by Paul Batista
Judge Conley then looked toward the spectators, many of them reporters. Conley, speaking directly into her microphone, conscious that her words were being broadcast around the world, said: “I want to make it clear that when the verdict is announced there will not be a sound, there will not be a reaction, from anyone in this courtroom.”
Raquel Rematti, despite the many times over more than twenty years that she had been in precisely this situation, just as a verdict was about to be announced, felt the blood throbbing in her temples.
And then the silver-haired lady spoke the word: Guilty.
39.
When Raquel Rematti emerged from the courthouse to the stone plaza, she found what she expected: dozens of cameras and boisterous reporters. It was chaos, like a demonstration veering out of control.
She stopped behind the microphones. It was another clear winter day. When the sound of the crowd subsided slightly, she said into the microphones clustered around her, “Today’s guilty verdict is the result of a deeply flawed prosecution and a trial in which the jurors were deprived of essential information. It is a shameful result. It is a prosecution that had its source in a blatant rush to judgment. It was directed not just at Juan Suarez but in effect at an entire community of men and women whose only offense is that they came to America, as all of our ancestors did, for a better life.”
Julie Harrison, a reporter from NBC who once had dinner with Raquel, asked, “Will there be an appeal?”
“Certainly. Throughout my career I have had confidence in our criminal justice system. Many jury convictions in high-profile cases are reversed.”
Harrison asked, “What issues can you raise?”
“Many,” Raquel said, “and they stem from the first hours after the tragic killing of Brad Richardson. First, with no concrete evidence—no eyewitnesses, no tell-tale traces of anything at the crime scene—they hunted down Juan Suarez. They did this solely on the say-so of Joan Richardson. The rich, powerful, profoundly troubled, and lying Joan Richardson. The prosecution never looked for another person. And, in fact, as you saw in the courtroom, the DA’s office succeeded in doing all it could to prevent the jury from hearing about all the other people who surrounded Brad Richardson at the time of his death.”
Another voice, deeper in the crowd, asked, “What else?”
“The government’s staggering misconduct, and the court’s willingness to condone it. We know that Juan Suarez did not steal anything, we know that two rogue detectives did, and we know that the jury was prevented in the courtroom from hearing anything about that.
“We also know that an honorable woman, a person of integrity, came forward to tell us extremely troubling information about how her forensic work was thwarted and then was silenced. I understand that even now she is the victim of retaliation, placed on involuntary leave without pay.
“This trial is Alabama justice in the 1930s, not a fair trial in the America of the twenty-first century.”
Raquel Rematti knew that her critical words, broadcast to the world, would end in disciplinary proceedings that could result in revoking her law license. Lawyers lived in a feudal regime: they weren’t supposed to say what they truly believed about prosecutors or judges, they were expected to keep in line with an unwritten set of standards controlling what it was permissible to say about the system. There were serious costs to violating the code of silence.
Raquel wasn’t concerned about these costs.
Another voice rang out: “Where is your client now?”
“He is being returned to the detention center in Riverhead where he has been held in deplorable conditions for months.”
“Can you say something about that? Why deplorable?”
“Not only has his treatment been harsh, he has been assaulted by prisoners acting, we believe, at the direction of a Mexican drug lord, Oscar Caliente, whose inexplicable contacts with Brad Richardson I was not allowed to explore. The prison staff did nothing to stop the deadly attack. And then they prepared a report that was not just a whitewash. It was a fabrication.”
“What was your client’s reaction to the verdict?”
No one in all her years of practice had ever asked that question. “Thank you, I want to address that. Prosecutors, judges, the public—and you in the media—never see criminal defendants as men and women, as people who have feelings, fears, hopes, thoughts, love for their children and others. Instead you see all of them as evil-doers.”
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 thi
s 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.
Raquel made Dr. Anil’s life easy. She never complained, she never resisted, she was never in denial. She never cried. She also made no arbitrary demands on Dr. Anil’s time or attention. She was respectful of the needs of other patients.
The doctor was a prompt, orderly, and efficient professional. When she delivered bad news, she didn’t sugarcoat it. When she had good news, she didn’t clap her hands. She was kind and orderly and even.
