Chapter 3: Interpleader

The ringing phone jolted Delgado from another daydream. His secretary usually answered his calls, but he was in the rotunda with the rest of Delgado's staff preparing for Polini's retirement reception. The judge scoffed at the blank caller-ID and adjusted his necktie before lifting the receiver.

"Delgado's chambers."

"It's been a long time, Erik," hailed a lilting, accented voice. "Have you forgotten your old friend? your Daroga?"

The ancient Persian word rolled off the caller's foreign tongue, a nickname that Delgado had given his college classmate Nasr Khan.

The judge considered hanging up the phone. He had nothing to say.

"Oh, who am I kidding?" Khan continued. "We're no longer pals; you made that clear by your betrayal."

"Nasr," Delgado sighed, "I've told you before: The jury convicted you, not the judge. You betrayed the city's trust and the fidelity of the NYPD by taking bribes."

The receiver emitted stunned silence.

"My apologies, 'Your Honor,'" teased Khan. "I'd forgotten you're more devoted to your Rules of Ethics than to your friends."

Delgado rolled his eyes.

"Otherwise you would have recused yourself from my trial. You had something to prove back then, didn't you? As a brand-new judge? Had to make an example of me, to show that the Law comes first over your friends?... And now you've found another sacrifice!"

An uneasy curiosity replaced the judge's impatience, and he leaned forward in his chair. "What are you talking about?"

"You were asked to recuse again, today!"

"How the hell do you know that?"

"You didn't see me in court this morning, Erik? I attend your hearings sometimes. Funny you've never noticed me in the gallery." He clucked his tongue.

Delgado's heart hammered so loudly that he feared Khan could hear it through the phone.

"You've lost your keen perception, 'Your Honor.' Or perhaps you were distracted?—by the lovely Christine Dale, Esquire?"

He ran a hand through his wild hair and struggled to control his voice. "No one asked for my recusal. If you were really there, you'd know that."

"Yet you said the word yourself. Probably suggested by your guilty conscience."

"Miss Dale and I are barely acquaintances; there's no basis for recusal!"

"Ah, yes," Khan sighed. "You're still as lonely as you were in college, before our Midnight Hours at the Masonic Temple."

Delgado glanced at his office door. He clenched the receiver so tightly that his hand hurt.

"No, you could never be Miss Dale's lover," Khan continued, "but I've seen the way you look at her. Your hideous face lights up when she enters your courtroom. Your dark eyes follow her as though she had them on strings—"

"You're imagining things!"

"You're in love with a lawyer in your court! How can you claim to be impartial when you'd give her anything she asked? It's only a matter of time before someone realizes your conflict of interest and files for your recusal."

"Are you blackmailing me?"

"I don't want your money. But if you don't recuse—"

"I will not recuse! I am an impartial judge!"

"Oh, sure, of course you are. You're practically married to Lady Justice—since you're too ugly to have a real woman. But you're obviously in love with Miss Dale, and if you don't recuse, then I'll make sure she finds out what a freak you truly are! Don't you realize that an auspicious time is coming? After thirty years, Saturn is approaching Scorpio again—"

The judge slammed the receiver onto the cradle and gasped for breath. He was standing but couldn't remember having risen from his chair. Panic had replaced his calm courtroom bearing. This was much worse than the usual violent threat from an angry litigant. Nasr Khan knew too much. Nevermind the ignorant accusations of sorcery, satanic rituals, and vampirism that swept through the courthouse like a recurrent twilight tide—in truth, Delgado's past was more sinister than anyone could imagine. Inexcusable. Unforgivable. If Christine ever learned of his transgressions, she would never again lift her pretty eyes above his boutonnière.

Should he recuse, then, to keep Khan from telling her his past?

Of all his accomplishments, Delgado was most proud of his reputation for objectivity. The Bronx trusted him, and for good reason. He had never been the type of judge to favor anyone. Yes, he loved Christine and wanted to help her succeed—but that didn't affect his judicial decisions. And his feelings were private—he wasn't in a relationship warranting a public recusal.

And if he recused, he couldn't assist her.

Could he offer Khan something else? A public concession that he should have recused from Khan's trial? It would still damage Delgado's reputation, but at least it would raise fewer questions than recusing from Christine's cases.

He lifted the receiver. Khan had called from an unknown number; finding him wouldn't be easy. Hopefully he'd get through. It was going to be another long evening.

In traditional Bronx fashion, Judge Polini's retirement was a boisterous affair. Polini's clerks had sacrificed their happy hour to drape the rotunda in regal red satin, and the custodial staff had polished the marble floor until it reflected the buttery glow of the chandeliers. A long table beneath a mural of The Battle of Pell's Point offered hors d'oeuvres and champagne. Someone had put on salsa music. The hall smelled of perfume and cologne instead of the usual sweat and bad breath. Judge Polini himself, thin as a rail in his faded tuxedo, greeted guests at the rotunda's entrance. He seemed a waif standing beside his replacement, Judge Maxwell. A stern, no-nonsense African-American, Maxwell could have been mistaken for the party's bouncer or Polini's security.

Christine congratulated them both and stepped into the noisy hall, scanning the menagerie of lawyers, secretaries, judges, clerks, court reporters, and officers for her childhood friend. She recognized a few people, but none with whom she was comfortable making small talk. Instead, she sighed and leaned against a pillar—and wondered whether Raoul remembered her at all.

