The Borzoi Killings (15 page)

He said, “I do,” and she had no doubt that he understood.

“What they will have in a few minutes is a motive. No weapon, no witnesses, but a motive. And you’re going to hear about it again and again.”

Juan said, “I didn’t hurt Mr. Richardson. I didn’t hurt the dogs.”

“Get this, Juan: that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter whether you did it or not. Juan Suarez, they’re going to say, had a motive to kill—he imagined himself in love with a very beautiful, very rich American woman, and he believed she was in love with him. Juan Suarez was a man with many troubles in the world: he had no money, he could be deported, the police in New York were after him. Immigration could arrest him. How does he solve his problems? They’ll tell the jury that he got it into his head that if he used his knowledge of the house, his knowledge of Brad Richardson’s habits, his knowledge of where Joan Richardson was going to be, his knowledge of when the house would be empty, and if he left no weapon and picked a time of the day when Brad was alone, then he could do the perfect killing. They’ll say Juan Suarez lived in a fantasy world where he believed that the fact he was having an affair with Joan Richardson meant that if Mr. Richardson was killed Juan Suarez and the beautiful Mrs. Richardson would live happily ever after.”

“I never thought that, Raquel.” And then, for the first time, Juan became as blunt as Raquel wanted him to be: “Joan Richardson liked to fuck, Raquel. I’m only 29, Raquel. I can fuck all day long.
Anywhere, anytime. Joan liked that. I’m not stupid, Raquel. I had no plans with her. Just to fuck her.”

“Talk to me now, Juan. Who started this?”

“She did.”

“Did she ever try to end it?”

“She didn’t. I wanted to but I didn’t want to. Why should I stop? She never said she wanted to stop. She liked what we did.”

“Did she ever talk to you about Brad?”

“What do you mean, Raquel?”

“I mean, Juan, did she describe their life, what their marriage was like?”

“She said Brad should just live with one of his boyfriends and that he would be happier.”

“Did she know he had boyfriends?”

“Sure, I knew, too. Once Joan was in bed with me. She said, Christ, that son of a bitch was just in here. She was talking about Mr. Richardson and another man, I don’t remember his name. And then we really fucked, Raquel. That’s what she wanted.”

“Did she say anything else to you about Brad?”

“Not to me.”

“To anyone else?”

“They argued, many times. She knows how to scream. I heard her say,
You butt fucker, let’s break up.
”

“What did he say?”

“I didn’t hear him. He never raises his voice.”

“What else did you hear her say?”

“She said that she was going to use pictures of Mr. Richardson buying drugs. She took them when he didn’t see it. She said she was going to give the pictures to television, newspapers, magazines.”

“Did Brad Richardson use drugs?”

“Never saw that.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Did you sell drugs to Brad Richardson?”

“Sell? No.”

“Give them to him?

“No.”

“Did Joan Richardson use drugs?”

Juan paused. “Yes, the cocaine.”

Suddenly the buzzer that signaled when Judge Conley was about to re-enter the courtroom sounded. One of the guards said, “It’s show time, ladies and gents.”

Juan stepped back while the guard opened the cell door and unlocked the handcuffs. Juan rubbed his own wrists. Raquel saw the deep indentations that the plastic handcuffs had made on his wrists in such a short time. She had one of those moments when she recognized that her client lived in a world of pain and fear unlike any she had ever known. Until that world-changing moment a year earlier when her doctor, a straightforward woman, said, “You’ve got cancer, Ms. Rematti.” Even in the horrible months of chemotherapy when fear ran her life, she had never been locked for months in a cell from which there was no exit.

Margaret Harding had not
lost any traction during the break. “Mrs. Richardson, was there cash in the house?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“In our bedroom, most of it. Brad wasn’t careful about where he put money.”

“Was any of the money in a safe?”

“Some of it. There was money in a safe. But Brad never locked the safe. In fact, he left the door open.”

“Did Juan Suarez know where the cash was?

“He did.”

“Where did the money come from?”

