“Isn’t that what it’s like to be on a shooting preserve? Someone rounds up all the animals and you just take pot shots at them, for sport?”
“That’s my view of it,” Deirdre said, shaking her head. “This spring, a group imported ninety kangaroos and released them into the wild in Wyoming.”
“Kangaroos?” I asked.
“Yes. The climate resembles that in Australia, and, well, hunters will love the novelty of killing those creatures, I’m sure.”
“It’s shocking.”
“There’s even a preserve in Texas where the guests shoot at wild boar from a helicopter,” Deirdre said. “I don’t know where the word ‘sportsmanship’ fits into that scenario.”
The idea sickened me, but the mention of Texas perked me up.
“Texas? Are you talking about the ranch—the preserve—where Justice Scalia died?” I asked. “Do you know anything about Saint Hubertus?”
“Hey, I’m just development,” Deirdre said. “I don’t know a thing about that organization except that the honorable justice would not have been on our short list of honorees.”
“Diana,” I said, hungry for a positive answer. “Is there a hunt club named after the Roman goddess?”
“Not that I know of, but most of these societies are so secretive, Alex—by plan—that it’s really rare to hear anything about them,” Deirdre said. “Texas is full of these twenty-thousand-acre preserves in hill country.”
“What’s that about?” Mercer asked. “Deer? Buffalo? Game birds?”
“Oh, no. The owners of some of these properties have been importing exotic hoofstock from Africa for years: oryx and ibex, wildebeests, gazelles—even zebra.”
“To be hunted and killed? Why would anyone find pleasure in killing a zebra?” I asked. “Is it legal?”
“Some of the imports are sanctioned, but certainly not endangered or threatened species,” Deirdre said. “Take the dama gazelle, which may be the most graceful animal on earth. It’s from the Sahara, but it’s critically endangered.”
“Why so?” Mercer asked.
“Overhunted, of course, and also because its habitat is shrinking. Society keeps encroaching on its land,” Deirdre said. “But go online, Mercer. Google ‘Texas and hunting preserves.’ You’ll get dozens of options popping up, offering you packages of game to shoot. Animals of your choosing. Somehow these gorgeous creatures—dama gazelles—have been brought into North America, some of them for captive breeding programs and others smuggled, just for the purpose of providing target practice for some rich sportsman.”
“I assume Mr. Battaglia was keenly interested in all this,” I said, trying to find a way back to my mission.
Deirdre Wright pursed her lips. “Not so much, frankly.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Like I said, I met with the DA twice before we honored him. The first time was in his office, when I explained to him the setup for the evening, talked about the run of show and what we expected his remarks to cover, and asked for his guest list.”
“His guest list?” Mike said. “I thought it was your party.”
“This is how charity dinners go, Mike,” Deirdre said. “We’ve got a list of all our donors, and, yes, most of our loyal and regular high rollers will pay the money and come to the annual dinner. But the way an organization grows is by bringing in an honoree who has a pretty big following himself.”
“So Paul Battaglia’s campaign contributions,” Mike said. “Eight terms’ worth of them.”
“That was the idea that won over the recalcitrant board members,” she said, removing a green folder from the pile and waving it at us. “The color of money.”
“But in the end he wouldn’t play; is that what you’re telling me?”
“Some people are like that,” Deirdre said. “They make promises to us so we give them the award—which comes with a lot of media attention, all over the world, and introduces the honoree to many of our folks he doesn’t know.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “Paul Battaglia gave you a rousing ‘yes’ when he was asked to accept the honor but got too busy with his work and major cases when time came to lean on him for the list.”
“Let’s just say it was a short list.” Deirdre winked at me. “You do know him well.”
“I assume that what you like is for the man of the year to turn his Rolodex over to you,” I said.
“Ideally. But that didn’t happen.”
I was itching to get my fingers inside Deirdre’s green folder and scan the names—her list and Battaglia’s designated hitters.
“Did you get to meet Amy Battaglia?” I asked.
“The DA’s wife?” Deirdre asked. “Only to shake hands at the dinner.”
That left another door open for me. “If I could have a copy of the lists, I can probably come up with names to add for invites to the memorial,” I said. “If Mrs. B didn’t cross into this part of the DA’s interests, she’ll probably neglect to include them.”
“Interesting idea. I mean, I know my boss would certainly like to be included,” Deirdre said, though I noted her hesitation, “and maybe some of the board members of Animals Without Borders. But I—well, I’d have my head handed to me if I made a copy of this list for you.”
“What if I stayed right here,” I said, forcing a smile, “and just scanned the names on both lists? It could be so helpful to the family.”
“It’s hard to say no to that, isn’t it?” she said.
Deirdre Wright played her fingers on the green folder like it was a piano.
“Why don’t I turn my back for a moment, and you take a look at the names, if you think it will provide some comfort for the family,” she said. “I’ll try and engage Mike and Mercer to come back to the park.”
She stood up and walked to the window, leaving the file with me.
“I could make this really worthwhile for you,” Mike said, stepping in beside Deirdre. “Don’t get fooled by the fact that Alex is a public servant. She’s also a trustifarian.”
“A what?”
“She’s got a trust fund,” Mike said, “and she’s crazy about animals. The wilder the better.”
Deirdre was amused. And distracted.
I was scrolling down the abbreviated list of names that Battaglia had given to AWB. There were few surprises on the first page—relatives and friends, partners at major law firms, prosperous members of the defense bar, guys he golfed with and summered with in East Hampton. I recognized names of prominent men and women who’d been similarly honored by the American Museum of Natural History or the Frick or other cultural institutes, for whom this contribution would have been payback.
“You bought a ticket to the dinner,” Deirdre said to me. “You were there.”
“A ticket?” Mike said. “She could have bought a table. She could have bought six or eight tables.”
I let him babble on while I read on. I expected that he’d have me signed up as a supporter before we left the grounds today.
“The Reverend Shipley was a contributor?” I asked Deirdre.