Chapter 9: Provisional Remedies

Delgado had forgotten why the hell he'd left his courtroom. Swapping spit can do that to you. He was dazed. His ears and neck were hot. He was grinning like a fool, and he felt both mighty and depraved—he'd nearly ravished Christine on the courthouse roof. Her hot, sexy little noises while exploring his unusual dental work had undone him. It'd been the most irresistible, addictive, euphoric time he'd ever spent at work.

He was in trouble.

Things were now very complicated. A dangerous corpse waited for him downstairs. He'd only known Becket from their one useless phone call, and now had just a charred face to put to the journalist's petulant voice. A face which horrified Delgado for many reasons. The nose (what was left of it) was blackened, flesh crinkled like overcooked meat. The eyes had melted. The lips had burned away, and the exposed teeth jutted outward at crazy angles as though the fire had erupted inside the victim—or at least that was Delgado's conjecture. Leave it to the police to confirm what had happened. The dead speak their secrets, the detective had told him before he'd gone upstairs.

If only you knew, Detective.

Unbeknownst to the police, Delgado could make the dead reporter disclose more than he'd been willing to say while alive. Who was your source? Who killed you? Why? But this slaughter was too reminiscent of Delgado's foul past. It was as though Khan (or Ratner, or some still-anonymous person) was either sending a message or trying to manipulate him. He was cornered, without knowing why or by whom or what the hell he was going to do about it. And he suspected that it all ensued from his blossoming relationship with Christine—and from the imminent crossing of Saturn into Scorpio.

These were his deliberations until he reached his courtroom door. His fingers curled around the doorknob before he suddenly remembered why he'd left. The detective had asked for the day's case sheets, and Delgado had left to print them from his chambers but had run into Christine.

He spun on his heels and raced to his chambers.

He found Judge Maxwell waiting for him inside, his hands on his hips and his legs slightly apart like a boxer who'd just won his match. It would've been comical, a big man posing like that in a suit and tie—except for the death glare he fired at Delgado.

"Where the hell were you?" he demanded.

"In the courtroom; I had hearings this morning."

"Oh really. I was just down there. Walked into a police investigation. Did you think I wouldn't find out?"

Delgado logged into his computer and began printing a stack of pages listing case names, appearance dates, and attorneys' contacts. "Haven't had the chance to call you."

"Because you had to come up here and print these things."

"…Right…"

"Yeah, that's what the detective said you were doing," said Maxwell, "so ten minutes ago I came up here, and you were nowhere to be found."

He leered at Delgado as though he knew every secret. Bitter acid simmered in Delgado's gut.

"Got lost, Erik?"

"I…" Delgado swallowed the bile and scowled at his superior. "I was in the bathroom. Do you need a report on whether I used the urinal or the toilet, Jefe?"

Maxwell's face twisted in disgust.

Someone knocked on the opened door, and both judges turned to find the police detective staring nervously at Delgado's boutonnière.

"Oh, good! Detective," said Delgado to the policeman, "this is the Bronx Administrative Judge, Arnold Maxwell. I think he wants a briefing as soon as possible."

"Tomorrow morning, in my office," Maxwell added.

The detective nodded, tucked Delgado's case sheets under his arm, and fled.

Maxwell frowned at Delgado again. "Erik, I'm not here about the murder. And I really don't care how long you take for Number One or Number Two. People are complaining that you threw two very distinguished, very connected attorneys out of your courtroom this morning."

"So what if they're connected? They were in contempt."

"I was told that you punished them for questioning your neutrality with that Defense Project lawyer, Christine Dale—"

"They disrupted proceedings! It's not about the substance or merit of their objections." Delgado crossed his arms. "And what does it matter that Miss Dale lacks their connections? that she's not as distinguished? Have you ever heard her argue a case?" Anger flared on his face. "She's well-versed in the law. She's articulate. She just hasn't had as many years to develop connections and distinctions and accolades. At least her deportment is appropriate, unlike those other two."

Astonished at his tirade, Maxwell gaped at him. "Whatever happened, Jake Ratner is filing for your recusal. He even requested an investigation from the Commission on Judicial Conduct."

Delgado started. Few words plague a judge more than Commission on Judicial Conduct. Maybe jailbreak is the only phrase more terrifying. Or mandatory retirement. The commission would judge his character. It could take him off the bench permanently.

"Wait—Arnold, wait a minute." Delgado licked his lips. "What would they investigate? Is this about the Post? They think I'm taking erotic bribes?"

"The Post may be part of it, but they'll look closely at your transcripts, too. You'll make things harder for yourself if you don't recuse. Just do what's right, Erik."

Glowing candlelight reflected on the window beside Christine. She could just make out Raoul's features on the glass, while silhouetted pedestrians walked through his ghostly reflection. She wondered whether Erik was dining home alone.

"Christine? are you alright?" said Raoul. "I asked if you have anything to add to the list."

"Oh."