Puzzled, Joan asked, “Where did it come from?”

“There was cash in the house, Mrs. Richardson, wasn’t that what you just told the jury?”

“Yes. Brad always had a great deal of cash in the places where we lived. But he carried only small amounts when he walked around. He never carried a credit card. Sometimes in restaurants I paid the check.”

“Mrs. Richardson, I asked if you knew where the cash came from?”

“I don’t know, Ms. Harding. He never told me. I never asked. He had no reason to tell me, I had no reason to ask.”

“Who paid Juan Suarez?”

“I did.”

“Why you?”

“Brad was an incredibly busy man. He ran a worldwide business, he wrote articles, he gave speeches. But he was terrible with cash. If he had paid Juan and the other workers, Brad would never have gotten the right amount. So I did it.”

“How often?”

“Every week.”

“In cash?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“It varied, Ms. Harding. Sometimes two thousand dollars a week, sometimes four, depending on whether he did extra work for us. And sometimes Brad just handed me money to give to Juan, almost as a gift. Brad was generous, and he very much liked Juan.”

“Why didn’t you pay Mr. Suarez in a check?”

“He didn’t have a bank account.”

“Was there any other reason he was paid in cash?”

“He was an illegal alien. He told us he didn’t have a Social Security number, he didn’t have a driver’s license, and he didn’t have a bank account.”

“You knew it was illegal to hire a person in his status?”

“I know that now. I didn’t think about it then. He said he had a wife and two children, or that he lived with a woman and she had two children. We weren’t trying to take advantage of anything. He was a hard worker. He was poor when he came to us. It just seemed natural to hire him and to pay him. Brad used to say
he
got paid for his work, so it seemed natural to pay Mr. Suarez for his work whether or not he was legal or illegal.”

“And how did you know he didn’t have a Social Security number or a driver’s license?”

“He told us. You have to understand, he is a charming man, he can talk an oyster out of its shell.”

As she was rising to her feet, Raquel said, “Move to strike that statement.”

Judge Conley glanced at the jurors. “I instruct you to disregard the last answer.”

Then Margaret Harding shifted the subject. “Did you know Mr. Suarez by any other name?”

Joan Richardson again glanced at the jurors. “Anibal.”

“What was that name again?”

“Anibal. For some reason, once during a break while he was cleaning the pool, he just mentioned that his name was Anibal. But he said I could go on calling him Juan if I wanted to.”

“Did he tell you his name was Anibal Vaz?”

“Not that I remember. Just the name Anibal. I didn’t know whether it was his first or last name, or whether it was his name at all. I never heard the name before.”

There was no transition, no skip of a beat, between that answer and the next question: “Did you have a sexual relationship with Mr. Suarez?”

There was a sudden audible stir in the courtroom. The reporters in the gallery became even more rapt. Joan Richardson felt that the lens of the television camera was drilling a hole through her forehead. “I did.”

“For how long?”

“Weeks.”

“Where?”

“At my house. And twice I brought him to my home in Manhattan.”

“Where did you have sex with Mr. Suarez when you were at your house in East Hampton?”

“Many places, Ms. Harding. Kitchen, library, our bedroom.”

“And when you were in your bedroom in East Hampton did Mr. Suarez see the cash?”

“He saw that. And Mr. Suarez said that Brad should keep the cash locked up.”

“How much money did your husband have in the house on the day he died?”

“I knew he always kept at least two hundred thousand dollars, sometimes as much as five hundred thousand dollars. My husband was careless about money.”

“How careless?”

“Brad and I were in the bedroom once, getting ready to drive back to the city. We had forgotten to pay Mr. Suarez that week. Brad was in a hurry. He called out to Juan to come into the room. When Mr. Suarez was in the room, Brad reached into the safe three times and took out many thousands of dollars, spreading the money on the bed. He said to Juan ‘Take what you need, Juan.’”

“What did Mr. Suarez do?”

“What he always did. He picked up some of the cash, he put it in his pocket, and he said thank you.”

