Chapter 4: Joinder
Gathering storm clouds cloaked the stars, and humidity veiled the Bronx in a sultry haze. Like a gliding ghost, Delgado paced the park with his eyes on the swirling canopy of thunderheads as he tried to make out the constellations. Shadows shrouded his face but for some pallid patches of skin, and his white rose boutonnière shimmered like moonlight.
He'd spent hours trying to track down Khan. A Verizon customer service rep on night shift had refused to reveal the private phone number that Khan had used to call Delgado. The number on file with Khan's old probation officer was out of service. Even the internet had come up empty. Eventually the judge had given up, and now he crossed the park to his car.
Somewhere a cricket repeated its somber cry.
He had seen Christine again, earlier in the evening. But it might have been only a fantasy. Her sand-colored hair, which he had only seen caged in a bun or tied in a braid, cascaded down her back in golden, feathery waves. She had traded her suit for a billowing, siren-red dress. She smiled at a handsome young stranger who escorted her out of the rotunda with his hand on the small of her back.
That man probably wasn't even an attorney. Delgado had never seen him before.
He stormed across the grass. He thought he was alone, and in his fugue, he would not have even noticed the occupied park bench if someone hadn't called his name.
As though conjured by his breaking heart, Christine stood and waved, her sweet smile a beacon in the darkness. She was still dressed as he'd seen her in the rotunda—and now she was alone.
His mouth went dry. "Miss Dale!" he croaked. "You look stunning."
She lowered her eyes and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear—and he realized he'd forgotten to wish her a good evening, or at least to say Hello.
"Thank you, Your Honor. But… please call me Christine."
"And I prefer 'Erik' when we're off the record." He cleared his throat. "Are you out here alone this late?"
"I escaped from the reception. I barely knew anybody. You should've come."
"Oh. W-Well..," he mumbled, an odd sensation fluttering in his gut. "I would've— That is—I mean..." He cleared his throat again. "Y-You could have brought along a companion. Our invitations included a guest, right?" Hadn't he seen her with the young man?
Her sweet smile slipped away, and she fingered a large locket on a chain around her neck. "I don't have anyone."
"You mean you're not married? Not seeing anyone?"
She shook her head.
"But what about friends, or family nearby?"
She shook her head again and sighed. A damp wind rustled the leaves above their heads as he waited for her answer.
"My father passed away last year."
"Oh. I'm very sorry to hear that."
"My boss sent me tonight to speak to someone about a donation to our office. Turns out, it's someone I knew as a teenager."
"Ah." Her young man!
"Also turns out he's only donating because his brother left money for charity in his will."
She searched his face to gauge his reaction. Her eyes lingered on his scars with no revulsion, only their usual warmth.
He swallowed and backed against a lamppost, and his pounding heartbeats rang in the wrought iron. Sweat slid down the back of his neck.
"Sounds like he doesn't care for your clients' causes as you do," was all he said aloud.
"He doesn't seem to care at all." She rolled her eyes, oblivious to the stifling atmosphere. "Totally ignorant of the issues, probably doesn't even understand how helpless my clients are."
"Unlike many lawyers, you're not a mercenary."
"I definitely didn't take this job for the money! These people need help and they can't afford a lawyer."
"So, like Portia, you defend the debtors and charge them nothing. If only I had such a charming guardian angel." He offered a ghastly smile, encouraged by her criticism of his rival. "Perhaps I'll mortgage my flesh and gamble away my fortune, then consign my fate into your fair hands as your clients do."
She laughed—a musical staccato like water skipping over rocks in a stream. He put his hands in hers as though having accomplished his scheme, and she didn't flinch or pull away.
Her skin was very soft.
She curled her fingers around his own. "You're their hero, Erik." His name rolled off her tongue as if she were tasting a fine wine. "Not me."
They stood so close that her breath fanned his scars. He didn't dare lift his eyes from where her little feet met his wingtip shoes. Remembering to breathe, he sucked in the heavy, febrile air. "Christine, you win your client's cases because of your talent, not because of me. Attorneys with twice your years of experience do only half as well. 'I never knew so young a body with so old a head.'"
He chanced a glance to see how she would take his praise. Her irises darkened and her forehead wrinkled in perplexity.
"You talk with me as though we're equals," she whispered, "when I'm just a… I'm not even fit to hold a candle to you."
"Christine." Without thinking, he lifted her hands to his lips.
He'd lost all reason. The dizzying heat had weakened his over-worked brain, as had the thrilling mist, the electric night air, and her lovely dress and smile and voice, and now her words of worship fanned the fire in his heart.
