Chapter 5: Counterclaim
Christine was having a very good dream. She still sat with Erik in his car, and it was still raining. Water flowed over the windows and veiled them from the outside world. Moonlight rippled over his patchy face as though the car were underwater. His tie was loose and his collar open, and she could see some of his chest hair. His goblin eyes glittered like liquid mercury.
He took her gently into his arms and trailed tender kisses down her neck. Every touch of his marred lips sparked a thrill across her shoulders. Then his long fingers brushed the hemline of her dress and slowly slid underneath...
"Erik," she sighed.
Her eyes sprung open at the sound of her own voice. She squinted at the sunlight streaming through the window blinds, then rolled over to read her alarm clock.
She was already an hour late for work!
Now wide awake, she tumbled out of bed, pulled off her pajamas as she yanked open her closet. Memories of last night flooded her mind. She'd never imagined that Judge Delgado would be interested in a junior attorney.
She paused with her sock mid-foot as she remembered that she'd all but thrown herself at him. That wasn't like her; she was usually shy. And Erik was an older man, whom she knew professionally—a judge, no less! He was the same age her father would've been, had he lived.
Even so…
She shook her head and finished dressing.
By society's superficial standards, Erik wasn't appealing. But his large eyes haunted her, and the red rose pinned to his suit conferred an eccentric charm and suggested a poetic soul. Too many judges were so uncaring that she valued Erik's sympathy for her clients. He was an interesting person (to say the least), a good man, and an honest jurist. And despite his scars, he spoke with an unassuming confidence that was damn sexy.
She adjusted the chain of her locket in the bathroom mirror before brushing her teeth. Erik's white corsage, on the counter by the sink, was her only proof that at least some of his affection had been more than a mere dream.
The receptionist scowled at her when she finally reached the office. "Frank wants to see you."
Probably to discuss her tardiness. "Thanks. Let me just dump my stuff."
Meg accosted her in the hall, a playful smirk on the paralegal's face and an indignant hand on her hip. "You told me you were going to Polini's reception just to see the grant guy," she hissed. "You didn't tell me you were hooking up with a judge!"
Christine's jaw dropped as her blood drained from her head and rushed back into her cheeks. "Oh, my God. What… Where—"
"It's in the paper..." Meg pulled the New York Post from her canvas bag and passed it to Christine. "Page thirteen."
Carting both the paper and her messenger bag, Christine stumbled into her tiny office and collapsed into the chair. Meg followed, watching Christine's mouth hang open as she read:
Beauty and the Bench
Even a lawyer for the poor can bribe the right judge. Although the Hon. Erik R. Delgado, a judge in Bronx Civil Court, looks like he once kissed a meat cleaver, but an anonymous source saw him passionately kissing the alluring, blonde, Christine Dale, Esq., in Sigel Park during the retirement reception for Administrative Judge Polini last night. Miss Dale represents indigent defendants in debt cases for the Bronx Defense Project. As lawyers deal quid pro quo, rumor has it that she's giving Judge Delgado pleasures in bed in exchange for favors in court. Rumor also has it that the judge excels at hypnotism, so perhaps Ms. Dale isn't to blame. Neither of them could be reached for comment.
"Is it true?"
"Hooking up?! No, Meg!"
"But did you kiss Judge Delgado? We all know he's your favorite," Meg teased.
Christine threw the newspaper back at Meg and covered her face with her hands. She took a deep breath. Her cheeks were still on fire. "It wasn't Judge Delgado," she answered, thinking quickly. "It was Raoul DeChagny—the grant guy."
She hazarded a glance at Meg, who blinked in surprise.
"I know him," Christine continued. "I mean, from before. We haven't seen each other since we were teenagers."
"What! You and Mr. Moneybags were high school sweethearts?"
"Almost. His older brother owned a lot of real estate, and one of the properties was a Bronx tenement that burned to the ground. Dad investigated it for insurance fraud." Christine twisted her locket between her fingers. "Those days, Dad used to keep Mom's picture in this locket and carry it with him. He lost it at the site, and Raoul—the grant guy—found it later when he and his brother were overseeing cleanup. I guess Raoul liked Mom's picture, because he kept the locket for three months until he saw me when his family co-sponsored the Fireman's Ball. He knew I had to be related to the woman in the locket."
"And then you dated!"
"We only went out to dinner once. He was about to start college in the UK. By the time I started college too, we were out of touch." Christine sighed. "Anyway, whoever dished to the Post got it wrong. I guess all men in suits look the same in the dark? But Frank can't know about this," she whispered, praying that her lie would work. "I don't want anyone thinking I'm seducing Raoul for grant money."
