The Borzoi Killings

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.