. Harding, what’s the source of this video?”
“Our computer people are working on that right now.”
“But at this critical moment, as we sit here with a jury about to arrive to start the third week of this trial, you don’t seem to know whether this video is authentic?”
“Not yet,” Margaret Harding said.
“If not yet, when?”
“I’m just not certain.”
For the first time Raquel saw an expression other than calm indifference on the judge’s face: she raised her eyebrows above the black frame of her glasses.
“When we finish do you think you can ask Mr. Lupo what his office is doing? And by the mid-morning break I’d like to get some kind of report on this—where this tape has been, is it complete, who has had access to it? That kind of thing.”
“I just want to make clear, Judge,” Margaret Harding said, “that we never had this tape.”
“You know, Ms. Harding, I try not to decide anything until I know what the facts are. But at the moment I don’t know what you mean when you say we didn’t have the tape. You just told me you didn’t see it until this morning. And we is a very large concept, isn’t it? It’s not just you. You have a large office, or I should say Mr. Lupo does. Is the detective who testified last week part of the we?”
Margaret Harding gave Conley a narrow-eyed, withering look, the scorn of the beautiful for the plain. She said nothing.
Conley turned to Raquel. It was, she realized, the first time Conley had ever looked directly at her. “And is there anything you want to say, Ms. Rematti?”
“I appreciate your sensitivity in handling this, Judge.”
“I’m not looking for compliments, Ms. Rematti.”
But Conley seemed, somehow, to like these words from this famous woman. She looked flattered. But quickly she reverted to form: “I’m trying to deal, Ms. Rematti, with a situation that’s very troubling to me, too. I find it’s best to take things in steps. So my question to you is: Do you want anything done now, before we go any further?”
“Certainly, Judge. As I said in my email, I want Detective Halsey recalled to the stand. And I want to ask the detective when he first saw that tape. Or when he was first aware of it. Or when it was first mentioned to him.”
Margaret Harding interrupted Raquel. “We are prepared to dismiss the charges relating to larceny and burglary.”
Judge Conley had no visible reaction. She waited for Raquel.
Harding’s words caught Raquel off guard. She immediately recognized that this unexpected statement was very skillful. If Harding dropped the charge to which the video related, then Harding could argue the video was not relevant. Raquel said, “That doesn’t remedy the problem, Your Honor. I understand that the government wouldn’t want the jurors to see the tape in this courtroom, and that to prevent that from happening, Ms. Harding is willing to drop the theft charges. But the tape has greater importance, Judge. If other people—in this case the police—were doing things that Mr. Suarez is accused of doing then the jurors are entitled, at this stage, to see the tape to evaluate whether Mr. Suarez did other things.”
“I can’t prevent the government from dismissing part of its charges, Ms. Rematti.”
Raquel had an only uncertain grasp of how to deal with this judge. There were times during the trial when she was surprised by her willingness to sustain her objections, to listen to her arguments, and to make small rulings that were helpful. There were also times when Conley’s parochialism—her grandfather had been a county supervisor, her father a judge, she had benefitted from the nepotism of an engrained political party in the county—led her to allow Margaret Harding to ask questions that were certainly irrelevant but damaging to Juan. Yet Conley was savvy. She was worried about reversals: she wanted a promotion, and a reversal in the most high-profile criminal case in the country since the Casey Anthony and George Zimmerman trials wouldn’t help her.
Raquel said, “I know you don’t have any control, Judge, over whether Ms. Harding drops the theft charges, just as you had no control over what charges Ms. Harding brought in the first place —”
“Ms. Rematti, it’s not Ms. Harding who brought these charges. It was the Grand Jury.”
Raquel shrugged off the fourth-grade teacher’s reprimand, just as she shrugged off the impulse to say that a Grand Jury would indict the Pope if the DA asked for it. “But this tape is essential for reasons that relate to the murder charges.”
“You said that before, Ms. Rematti, and I’m not sure you’re right. In fact, it seems to me the tape could be irrelevant. The fact that, even assuming the tape is authentic, other people were stealing money on the same day as the murder does not mean that another person was in the house that day committing a murder.”
“That’s for the jury to decide, Judge. But without the tape the jurors don’t have the ability to decide one way or the other whether the fact that other people were stealing cash leads to a reasonable doubt that Mr. Suarez committed the murder.”
“Ms. Rematti, there is another problem with this tape. I have a sense that the end of the case is fast coming on. Whether it’s relevant or not, whether or not it tends to exonerate your client on the murder count—and at the moment I don’t necessarily see that it does—I have no idea whether it’s authentic. I’d never let a jury see any piece of evidence where there’s an obvious question as to whether it’s authentic or a fabrication.”
“Mr. Suarez is entitled to a fair trial. Suspending a murder trial for a day or two to test the authenticity of the tape is more important than the possibility of an innocent man’s conviction.”
Judge Conley gave Raquel an icy glance and then turned to Margaret Harding. “Ms. Harding, you’ve been uncharacteristically quiet. Is there anything you want to tell me?”
“We’re not looking at a one- or two-day break, Judge. My office is unlikely to know in what format this video existed. Even when we do find that, we may not have the electronic forensics people who can do the kind of analysis we would do on a traditional recording device. It will take time, and resources the government may need even more time to locate, to find out how the tape was recorded, where, who set it up, who was responsible for maintaining its integrity, where the recording has been all these months, who released it, and whether it was or wasn’t altered. We live in the age of electronic animation, the Pixar era.”
&nb
sp; “Pixar?” Raquel said. “A man’s life is in the balance, and we’re talking about Pixar?”
Conley ignored her. “I’d like to hear some sort of presentation late this afternoon, Ms. Harding, where the best expert you’ve currently got can answer some of the questions you’ve just raised.”
“I don’t know whether we even have the capacity with the assets we have now to do that by this afternoon.”
“That,” Judge Conley said, “is your problem.”
And, before calling an end to the conference, she said to Raquel, “It’s only fair to alert you now that I’m not inclined to require Detective Halsey to return to the stand for further cross-examination by you regarding this video. I just heard that the state is dropping the theft charges. Even if it’s authentic, the video has little or no relevance to the murder charge.”
This time Raquel Rematti couldn’t control herself. “That is so profoundly unfair. It negates any likelihood that Mr. Suarez will have a fair trial.”
Conley stood up. She said, “I won’t tolerate being spoken to like that by any lawyer, including you, Ms. Rematti. I want an apology now or I’ll call a hearing after the trial to hold you in contempt.”
Raquel stood, too. “I’d welcome that.”
Juan Suarez was in the holding cell outside the courtroom. Raquel hadn’t seen him since the day the trial recessed, a day when Theresa Bui was still alive, vital, and filled with the promise of the young. Raquel said, “Juan, there are two things I want to talk to you about before we go back into the courtroom.”
“What?”
“The first is that there was a film that somebody sent out showing that two cops, not you, stole the cash in Brad’s bedroom.”
“You know I never stole anything, Raquel.”
What, Raquel thought, do I really know about this man? “The theft charges have been dropped,” she said. “You’re not charged with stealing anymore. The jury won’t be asked to decide whether or not you took the money.”