“Did you say anything when that happened?”

“I always told Brad I thought he should be more careful.”

“What did Mr. Richardson say?”

“That he trusted Juan.”

“He trusted Mr. Suarez?”

“He did. I did, too.”

Margaret Harding waited as Joan Richardson sipped water from a small Evian bottle. “Did Mr. Richardson know about your relationship with Mr. Suarez?”

“He did.”

“How?”

“I told him.”

“Why?”

“Ms. Harding, I wanted to see how he would react.”

“How did he react?”

“He was upset.”

“How do you know that?”

“He said he was, he said he couldn’t believe Mr. Suarez would betray the trust.”

“Was he angry, loud, excited?”

“Never. Brad Richardson was always quiet, determined, focused.”

“What happened next?”

“Mr. Suarez was in the yard, raking leaves from a flower bed. Brad asked him to come into the house. He told Mr. Suarez that he was fired, not to come back. He handed Mr. Suarez several hundred dollar bills.”

“Did Mr. Suarez ask why?”

“No, he knew why.”

Raquel watched the jurors. None of them even glanced at her. They were focused on Joan Richardson. Juan Suarez, who on Raquel’s instructions had not said a word, put his hand near her left ear, whispering, “Lies, Raquel. Those are all lies.”

Raquel, without looking at him, raised her hand, the signal for him to stop.

“When,” Margaret Harding resumed, “was Mr. Suarez fired?”

“The day before my husband died.”

“How do you know that?”

“Brad made me watch it, and I did.”

Raquel knew there were only a few fundamental truths about a trial. One truth was that you had to expect the unexpected, as she often told her students. It was adjusting to the unexpected, she said, that was one of the markers of a top trial lawyer. Being first in your class at Harvard Law School didn’t equip you for the
fast, erratic play of the courtroom. Like a basketball player, you needed quick and sure reactions.

And now the unexpected happened in the absolutely silent courtroom, somehow still resonating with the last few words Joan Richardson spoke. Judge Conley said, “We’ll adjourn until tomorrow. Unfortunately, I have a commitment in another case. Please report to the courthouse no later than nine tomorrow. I believe Ms. Rematti will start her cross-examination when we get back.”

For once in this trial, Raquel had been handed an unexpected gift—the time to craft a strategy overnight.
Expect the unexpected
, she whispered to Theresa Bui.

Raquel Rematti regretted her
first question. “Mrs. Richardson, we’ve met before, haven’t we?”

“Yes, Ms. Rematti. You’ve been at two or three of our parties. I think you even invited us to one of your parties in Manhattan when you published your book. We weren’t able to come.”

It wasn’t often that Raquel stumbled in the starting blocks. Her first reaction was almost admiration for Joan Richardson. She was smart. No one could have prepared her for that answer.

“But we’ve never met to talk about Mr. Suarez or this case, have we?”

“No.”

“The prosecutors—Ms. Harding—told you not to talk to me, isn’t that right?”

“Not in so many words.”

“But you met with the prosecutors, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“With Ms. Harding, right?”

“I did.”

“With Detective Halsey?”

“Yes.”

“With detectives Cohen and Cerullo?”

“Sometimes, not too often.”

“In fact you met with Ms. Harding the day before the trial started, isn’t that right?”

“I did.”

“How many times did you meet with the prosecution?”

“I’m not sure; many.”

“And you rehearsed your testimony, correct?”

“Not a rehearsal, Ms. Rematti. We discussed the facts.”

“What do you know about facts? Mrs. Richardson. You lied even to them, isn’t that right?”

“Sometimes. About insignificant things. I’m telling the truth now.”

“We’ll get to that, Mrs. Richardson.”

Joan Richardson simply stared at her, contempt in her expression.

Raquel asked, “Before your husband died you came to know a man named Jimmy, isn’t that right?”

Joan’s expression didn’t change, but Raquel had the innate recognition that Joan Richardson was surprised, even rattled. She answered, “I did.”

