The Borzoi Killings (14 page)

All her years of
experience had given Raquel Rematti an almost unerring sense of the course a trial was taking, just as a ship’s pilot has a sense of where the dangers in a channel are. By the second day of trial, Raquel had the unsettling sense that things were going very badly for Juan Suarez and for her. A television reporter had remarked on air after the first day of the trial that the legendary Raquel Rematti had been “flat” in her opening to the jury. And, late at night, when Raquel had replayed her opening on her iPad, she agreed. Her performance bothered her and her memory of it caused a pang of embarrassment. She had the tense sense that she herself was on trial. This was her first trial since the year-long struggle with cancer, the chemotherapy, and the surgery.

In the difficult week before the trial started, as she and Theresa worked twelve-hour days, Raquel was completely unsettled by the sudden lassitude, the all-pervasive weakness, that seemed to infuse the flow of her blood throughout her body. She knew it might be possible that her anxiety made her feel that way and that it was not the first dreadful signal of a recurrence, a resurgence, of the disease.
Please, God, don’t let this happen again.

Although Raquel kept the sensation of weakness and fear to herself, Theresa, who was young, vibrant, and indefatigable, asked three days before the trial, “Raquel, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she had answered. “Just tired.”

Raquel was also worried about her trial instincts. She had not expected Joan Richardson to be the first prosecution witness. The more conventional approach, and the approach she had expected, was that Margaret Harding would start with the detectives. It took Raquel by surprise when Margaret Harding responded to Judge Conley’s instruction “Call your first witness” by announcing, “The People call Mrs. Joan Richardson.”

From the very beginning, Margaret Harding wasted no time: her first question, after Joan Richardson had spelled her name for the court reporter, was, “Mrs. Richardson, were you married to Brad Richardson?”

“I was.”

“What happened to your husband?”

“He was murdered.” Joan’s voice was clear and forceful.

“When?”

“In October of last year.”

“How do you know that?”

“I saw it.”

“Did you see his body?”

“I did.”

“Where?”

“In our home.”

“Where is that?”

“On Egypt Beach, in East Hampton.”

The testimony was already riveting, it had the jury’s full attention, and Raquel Rematti was startled by the speed of this. It was like opening a movie about an assassination plot with the assassination itself, in vivid detail.

“And what did you see?”

“My husband, his body, blood on the floor.”

“Were you with other people?”

“There were detectives and police.”

“What else did you see at the time you saw your husband’s body?”

“We had two dogs. They were not far from my husband’s body. Their heads had been cut off.”

“How do you know that?”

Raquel Rematti knew she had to interrupt this flow of questions and answers. As she stood, she said, “Objection. This is not relevant. This is a trial about the murder of a person, not dogs.”

Bland-looking as always, Judge Conley spoke distinctly into her microphone. She sounded commanding, as if her ego was enlarged by the television cameras broadcasting the trial to the world. “Ms. Rematti, I instructed both sides not to explain their objections. Just say ‘Objection.’ I don’t need an explanation for this. Objection overruled.”

“Let me ask you the question again, Mrs. Richardson. How do you know what happened to the dogs?”

“I saw their heads in one place and their bodies in another.”

When Margaret Harding gave a hand signal to a technician, the lighting in the courtroom dimmed. A police video of the room in which Brad was killed appeared on a white screen facing the jurors. Partially covered in a blood-stained sheet, Brad’s body was plainly visible.

“Does this film,” Margaret asked, “depict what you saw?”

“I don’t understand.”

And then Margaret Harding made the question simpler. “Is that your husband’s body?”

“It is.”

Using a laser beam from a wand no larger than a pen, Margaret moved the beam to the area where the dogs lay.

“And those are the dogs, correct?”

“Yes, they are.”

The scene faded and then ended. The courtroom lights were restored. “When did you see this carnage?”

“Objection,” Raquel Rematti, standing, said.

Judge Conley touched the black frame of her unstylish glasses. “Rephrase the question, Ms. Harding.”

“When did you see this?”

“When it happened.” Her voice wavered. “I mean, it was what I saw when the police showed me the room where Brad was and where the dogs were.”