"My lips are sealed." Meg placed a solemn hand over her heart. "But you've got bigger problems, because now word is out that you're bribing the judge with your body!"
Christine groaned. "Maybe that's why Frank wants to meet." And that explained the receptionist's attitude. Christine squeezed Meg's hand. "Thanks for the heads-up."
"Don't worry. I doubt Frank believes the Post. No one would kiss Judge Delgado; it hurts just to look at him!" Meg faked a shiver.
Before Christine could respond, Carlotta's voice shrieked from Frank's office: "I had everything prepared for that case—there was no reason for her to bribe the judge!"
Meg rolled her eyes at Christine, who squared her shoulders and hurried down the hall.
"I'm away for only a day," Carlotta continued, "and you give the case to some... some amateur—"
"Welcome back, Carlotta," Christine said from the doorway. "I hope you're feeling better."
Everyone turned to stare at Christine. Carlotta's fluffy face was red with anger. Frank looked very tired, and no doubt he had been getting an earful all morning. Raoul leaned against one of Frank's bookshelves, his arms crossed and his lips turned down.
She forgot her promise to show him the office!
"Come in and take a seat, Christine," said Frank. "I'm very concerned about this article in the Post. You've read it?"
She nodded as she lifted a few case files from the only other chair, next to Carlotta. Finding nowhere to put the files, she held them on her lap. Carlotta's overwhelming perfume made her head throb.
"Now, whether the report is true or not—"
"It's not true, Frank, believe me—"
Carlotta's nostrils flared. "¡Cállate, puta!"
"Whether it's true or not," Frank shouted, rising from his chair, "The Bronx Defense Project will avoid even the appearance of impropriety. I can't allow you to appear in Delgado's court with this kind of gossip spinning around town. And since Carlotta has returned, she'll handle the Albrizzio case next week. Return Carlotta's files by this afternoon."
Helpless, Christine looked to Raoul. He wouldn't meet her eyes.
Carlotta tossed her long, black hair. "Maybe Christine should join me next week, as silent co-counsel, so she can learn how to litigate with her lips properly."
Frank considered this proposal, and smoothed his horseshoe mustache as though rubbing it for luck. "That's actually not a bad idea."
"Assuming you don't take another random leave of absence!" Christine cried.
"So what if I called in sick? I didn't want to see Judge Doom's ugly face yesterday. It's no excuse for how you handled it, puta!"
"Carlotta," Frank sighed, "go catch up on your work. I'll talk to Christine. Please close the door on your way out."
He waited until the door shut before sitting on the edge of his desk. Not knowing what she was expected to do, Christine sat gripping the files in her lap.
Raoul dropped into the chair vacated by Carlotta. "How did this happen?"
"Honestly, I don't know."
"You've been working here how many years?" asked Frank, still tugging at his mustache. "About five, I think. You don't seem like that kind of girl. And I've known Delgado for longer. This is beneath him."
Raoul cleared his throat. "Judge Delgado wasn't even at the reception, or outside in the park. We caught sight of him up on the mezzanine at one point, that's all."
Frank kicked his heels against the desk. "So, where did this story come from?"
The words were out before she thought them through. "Jake Ratner. He thinks there's something between Erik—between Judge Delgado and me."
"Who's Jake Ratner?" Raoul asked.
"An attorney for debt collectors. Yesterday at the Ortiz hearing, he almost asked Judge Delgado to recuse." She turned to Frank, who stopped kicking. "He didn't think it was fair that Delgado helped me."
"You think Ratner made up the story?"
She shrugged and tugged at her locket. "He also made some inappropriate comments about us at Judge Polini's reception." The more she thought about it, Ratner had probably followed her into the park and had seen her in Erik's arms. The thought made her stomach lurch.
"But," Frank said, "he must know that this news will trigger an Ethics Inquiry, which will uncover his fraud."
Ethics Inquiry!? She squeezed her locket. Lying to her boss was one thing, but what if she had to testify to a committee, under oath? What if Ratner produced proof to back up his claim—did he make a cellphone video of the two of them? She could be disbarred! And even if her license remained intact—She already struggled to fit in at the office, with her abilities always in doubt because she was a young woman instead of a middle-aged man; if word got out that she was romancing a judge—one so ugly that no one looked at him and Meg said he hurt her eyes and Carlotta called him Judge Doom—it would poison whatever respect and trust she'd earned in her short career.
