Chapter 2: Pleadings

Curtains hampered the hot afternoon sun and transfigured Delgado's chambers into a dim dream full of shadows. The rose in his lapel perfumed the humid air with heady scent. He sat alone with his elbows on his desk and his head in his hands. His computer screen was dark, his papers and files neglected in haphazard array.

He drowned in thoughts of Christine.

All summer long, he had deliberated less on lawsuits and mostly on the exact name for the cornflower color of Christine's eyes. Her eyes were as serene, as uplifting, as glorious as a Psalm. When she was pensive, their color deepened like the evening summer sky, thrilling him with the mysteries of her mind. Over the years, her eyes had taken his timid heart as completely as a flame consumes a wick.

Now he imagined kissing her, tangling his fingers in hair as fair as the sands at Orchard Beach while pressing his crooked lips against her perfect, little mouth...

…Ay, Dios mío...

He cleared his throat and pulled a legal brief from a pile for his review.

His infatuation disrupted his work—and he knew it. During a hearing a couple of months ago, he'd been so enchanted by the crease of concentration on Christine's brow that he hadn't heard a word that'd been said by either side. And often pining in his chambers, he'd fallen so behind that he had to work late.

Before Christine, Delgado had been level-headed. He'd earned his prestige through integrity and discipline, despite his terrifying appearance. But then he'd encountered a small miracle, a lawyer who was not afraid to lift her eyes above his rose boutonnière. Or to direct her conversation there. Or better yet!—to bestow her smiles there.

Christine was a skilled attorney, but her adversaries had the advantage of experience. She needed guidance, so Delgado had appointed himself her champion. But their situation prohibited him from training her directly. When on record, he had to be subtle; he could only instruct her by suggestion. This strange duet risked everything he'd achieved, for he never had complete control of himself. A careful, consistent observer would know what he up to. Yet he jeopardized his own reputation and had aided her progress for years.

If he didn't check himself soon, his work would go to hell.

He considered the facts and contended with his heart like a relentless lawyer reasoning with the judge: He was too old for her. And even if she overlooked his age, she could never have a romantic interest in an ugly cabrón. The evidence spoke for itself, Your Honor—a relationship with Christine was impossible.

Irrelevant, his heart declared. (Rather detached and matter-of-fact for an organ of pathos.)

But his heart was right. The circumstances didn't change how he felt about her.

Delgado stared at the brief in his hands. He hadn't worn his glasses yet. Instead of focusing on his work, he'd only compounded his problems and fallen deeper into despair. Obsession was like a labyrinth with many turns and no escape.

Christine lingered over lunch in a restaurant across from the courthouse. The place reeked of greasy French fries and was cramped with suited lawyers still working out a deal. She hardly noticed, puzzled as she was by Judge Delgado's assistance at her hearing. She set her locket on the faux-marble tabletop between to her soda can and paper plate, and opened it to display her father's portrait. He proudly wore his fire marshal's double-breasted blazer, white bell cap, and shining new badge. His broad grin revealed deep laugh lines, but his keen eyes counseled caution.

In his younger years as a firefighter, he'd often returned from his shift to find little Christine still awake and eager to hear of his rescues. He'd been like a hero in a fairy tale, with accounts of near misses and brushes with death—and always his invisible saviors. All her life, George Dale had assured his daughter that angels supported the men and women who lent a hand. When Christine chose a career putting out fires of a different sort, her father foretold her the same blessing.

Then his death last October had destroyed her faith. In the end, no angel had saved him from the cancer that had spread through his organs like grease fire.

What hope could she have? For almost a year, she worked with heavy numbness in her heart. Somehow she still gave her clients hope—sometimes happiness—even though her soul was empty.

Until Judge Delgado vanquished her doubts that morning.

But why had he helped her? Was he an angel, like her father's rescuers? He was lenient with the poor and the unrepresented. But she knew nothing else about him beyond his distinguished profession. Resentful lawyers claimed he was the descendant of a Spanish Inquisitor or of savage Aztec nobles. Law clerks whispered that he practiced alchemy in addition to law, and that he had disfigured his face in a failed experiment. All of it sounded as far-fetched as his being an actual seraph, which had fallen from heaven like lightning.

Despite these rumors, his reputation was admirable. Christine had been devouring news of him with an interest normally reserved for celebrities. His rulings were sensible and thorough. The appellate division had reversed only a handful of his decisions. In his entire career, he'd never had to recuse (a very rare distinction). He'd received the highest honors from the New York City Bar Association, the Bronx Bar Association, the Latino Bar. The New York Law Journal had recently endorsed him for a promotion to Justice of the New York Supreme Court.

A police siren screamed on the avenue outside, and Christine found herself back in the restaurant. It was nearly empty now, only a couple of suits still at the counter. Her boss was waiting at the office for her report. She closed the locket and fastened its chain around her neck, then slid out of her seat, slung her messenger bag over her shoulder, and tossed her trash in the bin. After pausing to take one last, deep breath of cool air-conditioning, she shoved open the restaurant door and braved the heat.

Struggling down the busy afternoon street was like swimming in a warm, slimy swamp. Heat and humidity writhed on the pavement in undulating waves, blurring the crowds of pedestrians and the gutters full of empty wrappers and cigarette butts. She gagged on fumes of garbage, urine, and diesel fuel.