But he was committing sexual harassment! He stopped himself—But when he dropped her hands, she rose onto her toes and kissed the corner of his mouth. Or rather, the place where a corner would have been, if that side of his mouth wasn't a twisted, bloated distortion.
His eyebrows flew up in surprise. In his absolute confusion, his muscles stiffened against her embrace even as his eyes closed in surrender.
It was over in a split second.
"Ay... Ay, mí amada," he gasped, covering his mouth with his hand, "forgive me. I shouldn't have—"
"No, don't apologize." Her voice trembled. She was blushing a charming, bright pink and couldn't look him in the eyes. Instead, she adjusted his necktie against the bucking pulse at his throat. "It was I who kissed you."
"… That's what I thought..."
But why did she do it? Attraction? Temptation? …Curiosity?
And would she do it again soon?
She did not apologize or excuse herself. She did not take it back. The earth spun beneath his feet, and he felt he would die in a glorious explosion of golden light. Every imagined obstacle had just given way! His face didn't repulse her! His age hadn't mattered! Even the rumors hadn't deterred her.
But if she found out he was damned…!
He whispered a curse and removed her hands from his shoulders. "We shouldn't do this. You put yourself in danger."
"What do you mean!" She looked at him with such concern, her dear eyes as dark as midnight. "Are you in trouble, Erik?"
He nearly fell at her feet when she said his name. But Khan's threat had him sobered. "I'm not—Well, I… It's safer if we're not… involved. If word gets out about this—I mean, about us—I don't know if I could protect you."
"From what? No one has to know. At least until we're sure of our feelings."
He smiled as another warm, damp wind tore through the night, fluttering her dress and the tails of his suit as though they were dancing. He was fairly certain of his own feelings, and now hers as well—
A clap of thunder turned their faces to the sky.
"Damn, it's going to rain." He checked his watch. His hand was shaking. "Quarter to midnight. How are you getting home?"
"By train." She pointed to the subway station at the foot of the hill.
Neither of them saw the figure watching them from the shadows.
"A train this late at night?" Delgado frowned. "I have a car. Let me take you home."
She flashed him a dazzling smile. "Thank you."
A bolt of lightning ripped the sky above their heads, followed quickly by more echoing thunder. Delgado and Christine broke into a jog, racing against the rising wind. He opened the passenger door of his black Volvo sedan for her, then skirted the car and caught his breath behind the wheel as she gave directions to her Parkchester apartment. Rain began pounding the chassis like bullets as he pulled away from the curb.
Thunder rumbled again while they waited at a traffic light.
She watched the downpour, her hair mussed from the sprint to his car. He couldn't take his eyes off of her. Could he really pretend that tonight had never happened? How would he control himself when she next appeared in his court?
She turned to him, chewing her lower lip and bewitching him with her blue eyes. "No one has to know, Erik. Shouldn't we try?"
"Yes!... But," he raked a hand through his hair, "I have to take care of something first."
"You won't tell me what it is."
He unstrangled his necktie and worked open his collar. "Trust me. Let's adjourn, just for a little while."
The light changed, and he turned onto the concourse.
"Can we at least exchange phone numbers?"
He shook his head. "It's too risky to be in contact right now."
To change the subject, he asked where she would like to go if they could see each other again. Time passed quickly as they discussed theater, museums, books. Life in the city. Sometimes they just rode in silence, listening to the hammering rain and the rhythmic swipe of the windshield wipers. She confided in him about her months of melancholy following her father's death.
When they arrived at her high-rise, he gave her his suit jacket to use as an umbrella, and they ran through the storm to the lobby door. Beneath the eve, he swept her damp hair from her face and whispered heartfelt good-byes, promised an expeditious reprise.
She kissed him again, this time on his disfigured cheek.
Raving like a man mad with fever, he tore off his boutonnière and pressed it into her hands, swearing all sorts of tender endearments and embarrassing confessions—which she might not have understood, as he forgot to speak in English. She shivered from the cold, so he opened the lobby door for her before hurrying through the rain back to the sedan.
A half-hour later, he parked in his own driveway and turned off the engine. The downpour had turned into fog. He couldn't rouse himself to enter his lonely house. Instead, he studied his monstrous reflection in the rearview mirror and wondered what had possessed Christine to kiss him sua sponte.
Her sweet perfume still lingered on the cuffs of his soaked sleeves.
The thought of Khan disclosing his vilest secrets to her nauseated him. Even if his face didn't repulse her, his past surely would. He had to defuse that bomb before it exploded. Before anyone started pressing him to recuse. He had to get to Khan before Khan got to Christine. As the last raindrops chased each other down his windshield, Delgado closed his eyes and prayed for time.