On the white silk tablecloth between them was her typed list of repairs for the office, with Raoul's estimated costs handwritten in the margins. He'd asked her to include everything she could wish for, from new carpet to new copy machine.

The door opened behind him, and in that momentary slice of time, she imagined Erik entering the restaurant with his soft step, his eyes shining with delight upon finding her there…

Two old ladies entered and approached the maître d'.

Christine sighed. She was in an upscale restaurant in Manhattan, miles away from the Bronx. She wasn't likely to see Erik here. But the romantic atmosphere—soft piano music, quiet candlelight, and fashionable patrons—seemed to be only awaiting his presence, like a courtroom arrayed with lawyers and bailiff and stenographer, ready for the judge.

"Christine?"

"Sorry." She focused on the list. "Your estimate for the computers is too high. Corporations sell us their old ones for half price when they upgrade."

"Why buy used? You said your clients deserve the best."

"I said they deserve a functioning office. With your estimates, we're way over budget."

"Don't worry about that. I'll handle it." He speared salmon with his fork and chewed.

She ground her teeth. Did every man have to use that line on her? "Look, buying the latest and greatest isn't cost-effective for our office. It's just not worth the extra money. There's better ways we can use it."

"Point taken," he grumbled. He pulled a fountain pen from inside his jacket and corrected the cost of the computers. "Then I suppose that fresh coat of paint should just come from Home Depot?"

Outside, a man with a dark suit and graying hair hailed a cab. He turned to look up the avenue, and his red rose corsage seized Christine's heart.

"Christine? The paint?"

A taxi pulled to the curb, and in its bright headlights she saw clearly that the man wasn't Erik.

"Hey," Raoul turned her face from the window. "You're distracted this evening. You've hardly eaten... Is it the murder? You're scared, aren't you?"

She batted his hand away and poked her fork at her calamari. "I grew up in the Bronx during the crack craze, remember? I'm not scared. And I've seen burned bodies before; Dad dealt with lots of pyromaniacs. I'm just… trying to figure it out." She nibbled her lower lip as her eyes swept the room again.

The restaurant was full of couples: an elderly pair was celebrating their golden anniversary in style, two yuppies talked about their kids, and an interracial couple sat gazing into each other's eyes. A man with gray eyes was holding his boyfriend's hand for their entire meal. Another couple gently kissed in the corner booth.

And the man who wasn't here, the man no one wanted to look at, was the only man Christine wanted to see. Had she lost her mind, that she was excited by his profusion of scars so jagged and startling and real, and by the way his face mangled and bulged when he talked, and by the unnatural depths of his dark, dark eyes? It was a mystery as confounding and as critical as the identity of the Post-tipping murderer.

"I just don't know how it all connects," she said aloud.

"What are you talking about?"

"Judge Delgado said the victim—"

"Judge Delgado!" Raoul's fork and knife clattered onto his plate. "Talking to him isn't a good idea right now, Christine. Didn't I warn you about the press?"

"The press is dead, Raoul, and I might be next!"

Several heads turned. Raoul nodded to them and apologized.

"This is exactly the sort of thing I'm talking about," he hissed at her. "Stop causing spectacles! Like it or not, you have to remember you're in the public eye."

"I haven't caused any spectacles! I didn't ask the Post to write about me, I didn't murder anyone—I was a silent co-counsel at that hearing last week. I'm trying to find out who's causing the 'spectacles.' Or am I just supposed sit quietly and wait to be killed?"

"You're not in any danger. Just let it go." He lifted his glass of wine. "I thought you said you weren't afraid."

"It's just weird and… creepy that the reporter's body was shoved into the vestibule while I was in the next room."

And Erik's strange behavior—evading her questions while also showing alarming concern for her safety—had convinced her that she may really be in danger. But from what? More was going on than what he'd divulged, and she'd waited long enough for answers. A week had passed since the Albrizzio disaster. She hadn't heard from him, but had heard of him: She knew that both Carlotta and Ratner had complained to Judge Maxwell about Erik, Ratner had filed his motion for Erik's recusal, and Erik had been in the news, since he was cooperating with the murder investigation. But she'd heard nothing more about Nasr Khan.

She would have to search for answers herself. But where to start? She'd already googled the name and had come up empty. Could she investigate the dead reporter without drawing suspicion?

"Didn't Phillippe have problems with the press?" she asked casually, returning to her dinner. "I bet he didn't just lay low. He took action, didn't he? There must be something that I can do."

Raoul sighed. "His situation was more serious than yours... Although he was rich, he was never famous until he made donations to an opera house. Suddenly rumors flew that he was sleeping with one of the ballet dancers, and that the supposed relationship influenced his transactions for his company. Investors demanded that he resign… You're right, he didn't just 'lay low.' He hired a private investigator. It turned out some investors had staged the controversy, to make him appear incompetent so that they could execute a take-over."

"Did the P.I. trace the rumors?"

"Yep. They came from within the company."

She would enjoy the meal after all. "Could this investigator do the same for me?"

He was already reaching into his jacket for his phone. "One way to find out."