From the park across the street, the whistling tune of an ice cream truck competed with the traffic and the fading wail of the siren. A laughing crowd of children played on the corner, where cold water sprayed from a hydrant in bright rainbows. Two black women waiting at the bus stop fanned themselves while gossiping in rapid Nigerian Hausa. Christine slogged down the concourse, past an assembly of pensioners engaged in a serious game of dominoes on a card table in the shade, past a gyro cart clerk engrossed in an Urdu newspaper behind his tiny counter, past grand Art Deco condominiums that flashed and gleamed in the sunlight. Despite The Bronx's fearsome reputation, it had an abiding resilience, an enduring dignity beneath its cracked façade—

—much like its peculiar judge.

The Bronx Defense Project operated in a crumbling brownstone behind scaffolding vandalized in graffiti. A sign in the lobby read "Please Excuse Our Appearance While We Renovate," but there had been no improvements since Christine had been hired. Even so, the waiting room was always crowded with tired, frightened people, and there were never enough chairs. The baked-in stench of stale cigarettes didn't help.

Christine waved to the receptionist, then crept down the hallway and peeked into the copy room. Her freckled paralegal, Meghan Gil, scowled at a blinking light on the copy machine.

"You want a laxative for your paper jam?" Meg shouted at the copier. "God, when are we replacing this relic?"

The machine started beeping like a tractor-trailer in reverse.

"Arrggh!" Meg shook her fists at the water-stained ceiling. "Copy Machine Mechanic is so not in my job description."

Watching from the door, Christine stifled her laughter.

Meg rolled up her sleeves and opened a panel on the right side of the machine. The copier fell silent. She sighed with relief and closed her eyes.

"Hi, Meg!" Christine shouted.

Startled, Meg spun to the open door. "Christine! How was your hearing?"

"Carlotta had already prepped the client." She rested on an unopened box of copy paper while Meg investigated the machine. "I didn't really have to do anything. Then Judge Delgado helped with the questioning—"

"Come on, give yourself some credit!" Meg rose from where she'd squatted by the copier's open panel. "Just say you won."

"I almost messed up the hearing, Meg. Judge Delgado saved me."

"More likely he cast a spell on you," laughed Meg with a sideways glance.

"Not funny!" Christine leapt from her perch. "Just because a man looks strange, people think he practices—"

"Well, don't be so superstitious yourself! My God, you're so upset, you look ill. Why give him the credit for winning your own case?"

"It's like I told you—"

"Frank will tell you the same thing. He's waiting for you in his office."

She'd had a more inspiring conversation with her father's picture. Christine left Meg to find her boss.

Frank Richards was on the phone, but he waved at her excitedly to take a seat. A pile of legal briefs occupied the only other chair. There was no room for them on his cluttered desk, so she laid them over some books in one of the shelves against the wall.

"Anyway, welcome back to New York," he said into the receiver. "Hope you can make it tonight. I have some things to discuss with you." He winked at her as he listened to the response. "Yes, we'll talk more once you're settled. Glad you're back. Take care, now."

Frank looked like a tough guy with his black skin, horseshoe mustache, and the lanky physique of a Harlem native; but he had the disposition and animation of a child on his birthday.

"Christine!" He used his feet to push his chair around the desk to where she sat. "Sorry for dumping Ortiz on you last-minute."

"It's alright. Actually, the hearing went well. I already got a decision." She passed him Judge Delgado's order.

"Awesome!" His horseshoe mustache lifted in a grin. "You've really proven yourself."

"Proven myself! I had enough trouble proving that Mr. Ortiz wouldn't have ignored the summons. I couldn't think of how to ask without it being speculative."

He patted her on the shoulder. "It's OK. You'll get it with practice." He spun his chair and dropped the court order onto the feeder of a fax machine behind his desk.

"Then Judge Delgado asked the questions for me."

"Delgado did that?!" Frank turned and stared.

She shrugged.

"I'll be damned." He returned to the fax machine. "But you covered the important stuff yourself, right? That the wife's description was wrong, and that she was already dead?" A short beep sounded with each button he pressed on the fax. "Your win doesn't just help Ortiz. It could boost our funding. I was just on the phone with a potential donor named Raoul DeChagny."

Raoul's name stole her breath like Delgado's had earlier.

Frank's voice sounded far away, as though she were underwater. "I'm faxing him your decision."

"Raoul DeChagny?!"

Her boss pressed 'send,' then turned back to her with a puzzled look.

"He's…. I think I knew him in high school."

Frank shrugged. "There can't be two people with that name." He laughed, then leaned over his desk to whisper, "He's considering giving us half a million dollars to update our technology and renovate the office. Your win today could clinch this donation."

"Wow." She wasn't sure what else to say. "Thanks."

"Good work." He studied her for a moment, then stood to open the door for her. "With Carlotta out, I might assign you the Albrizzio hearing for next week. Oral argument on the legal issues. The client won't need to be there. I think you're ready for the challenge." He paused. "Hey, know what? I invited DeChagny to Judge Polini's retirement reception tonight. You wanna take my place?" He winked. "Bet he'll get a kick out of seeing his old classmate."