Free The Borzoi Killings by Paul Batista Page B

a few explosive words, they threatened to fire him if he took one minute more than the ten minutes allotted to him during the two breaks in each fourteen-hour shift.
    She asked, gently, “Do you speak English?”
    “Some, not much.”
    “My name is Theresa Bui.”
    He nodded.
    “I’m your lawyer. Do you understand? I’m a public defender. Do you know what that is?”
    “Yes.”
    She smiled. It was a kind smile. She said to one of the nearby guards, “I need privacy for a few minutes with Mr. Suarez.”
    The men stepped back no more than a foot, no more out of earshot than they had been. They weren’t about to listen to a 34-year-old Asian woman with a briefcase.
    Theresa Bui decided to ignore them. She explained that Juan was about to enter the courtroom with her; that she would be handed a paper; that the paper was an “indictment”; that he was accused of the murder of Brad Richardson and the stealing of more than $200,000; and that he would have to say not guilty to the judge.
    “Mr. Suarez, you do understand me, don’t you?”
    “I do. Yes.” He saw, or wanted to believe he saw, patience and sympathy in her eyes.
    “Do you want to tell me anything?” she asked.
    He whispered, “I didn’t hurt Mr. Richardson. He was my friend. Good to me. I never take any money. I don’t need his money.”
    Theresa Bui gazed into his face. Such a handsome man , she thought. “I understand,” she said. “We’re going to plead not guilty.”
    “Yes, not guilty.”
    “And then I will come to visit you soon. To talk more. To help.”
    He was close to her. He was ashamed of his odor: he hadn’t been allowed to shower in all the time since his arrest and he knew he smelled of sweat, of fear. “Where is my wife?”
    “Mr. Suarez,” she whispered, “I didn’t know you had a wife.”
    “And my kids?”
    Kids? she thought. My God . “You have children?”
    “Two—a boy and girl. Where are they?”
    “I’ll try to find out,” she said, knowing that she had no way to do that.
    A harsh buzzer sounded above the door. It was shrill. It startled her. Reacting instantly, a guard unlocked the door of the holding pen. Juan walked between the guards into the beige courtroom. He was dazed by what he saw. The ceiling was very high. There were rows of wooden benches arranged like church pews. And there was an immense bench behind which sat Judge Helen Conley, a severe-looking woman whose gray hair was pulled into a bun. Three lawyers stood at a table in front of the judge’s bench. A television camera, with a small red light glowing, was trained on Juan. He glanced fleetingly at the people on the benches. Mariana and her children weren’t in the courtroom. Had the world, he wondered, swallowed them up?
    Her voice amplified by a microphone, Judge Conley said, “I understand there is some uncertainty as to who this man is.”
    “There is, Judge,” Margaret Harding answered. She was standing at the other table. She was tall. She had black hair. She was dressed in black except for an elegant green scarf draped over her shoulders. “We believe the defendant is an illegal immigrant. A counterfeit Social Security card was found when the search warrant was executed.”
    The judge looked at Theresa Bui. “Give us a hand here, counselor. Does the public defenders’ office know who this man is?”
    “I’m not sure,” Bui answered. Her voice quavered. Juan saw a slight tremor in her hands.
    “You’re not sure? How can you not know your client’s name?”
    Bui said, “I didn’t think his name was an issue.”
    Judge Conley glanced over her half-glasses at the prosecutor. “Ms. Harding, why do you think his name is not the name on the indictment?”
    “A confidential informant told us that he may in fact have a different name.”
    “Ms. Bui, ask your client what his real name is.”
    Theresa Bui turned toward him, whispering, “Do you have another name?”
    Juan understood what was happening, but a sense of defiance