“Mrs. Richardson,” Margaret Harding asked, “what time did you get to your house?”

“It was late, probably the next day, the very early morning of the next day.”

“What did you do?”

“I didn’t really do anything. I was stunned. When I got out of the car I stood there for a second, or maybe more than a second, and then I saw Detective Halsey.

“Who is Detective Halsey?”

“He was the man who told me my husband was dead.”

“What happened next?”

“We walked to the house. I had no idea what was happening, Ms. Harding. I knew he was dead. That my husband was dead. It was like a moonwalk.”

As Raquel recognized, Margaret Harding was a very smart trial lawyer. Margaret had carefully prepared Joan Richardson for her testimony and wasn’t going to let her wander off the script. She was beginning to wander.

“Listen to me, Mrs. Richardson: what happened next?”

Joan Richardson, her blonde hair tautly drawn to the back of her head, looked at the jurors for the first time, as if understanding that Margaret Harding was trying to give her direction. “I went into the house.”

“What happened then?”

“I asked Detective Halsey where Brad was.”

“You were still with the Detective, is that right?”

“Yes.

“And then?”

“He took me to Brad’s office.”

“What happened there?”

“Nothing happened there, Ms. Harding. My husband’s body was in that room, under a sheet. And the dogs were there, too. Dead, too.”

“Were those dogs that you and Mr. Richardson owned?”

“They were our dogs. They were wonderful Borzois.”

Margaret Harding paused, trying to convey a signal to Joan that she was not to refer to the dogs’ rare breed. The jurors were middle-aged men and women who had probably never heard of Borzois or, if they had, associated them with aristocratic European owners. “Mrs. Richardson, who was the person who spent the most time caring for the dogs in the six months before your husband was killed?”

“Juan Suarez.”

“Do you see Juan Suarez in the courtroom today?”

Without looking directly at Juan, Joan Richardson said, “He’s at that table, with Ms. Rematti.”

“Why was it that Suarez had contact with the dogs?”

“It was part of his job.”

“He was paid to do that, is that right?”

“He was.”

Raquel Rematti, who rarely took notes when a witness she had to cross-examine was on the stand, made a mental note that she had to ask Joan Richardson: “Isn’t it true that Juan took care of the dogs because he loved them?” If she answered, as she certainly would, that she had no idea whether Juan loved the dogs,
Raquel could then ask whether she had ever seen Juan play with the animals, feed them, wash them, walk them. Why would Juan, Raquel planned to ask the jury during her summation, kill these beloved dogs?

“Did you tell the police that taking care of the dogs was part of Suarez’s job?”

“I did. Detective Halsey seemed to want to know about the dogs.”

“Listen to me again: Was that the first time you mentioned Juan Suarez’s name?”

“I didn’t mention any name just then. I said our handyman took care of the dogs.”

“And then you were asked his name, isn’t that right?”

“I was.”

“And you said Juan Suarez, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Were you asked anything else about Juan Suarez?”

“That night? I don’t remember very much about that night, I’m sorry.”

“Stay with me, Mrs. Richardson, I know this is difficult.”

“Objection.” Raquel knew she had to break up Harding’s gambit of trying to establish some sort of sympathy for Joan Richardson as the bereaved widow, the victim, the lady in distress. Raquel saw her more as the dragon lady, as Imelda Marcos or Leona Helmsley, than the grieving Coretta Scott King.

“Overruled.”

“Let me ask you again: Did you give the police the name of Juan Suarez?”

“I did.”

“What did you say?”

“They asked who had access to the house.”

“And you told them?”

“Yes, I mentioned Juan Suarez, the handyman.”

“Did the police ask how much access Juan Suarez had to the house?”

“Yes. He had the run of the house.”

“Why was that?”

“Brad liked him, Brad trusted him, Juan worked hard, Juan had many talents—gardening, carpenter, electrician, sometimes almost a personal assistant to Brad.”

“How long did Juan Suarez work for Brad?”

“Six or seven months.”

“Did he work for you as well?”