“Did you ever know Jimmy’s last name?”

“Never.”

“And your husband knew Jimmy?”

“I think so.”

“You think so? You saw Brad and Jimmy together, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Many times?”

“I’m not certain. Many times? Several times.”

“And did you see Jimmy with Brad five days before Brad died?”

“I think so.”

“Four days before?”

“I could have. I’m not sure.”

“Were you in the house the day before Brad died?”

“I was. That was the day Brad fired Juan.”

“And was Jimmy in the house that day?”

“Yes.”

Joan stared intently at Raquel. And Raquel gazed intently at her.

“Did you ever tell Margaret Harding about Jimmy?”

“No, I didn’t see why I should.”

“Did you ever tell Detective Halsey about Jimmy?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Truly, Ms. Rematti, I was embarrassed by Brad’s use of cocaine, and I didn’t want cocaine to be part of his legacy.”

At the prosecution table, Margaret Harding sat in complete stillness, staring at Joan Richardson.

“Did you ever speak with Brad about Jimmy?”

“I did. Jimmy was a pest, Ms. Rematti. He would come to the house without calling ahead, as far as I knew. And Brad never told me who he was. I wanted to have an open, welcoming house, yet I wanted to know who the people were who visited us.”

“Did you ever see Brad hand cash to Jimmy?”

Finally the objection that Raquel had anticipated came. Margaret Harding, to her right, was on her feet.

And Judge Conley surprised Raquel: “Overruled. This is cross-examination. Ms. Rematti is entitled to leeway.”

Raquel picked up her thread as though there had been no interruption. Testimony, she knew, should be as seamless, as uninterrupted, as possible. Trials were about stories. “Let me ask you again: Did you ever see Brad Richardson hand cash to Jimmy?”

“I did. Once or twice.”

“And do you know why that happened?”

“I thought Jimmy might be delivering food.”

“Mrs. Richardson, you never saw Jimmy carrying pizza when he arrived at the house, did you?”

“No.”

“He wasn’t delivering food, was he?”

“No.”

“He didn’t drive up in a Pizza Hut truck, did he?”

“No.”

“He was delivering cocaine to your husband, wasn’t he?”

“He was. I didn’t like that. I asked Brad to stop. He used it recreationally.”

“You never asked Jimmy to come to your house, did you?”

“Never.”

“You thought he was evil, didn’t you?”

“Evil? I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You had no idea who Jimmy was, did you?”

“I was concerned that I didn’t.”

“He could come and go as he pleased, is that correct?”

“Whenever Brad was there.”

“You didn’t know where Jimmy lived, did you?”

“No. I didn’t even know whether his name was Jimmy.”

“Where did Brad and Jimmy meet when Jimmy came to the house?”

“In Brad’s office.”

“Did Jimmy ever go with Brad to any other room in the house?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Once or twice they went upstairs together. Brad usually let guests roam the house, as though it were an amusement park. That was his way.”

“And Brad kept cash upstairs, didn’t he?”

“I said that.”

“When was the last time you saw Jimmy in your house with Brad?”

“He was in the house when I left for the city.”

“And, Mrs. Richardson, that was the day before Brad was killed?”

“Yes.”

“And Jimmy was delivering cocaine to Brad that day, isn’t that right?”

Although her almost serene expression didn’t change, Joan Richardson wanted this to end. It would end faster, she thought, if she started to answer these questions directly, quietly, tersely. She recognized that all of Raquel’s questions were unerring: they tracked what she had actually seen, what she had in fact heard, and what she had said. Joan answered, “Yes, he was. Brad was buying cocaine again.”

“Was Jimmy in the house when you told your husband you were having an affair with Juan Suarez?”

“Possibly.”

“Not possibly, Mrs. Richardson. Answer the question
yes
or
no
.”

“Yes.”

“Did Jimmy hear Brad fire Juan Suarez?”

“Possibly. Jimmy was in the next room when it happened.”