As soon as Raquel arrived and seated herself at the chair in front of Dr. Anil’s desk in her cramped office, Zain said, “I have good news, Raquel. What you have is Lyme disease, not a recurrence of cancer. You’re free of it. But you’re one of the dozens of people I’ve seen who have houses in the Hamptons. The area is overrun with deer. There must be millions, or billions, of deer-borne tics out there. You were bitten. The symptoms of the Lyme disease—soreness, body pain—sometimes mimic the feelings that cancer survivors have.”
“Thank you, Zain, thank you.”
“You’ve put yourself through hell for the last six weeks. You could have told us and we would have relieved your nightmare.”
“I was afraid, Zain,” Raquel said. “And I had work to do.”
“I know. You can rest now. You’re exhausted. Antibiotics will cure you.”
Raquel Rematti, thinking I’m cured, I get to live, put her hands over her face and cried.
She was still floating in that profound sense of relief when the call came in from Margaret Harding. She hadn’t spoken to Harding since the end of the trial. She had seen some of the television broadcasts in which Margaret, who looked even better on television than she did in person, claimed victory. She had appeared on many interviews; she was a guest on CBS, NBC, CNN and other stations. She was obviously in her element and wanted more, more. There was one level at which Raquel couldn’t blame her for this—Raquel was enough of a warrior in this business of warriors to understand that to the victor belong the spoils. There was another level at which she recoiled at the sight and sound of Margaret Harding.
Raquel said to Roger when he told her Margaret Harding was on the line, “Tell her I’m busy.”
Roger said, “It’s extremely important, or so she says.”
“Maybe she’s been nominated to the Supreme Court,” Raquel said.
“Or maybe she’s Miss New York in the next Miss America pageant.”
Raquel decided to take the call. She pressed the key for the speakerphone. Margaret Harding’s now too-familiar voice filled the office. She got right to the point. “Two weeks ago, two boys playing in a landfill in Sag Harbor found a poncho and machete. The poncho and the blade were rich with the DNA of Brad Richardson.”
Completely alert, Raquel had a sense of the direction this was taking. But, as she always did at the times when she wanted to learn things, she waited for more.
“We’ve determined,” Margaret Harding said, “that the only other DNA—and there is a rich amount of DNA—is the DNA of a guy named Jimmy Ortega. There is absolutely no DNA of Juan Suarez.”
Raquel stood up and walked to the wide windows overlooking Park Avenue. On the median strip dividing the uptown and downtown traffic, the faintest traces of green and other spring colors were starting to emerge in the flowerbeds. The median stretched in a straight line as far uptown as she could see. Again she said nothing.
As if reading from a script, Margaret Harding said, “The FBI labs and our own forensics experts have determined that it is the machete that killed Brad Richardson and the Borzois. The killer could not have been your client.”
Raquel was elated but controlled as she said, “Margaret, I appreciate your honesty in making this call.”
Margaret Harding interrupted: “
Honesty has nothing to do with it.”
Raquel ignored the tone of her words. “If you can give me the DNA report, I’ll prepare a motion to vacate the verdict.”
“No need for that. In fifteen minutes our office and the United States Attorney’s Office are issuing a press release saying that your client has been exonerated. We’ve already notified Judge Conley. Later today she will sign an order vacating the conviction and dismissing the indictment. Your client will be taken to JFK and deported to Mexico.”
Raquel decided she didn’t need to speak. There was nothing to say. She hit the End button on her phone and, staring at the beautiful avenue, she cried again.
43.
The Metropolitan Detention Center was on the waterfront in Brooklyn. Raquel drove carefully under the elevated Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, through arches that created dark shadows even on a day as bright as this. Beyond the immense prison—the newest building along the waterfront—strikingly tall cranes stood against the crystalline sky. The air was as clear as on that Tuesday when the planes hit the towers of the World Trade Center. In the years when the towers were still standing they were visible, three miles away, from the open, windswept parking lot. Now the new tower, completed just months earlier and far more beautiful than the destroyed rectangular towers, soared above Manhattan’s sharp-edged skyline. To the left was the immense span of the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge.
Raquel had made many trips to the MDC over the years. She and the other lawyers who regularly represented clients awaiting trial in the federal courts in Manhattan and Brooklyn often called the prison their “store,” the place where the clients were. Most of the prisoners in the maximum security facility were accused of drug-running. Many were street gang members. Some were Wall Street types charged with insider-trading and fraud; they were scared out of their skins by the other prisoners. And some of the prisoners—none of whom Raquel had yet represented, although she often thought that she would volunteer to do so—were called “Islamic terrorists.” This was Guantanamo Bay North.