“Not really. We had maids who worked inside the house. Juan was basically a superintendent of the work that went on outside. I knew what he did for Brad but I didn’t direct him or supervise him.”

“You said that Juan Suarez had the run of the house, correct?”

“He could come and go as he pleased.”

“Did anyone else have the same access to the house? Did anyone else have the run of the house?”

“Just Juan.”

“Was there a security system?”

“There was. It was recently installed. It relied, I was told, on heat sensors and other technologies.”

“Was it operated by codes?”

“Yes, keypads in different areas of the house.”

“Did Juan know the codes?”

“He did, he is a very smart man.”

“He had the ability to shut down all or parts of the system, correct?”

“He did.”

“How do you know that?”

“I saw him do it. In fact, I saw him giving instructions to Brad on how to do it.”

When Margaret Harding paused the steady volleying of the questions and answers—it was exactly the right pace, Raquel knew, for leaving vivid tracks on the jurors’ minds—Judge Conley unexpectedly said, “Let’s take a ten minute recess. Ladies and gentlemen, I repeat the admonitions I’ve given you before. Don’t discuss the case with one another, don’t attempt to independently investigate the facts by going on Google or looking at any kind of media, and keep an open mind until
all
the evidence has been presented. For those of you taking notes, leave your notepads face down on your seats. See you in ten minutes.”

During the break Raquel followed Juan, who was dressed in the sport jacket, white shirt, tie, and slacks that she bought for him, into the holding pen outside one of the rear doors to the courtroom. Juan was put in handcuffs as soon as all the jurors left the courtroom.

“We may not have much time, Juan. Harding doesn’t have to tell us when she plans to stop asking questions. She could be finished soon after we walk back in there.”

Juan, staring at Raquel and Theresa with an expression that conveyed complete calm, said, “And then you ask her questions?”

“That’s right,” Raquel said, feeling tense and impatient. “But I need you to tell me more than you have about what happened between you and Joan. All you’ve told me was that you were her boyfriend.”

“I was.”

“I need to know more about that. Understand me: there is no time left. I can’t get her to come back two days from now, or a week from now. I can’t ask her many questions now unless I know more about what happened. I need to destroy her.”

“All that happened was that we did what men and women do. Mr. Richardson was away, always away.”

Although they were separated by bars, they were so close to each other that Raquel could smell his breath, and it was in the odor of his fetid breath that for the first time Raquel detected Juan’s fear. She needed to exploit that fear. “Joan Richardson is trying to keep you in jail for the rest of your life, Juan. She told the police that you killed Brad. She said you killed the dogs. She told them where you lived. She is not your friend, Juan. Now she’s testifying against you. I don’t think she’s telling the truth. This is hard to understand, but Harding will ask Joan whether the two of you had sex, and Joan will say yes.”

There was a look of surprise in Juan’s eyes. “Why does she ask that?”

“Because Harding knows that I know. She had to give me the Grand Jury transcripts yesterday before Joan started testifying. I read that Joan at first denied knowing you as anything other than her yard worker. Then later Joan came and said you and she were lovers.”

“Why?”

“Joan is a cold-hearted bitch, Juan. She lies and then when she knows she’s been caught in a lie she pretends to tell the truth. That’s what liars do. And it’s good for Harding to bring out the fact that the two of you were lovers and ask her whether she regrets that and have her say she does and then move on.”

“Joan told people about me and her?”

“Listen to me, Juan. You’re smart, you’re smarter than I am.” She sounded exasperated. She recognized that she was more and more troubled by Juan and confused as to whether to believe he was Juan Suarez, Anibal Vaz, or someone else completely. She knew that to some extent she had been taken in by him, by his quiet demeanor, his patience, and his refusal to show any sign of fear. But she still believed, as she had believed from the morning she first saw him, that he hadn’t killed Brad Richardson and that he hadn’t beheaded the two dogs.

“I’m not smarter.”

“Pay attention to me, Juan. It is not good for you that the jury, probably in fifteen minutes, will know that you were fucking Joan Richardson. Do you understand? There’s no real evidence against you: no fingerprints, no bloody clothes, no knife, no one who saw what happened. You understand, Juan, don’t you?”