by Paul Batista
“How do you know?”
“He told me that once at a restaurant known as Rao’s in Upper Manhattan.”
“Did you report that to law enforcement?”
“No.”
The faintest look of disgust passed over Naomi Goldstein’s otherwise enigmatic face. She said, “There is one other factual issue as to which you plan to plead guilty. Did you perjure yourself to the jury?” She paused.
“I did.”
“How?”
“When I said Robert Calvaro did not visit me overnight at the Waldorf Astoria. He, in fact, did, and did so many times.” She paused. “And by that time, I knew he was Oscar Caliente.”
Still enigmatic, Goldstein said, “You are aware of the fact that if you have lied to me today, you will be indicted for perjury again?”
“I’m well aware of that,” Baldesteri said. “Well aware of that.”
Naomi Goldstein wrote notes on a sheet of paper in front of her. There was a three-minute pause of complete silence in the courtroom. Raquel continued to clutch Willis Jordan’s hand.
“I’m satisfied,” Goldstein finally announced, “that the facts to which Ms. Baldesteri has just testified are sufficient to support her pleas of guilty.” She glanced at the young woman who had replaced Hunter Decker. “Does the United States have a motion?”
“To dismiss the other counts.”
“That’s granted.”
Judge Goldstein turned slightly to look again at Angelina Baldesteri and Michael O’Keefe. “All that remains now for the moment,” Goldstein said, “is the important issue of bail. Under the agreement, Ms. Baldesteri has forfeited her right to appeal. She will be formally sentenced by me in one month. Mr. O’Keefe, is there anything you want to say?”
“The Government and I have agreed that the Senator can be in home confinement and wear an ankle monitor at all times until sentencing. In other words, she will be monitored but otherwise free.”
For the first and only time, Naomi Goldstein angrily slapped the bench at which she sat. “No, no, no. What I have heard today is gross misconduct by one of the highest officials in this country. It’s a malevolent breach of the public trust. It also reveals that she is a person prepared to condone and plan violence by others. And, given the kinds of people she has willingly associated with, she presents a risk of flight to any country with which the United States does not have an extradition treaty.”
Goldstein signaled to the senior member of the ten United States Marshals to her bench and held the microphone under her hand so that no one else in the courtroom could hear her as she spoke. When the Marshal stepped away from the bench, he approached Angelina Baldesteri.
Judge Goldstein said, “There will be no bail. I remand Angelina Baldesteri immediately to the custody of the Justice Department so that she can begin serving the prison sentence I will impose next month after receiving all the reports and comments I need.”
Just at that moment, two things happened: a female Marshal placed handcuffs on Angelina Baldesteri’s wrists and led her toward the side door, which, through an elevated bridge, connected the courthouse to the nearby prison known as the Metropolitan Correction Center.
And Angelina Baldesteri turned to look directly at Raquel Rematti. “You bitch,” she said. “We’ll get you.”
* * *
On the steps of the grand federal courthouse, in brilliant sunlight, Raquel, accompanied by Willis Jordan, heard many questions, all of them as indistinct as if they came from underwater.
But there was one question that resonated for her. “What’s your reaction, Ms. Rematti?”
Raquel Rematti said only, “Justice.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Raquel Rematti fascinates me, as she has many of the readers of my earlier novel The Borzoi Killings. Raquel made her first appearance in that novel as the celebrated lawyer who undertook, for free, to represent a scorned “illegal” immigrant accused of the brutal murder of one of America’s wealthiest men at an East Hampton estate.
Although Raquel appears again in The Warriors, this novel is not a sequel to The Borzoi Killings. They are stand-alone books.
Raquel was chosen for The Warriors because of who she is. In the rarefied world of the four or five best criminal defense lawyers in America, she is not only one of them—she is the best. But Raquel is more than that. She is tough, compassionate, an utter realist, a person of remarkable bravery and independence. She is, too, a devoted friend and lover who faces hurt, loss, and betrayal.
Finally, I bring Raquel into a world of top-quality lawyers that has been utterly dominated by men, both fictional and real—Atticus Finch, Clarence Darrow, Johnnie Cochran. We need to know there are women of genius, charisma, bravery, and integrity who can excel in one of the last male-dominated arenas of our world. So, as a reader, I hope that you have concluded that the endlessly various aspects of Raquel Rematti make her not just one of the best bullfighters in the arena—but the best.