“Let me ask you this, Mrs. Richardson: When was the last time you spoke to your husband?”

“Just as I was leaving.”

“Was Jimmy there?”

“Nearby.”

“What did you say to Brad?”

“I said I was sick of him.”

“And what did he say?”

“That he loved me, Ms. Rematti.”

When Joan Richardson left the witness stand for the lunch break, Margaret Harding literally pulled her aside as she passed the
prosecution table. There was anger in Harding’s gaze. She waited while the reporters and spectators wandered out of the courtroom and the television cameras were turned off. As soon as Harding thought no one could overhear, she whispered, “What the hell did you think you were doing up there?”

Joan surprised herself. “Fuck off,” she said. “I answered the questions she asked me. You told me I had to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. So long as it is
your
truth.”

“You never told us about Jimmy.”

“I stopped thinking about him. Obnoxious little bastard, fawning around my husband. You asked me about cocaine. You never asked about cocaine dealers.”

“We need to talk. Now.”

“You know what? I’m not going to talk at all to you. I’m going outside to clear my head.”

“There’s a cold sleet falling outside, Mrs. Richardson. Are you really used to that kind of weather?”

There was gray sleet falling outside; the pavement was icy; and a dismal wet chill seemed to enter her skin. In the distance were black, wet trees and patches of gray snow on the ground among the trees. With good-natured but now quiet Davey in the front seat, she sat in the back of the car, recovered a pack of Camels she had bought at a convenience store that morning, and smoked. She cracked the window open, just as she had done when she and her friends were smoking on lunch break in high school.

Where is Hank
? she wondered. “That bastard went into hiding,” she said out loud. They were the only words she uttered in the car. Davey glanced at her in the rear view mirror. He said nothing.

Raquel’s voice was soft, polite, almost deferential, as she started the afternoon session. “Mrs. Richardson, your husband was bisexual, wasn’t he?”

Margaret Harding stood. Her voice sounded exasperated. “Objection.”

Always with that schoolteacher’s demeanor, Judge Conley said, “Overruled.”

“Let me ask the question again,” Raquel said, still softly. “Your husband was sexually active with men and women?”

“He was. I learned that after we’d been married for four or five years. It was what he did. I’ve learned to accept things, Ms. Rematti.”

“Did you ever meet any of Brad’s partners?”

“Pretty often, Ms. Rematti. Over the last two or three years we had no reason to hide things from each other.”

“Did your husband have one of his friends at the house the day before he died?”

“He did.”

“You left for New York at about five?”

“I did. Around that time. It was getting dark.”

“Who was the friend?”

“Trevor Palmer.”

“Who is that?”

Joan reached for the fresh bottle of Evian she had bought from a vending machine on her way to the courtroom. The crack of the plastic cap as she turned it resonated sharply throughout the room. It was the only sound as everyone waited for her to speak. “He was one of Brad’s special friends. He was a songwriter.”

Raquel focused only on the first sentence of that answer: “He was one of your husband’s lovers?”

She sipped the water. “He was.”

“What were they doing when you last saw them?”

“It was in the afternoon. We had had a glass of wine together in the kitchen. And then they went upstairs.”

“What is upstairs?”

“Bedrooms, Ms. Rematti.”

“Did they go upstairs before Jimmy arrived?”

“They did.”

“How long were they upstairs?”

“We had the wine at lunch. Then they went upstairs. They came down at two or three.”

“And then Jimmy arrived?”

“Yes.”

“Did Jimmy see Trevor?”

“Yes.”

“Did Trevor know Jimmy?”

“Trevor enjoyed Jimmy’s company.”

“What does that mean?”

“Trevor called Jimmy rough trade.”

“Did Trevor tell you what ‘rough trade’ meant?”

“I already knew it, Ms. Rematti. So do you.”

Someone in the gallery of the courtroom laughed. No one else did.

Raquel asked, “Was Trevor there when you left?”

“Trevor always stayed until I left. Yes, he was there. He and my husband always had unfinished business.”