Polini and Maxwell passed her, heading for the refreshments.

"Erik's sorry he can't make it," Maxell told Polini as he passed him a drink. "He's upstairs drafting a complex decision."

"Erik!" Polini smiled. "He never leaves before eight. Sometimes ten thirty."

Maxwell tasted the champagne. "Rumor has it he stays late to practice the dark arts." He raised his eyebrows.

"This old courthouse excites the staff's imagination."

"But you have to admit, he has strange habits. They say he's so ugly because of a deal with the Devil."

"A pseudo-Faustian exchange for forbidden knowledge—reading litigants' minds, or was it mesmerizing witnesses so that they only speak the truth?"

"The story always changes."

"That's the way with hearsay," Polini concluded. The two judges carried their drinks back towards the entrance. "Erik's an exceptional judge. I'll miss his fanatical pragmatism."

Following the two judges, Christine suddenly slammed into someone.

"Whoa, there," cried Jake Ratner as he steadied his plate. "You're drunk already!"

"Oh, excuse me. I'm so sorry."

"Got your eyes in some other direction. Looking for Judge Delgado, I'll bet."

"Huh? No..." She turned back to the two judges, but their conversation had been interrupted by another well-wisher.

"Are you his date? Gonna bang his gavel so you can win your next case? Heading to his chambers to show him your briefs?" He snorted.

"Jake, that's not funny. I can win my cases without giving any 'favors,' and Judge Delgado's a fair jurist."

"He'd be flattered to hear you jump to his defense."

"He doesn't need defending."

A dignified voice behind them interrupted. "Well, that's one less person in need of your representation, then."

Christine and Ratner both turned.

There stood Raoul DeChagny with two glasses of champagne. Little had changed, except for the new strands of gray at his temples and the charming creases at the corners of his brown eyes. She'd forgotten his adorable dimples and the cleft in his chin—but not his charismatic self-assurance.

"Raoul!"

"It is you, Christine, isn't it? I recognized you from across the room!"

Jake Ratner looked from Christine to Raoul, saw their awkward grins, and made his exit.

Raoul passed Christine a drink. He wasn't wearing a wedding ring. "The years have made you a true lady. You're exactly like the beauty in your father's locket."

"But now I keep Dad's picture in here." She touched the charm around her neck. "He passed away last year."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know. You should've kept in touch, Christine. You know I would have been there for you."

Her heart flipped. "I didn't keep in touch with anyone, actually. I had a lot on my plate. I worked through college, then law school... Then I lost Dad..."

"Yeah, that's a lot. There's so much work to be done when family passes away—on top of grieving, I mean. Funeral arrangements. Wills. Sorting their possessions. I'm going through that with my brother now. We lost him in May."

"Oh, Raoul! I'm so sorry."

"Actually, that's why I'm here. He left a donation in his will." He gestured with his glass as he explained, "He had me liquidate a third of his assets (he specified which ones), and he wants me to give the money where it would most help the poor. I'm came to see if the Bronx Defense Project is worth the grant."

"That's where I work! Frank Richards—my boss—You talked to him on the phone. He faxed you a court order that I won this morning."

"Oh! That was your case?... But I hear your office needs some renovating."

"Yeah, we're not exactly prestigious." Her mood descending, she stared down into her champagne and watched the strings of bubbles like a brooding mad scientist.

"What is it that you do, exactly?" he asked. "The Bronx Defense Project. I mean… I know you help the poor…"

"Well, we do a lot of things, actually. Um… We defend indigent debtors against collectors, banks, landlords… We offer financial counseling… represent clients in bankruptcy—"

"What's that up there? Christ!" Raoul's focus had turned to something behind her, far above them, and his nose wrinkled in disgust.

She turned.

Judge Delgado watched them from the mezzanine with his arms braced against the banister. The lapel of his black suit held a white rose instead of the red one he'd worn that morning. His pale scars and permanent sneer were unmistakable even from such a distance.

"That's the judge who granted my motion."

"Oh." Raoul looked sick. He set his glass on a table. "Let's get some fresh air."

With his arm around her waist, he led her out of the rotunda and into the sweltering darkness. The noises of the party fell away; all was silent save for late night traffic whispering along the concourse. The air carried the scent of rain and an electric charge that hinted of a coming storm. Her heart buzzed from the champagne and from the velvety evening with handsome company.

They crossed the street to the park, and she led him deeper beneath the trees.

"Little Christine, all grown up." He touched her cheek. "Your father would be proud. By the way, congratulations on winning your hearing."

"Thanks. Mr. Ortiz would've gone bankrupt paying that debt."

"You gave him a second chance. Hopefully he learned his lesson."

She stiffened.

For the first time, she noticed his expensive designer suit, his pricey watch. An investment banker, she guessed. Paid for college with his family's wealth. Even when they'd first met, she'd known he was from a different class. But her opinion of the rich had changed dramatically since she'd started working for The Bronx Defense Project. He couldn't understand her clients' struggles.

A ringing phone shattered the quiet evening, and she waited while Raoul answered his cell.

"I'll call you back in half an hour," he said into the phone. He ended the call and kissed her hand. "I'm sorry, Christine. I have to get back to the hotel. Can you give me a tour of your office tomorrow?"

"Sure," she replied, eager to be alone. "It was nice to see you again."

She watched him sprint through the park, back to the concourse to hail a cab. The peaceful nighttime silence returned, and she slumped onto a park bench.