Chapter 6: Affirmative Defenses

Tearing into his chambers moments after battling Maxwell, Delgado had little time to lose. He had a trial in ten minutes, but he shut the door and lunged for his phone. Khan had lied to the Post. Messing with Delgado had been one thing, but he'd be damned if he let Khan destroy Christine's life as well. Maybe the Post reporter had Khan's phone number.

Working the phone as quickly as he could, Delgado called in every favor, and even threatened to use his judicial muscle in order to reach the reporter. But despite what one might expect of a judge with ten years on the bench, he had no experience intimidating anyone for his own advantage. Never before, in his entire career, had he dialed someone and said, "I'm a judge! Do as I say!" His power was restricted to the courtroom. Now he discovered that overreaching was like stretching—his limits improved with practice. After a brief "workout," he had the number for the journalist's personal cellphone.

The man picked up after two rings. "Joe Becket," spat a voice in a cantankerous Queens accent.

"This is Judge Erik Delgado. You published a tip this morning concerning myself and an attorney appearing in my court."

"…And?"

"I need to know who gave you the tip."

"I got no obligation to reveal my sources."

"It was Nasr Khan, wasn't it?"

"I'm not telling ya nothin'."

"You'll have to," said Delgado, raising his voice, "when you get a judicial subpoena. You want to do this the easy way? Tell me now, over the phone, and I'll keep the intelligence to myself. But make me sign an order, and you'll have to disclose your source publicly."

"A subpoena?! But I didn't break any laws!"

"Your source lied, Mr. Becket, and he's made you a pawn in his attack against my jurisprudence."

Becket considered. "I can appreciate your situation, Your Honah, but unless you wanna go on the record, I can't disclose my source. I dunno how you run your court, but the Post goes by the book."

The reporter had called his bluff. Well, he wasn't the first to accuse Delgado of breaking the rules. Perhaps with more "exercise," the judge could reach over Becket's head. Meanwhile, he was late for trial.

"Then watch out for a subpoena," Delgado muttered, and hung up the phone.

The fluorescent lights flickered on in The Bronx Defense Project's dumpy conference room. Much like Frank's office, collections of casebooks and piles of files occupied virtually every surface, including the greasy bookcases along the walls. One of the shelves was loose, and its contents tilted as though the office were a sinking ship leaning precariously into the sea. Cardboard boxes had been piled so high beneath the single, small window that they blocked most of the natural light.

Christine sighed and turned to Raoul. "Sorry about the smell. Our custodial staff can't seem to get rid of it."

"Well, it adds to the Musty Basement ambiance. You actually have meetings in here?"

"We don't have any other space big enough. You saw how small my office is."

"This is where you counsel your clients?" Keeping his hands safely in his pockets, he stood on the tips of his toes and tried to see out the tiny window with its bleak sunlight.

"As you can probably guess, it's even less ideal for holding depositions."

"God, no."

"Or meeting potential grantors."

He turned to her, his eyebrows drawn together above his soft, brown eyes. "Don't be embarrassed, Christine. I came to help. I need to see all of this."

"Are you sure you felt the same when I showed you the leak in the bathroom? and the hole in the floor?"

"You deserve better than this. I'll fix it for you."

"Not for me. Don't do this for me." With her thumb and forefinger, she lifted a dirty glue trap from the faded carpet and hauled it into the nearest wastebasket. "It's my clients who deserve better than what we've given them."

His eyes swept the room in confusion. "But they're used to this, aren't they? I mean, you're giving them a free service. I'm sure they're not expecting extravagance."

"They deserve dignity. They deserve to meet their legal counsel in a room that doesn't smell like mold and pee. They deserve a reliable copy machine to print out the briefs we need to file in court. We're supposed to give them hope; the possibility that life won't always be so bad."

He nodded. "This is more than a job to you."

"Of course, it is! Why else would I be here?"

She was still disappointed that the grant wasn't his own initiative—that he was unmoved by the plight of the poor.

"I understand," he said, interrupting her sad thoughts. "Your father had the same outlook, didn't he? 'Serve and protect'?"

He did not understand. She sighed and turned away. To give herself something to do, she tried to straighten the tipping bookshelf. "Nothing mattered more to him. He even forgot about me, sometimes. He said it was his way of paying the ransom on his soul."

"My father was so different from yours." Raoul helped hold the shelf while she adjusted the supports. "But I want to change. I'm not what you think." He took her hand. "I want to match Philippe's grant."

"A million dollars?" She backed away. "You want to give The Bronx Defense Project a million dollars?"

"Five-hundred thousand from Philippe's estate, and another five-hundred thousand from my own account. Why not? From what I've seen, half a million isn't going to be enough. You said yourself that your clients deserve more."

Christine was still backing away, hardly believing what she'd just heard. "But… Why?"

"Well, I can't say it's for you," he replied, his brown eyes smiling. "Since you've forbidden it. So it's for your clients. For your cause."

She pressed her back against the grimy wall and frowned at him.

He leaned closer and whispered in her ear, "Let me love the things you love, Christine. Give me that chance."

A hot blush flamed over her face, from to the roots of her hair and down her neck. "But I—"

The door opened, and Meg nearly dropped the heavy casefiles she'd been carrying. "Shit! I'm so sorry."

Raoul jerked away from Christine as quickly as if she'd combusted.

"Meg, it's OK," Christine protested. "I was just showing Mr. DeChagny the conference room."

"Liar." Meg smirked before stepping back into the hallway and closing the door.

Embarrassed, Raoul studied his shoes until Meg was gone. "Forgive me. It's just that I'm very glad to see you again. I… I thought a lot about you after I left for Oxford."

Christine had no idea how to reply, and instead gathered the scraps of paper scattered over the scarred conference table. Muffled conversation droned from someone's office next door.

He trapped her hands. "Please. Listen to me. If you're not interested, or if you're seeing someone else, at least let me make this donation. I'm not… I can't make the same sacrifices you've made. You have this virtuous calling, and it doesn't speak to me the same way it cries out to you. But let me do this much, at least. Please."

He squeezed her fingers, rustling the crumpled papers in her fists.

"It's a lot of money," she replied. "I was just surprised, that's all."

With a sigh of relief, he released her hands.

"I mean, we would definitely welcome your donation." As she tossed the papers in the trash, she imagined how grand the company would be after a million dollar renovation. "I could draft an itemization of the cost of repairs, if that's helpful."

"When it's all finished, I'd like to take you out for dinner."

"Aren't you turned off by what the press says about me?" she quipped.

"I thought I'd never see you again; I'm not gonna leave so easily. But be careful, Christine." He touched her cheek as he had in the park. "The Press Pool is full of snakes. I'm speaking from Philippe's experience. They'll print anything, even if it ruins someone's life. And the only thing you can do about it, is do your best not to give them a chance."

Delgado was constantly distracted while presiding over his week-long trial. For one thing, he suspected that everyone in the courtroom had read the damned Post. He could almost sense it, from their manner of avoiding his eyes—but then again, that was normal, wasn't it? Paranoia also had him constantly inspecting the gallery for Khan's figure, with so much focus that he sometimes missed hearing the testimony. He still worried about Christine, was dying to hear her voice, to know that she still had her job, that she was safe. And his mind kept wandering back to her surprise kiss, even at the most unromantic moments as the expert witness described a dislocated shoulder and fractured collarbone in painful detail.

At his first opportunity, he called the recess for lunch.

Retreating to his chambers during these breaks, he drafted his subpoena of the Post. He couldn't serve the subpoena without an underlying case, but he knew it wouldn't be long before someone filed for his recusal. Then he would have his opportunity.

He could wait.