"Well, that's all I've got." She slid her locket around its chain. Was Erik suffering something similar at the courthouse?
Frank shrugged. "OK. At least you got to meet Mr. DeChagny at the reception. Sir, I hope this article doesn't dissuade you."
"Not at all."
"Christine will show you around the office now."
Seething from a sleepless night and a terrible morning, Delgado knocked on the door to the Administrative Chambers.
His new superior glanced up from behind the desk, broad shoulders filling the chair. "I think you know why I called you in here. Please sit down. And close the door behind you."
"Probably to discuss the Post article," Delgado muttered as he took his seat.
The walls of Arnold Maxwell's new office, paneled with more dark walnut, had been stripped of Polini's honors and awards. Maxwell hadn't taken time to hang his own accolades. It was like sitting inside a large coffin.
"Any truth to these rumors?" Maxwell asked, tapping the opened newspaper on his desk.
Delgado snorted. "Arnold, look at me."
Maxwell raised his eyes to the tie around Delgado's throat.
¡Que cobarde! "Not my tie, goddammit! In case you hadn't noticed," he continued, leaning over the desk and gesturing to his deformities, "I've got the worst hollow eyes this side of the grave. My hair has gone gray. If that doesn't turn her off, I've got congenital mutilations that plastic surgery can never completely repair." He crossed his arms over his chest, beneath his red boutonnière. "Do you honestly believe any woman would make such an arrangement—with me?!"
Laughing uneasily, Maxwell shook his head. "You've got me there."
"So, if you'll excuse me, I have a trial this morning." Delgado rose.
"Just a minute. You had a case with the Bronx Defense Project just yesterday, didn't you?"
"Along with about fifteen other matters, yes."
"And defendant Ortiz won his motion."
Delgado paused, his mood descending. "Are you suggesting that Chri—that Miss Dale is incapable of winning a motion without my assistance?"
"You tell me, Erik. Did you assist?"
"I examined the witness using the correct form of a question. To move the case along. It wasn't relevant to the outcome."
"Not relevant to the outcome? Didn't she want the case dismissed for failure to serve her client? Didn't you help her by asking questions related to service by mail?"
"For God's sake, Arnold, read the transcript! The process server claimed to serve someone who's actually already dead!"
"Alright! Alright! How many other cases with the Bronx Defense Project are on your docket?"
"I don't know." He raked a hand through his wild hair as he counted in his head. "Maybe twenty? Why?"
Maxwell lifted the newspaper. "If anyone asks you to recuse because of this article, I want to be notified and I expect you to recuse."
"But I have no reason to recuse."
"Why play with fire, Erik?" Maxwell dropped the paper back on the desk. "Recusal doesn't mean you admit any wrongdoing. Judges recuse all the time, 'to avoid the appearance of impropriety.' You know that."
"But someone tipped off the Post in order to affect my assignments." Delgado stepped forward. "I know who did this. He wants me to recuse from a case—any case—and has made Miss Dale his undeserving target."
"Why would someone want you to recuse from random cases?"
"I'll handle it. I can subpoena that reporter and expose the whole scheme."
"No. Don't make this personal. You've built a nice reputation as a fair judge. We're talking about just one attorney, twenty cases maximum. That's not even ten percent of your docket. Recuse from her cases if you get a motion, and the problem is solved."
"Arnold, I have no reason to recuse!" He slammed his fists on Maxwell's desk, hard enough to make everything on it rattle.
"You obstinate fool!" Maxwell stood. This time, he met Delgado's eyes with an unwavering glare. "I have a lot of respect your judgment, usually," he said through his teeth. "But as this court's administrator, I'll do whatever's necessary to protect the court's integrity, including ordering your suspension."
Delgado crossed his arms.
"Your response to this article will determine your tenure here. Traditionally, when an accusation reaches this level, judges recuse. Refusal publicly expresses your disdain for professional responsibility."
Maxwell returned to his seat and tossed the newspaper into the trash. "Maybe you were right to deny your friend's motion ten years ago. But it's different this time; you don't have Moreno discretion. This isn't just an allegation of friendship or even romance. You're now accused of engaging in a relationship whose alleged purpose is to manipulate your verdicts. Don't fuck this up further with your stubborn insubordination. Go to your trial, and think seriously about your future."
a/n: I'm hoping for feedback on my writing, so please leave a review and let me know what you like/ hate about the story. If you're shy, feel free to send me a private message or leave an anonymous review.