Chapter 12: Stay of Execution

Light reappeared by the time Raoul found Christine, but he insisted on taking her back to Manhattan. His Bronx ride in the spreading dawn had opened his eyes to the mayhem wreaked by the strange darkness. The twisted carcasses of totaled and burned-out vehicles riddled the highways and backed up rush-hour traffic for miles. She didn't refuse—what if Judge Delgado attacked her in her apartment? But she was too embarrassed to explain anything to Raoul. When he asked, she only said she'd been following up on a lead on the murder before the darkness hit.

He said nothing else, but held the cab door open while she climbed inside. They crossed the bridge in silence, rode all the way down to Chelsea without another word between them. She didn't trust herself to speak. Beset with shame and regret, crippled with doubts and confusion, she stared vacantly out the window. The cab stopped in front of Raoul's high-rise, and he paid the driver. She let him take her arm and lead her through the lobby to the elevator, then into his penthouse apartment, then into his bedroom, where he tucked her into his bed and went out to the living room sofa to let her sleep.

She didn't sleep; she cried.

She mourned the end of her trust, of her confidence, her missing locket—and yes, the end of her affair with Erik. Safe in Raoul's bed, she could admit to herself that she wanted to return and fall back under Erik's spell and love him again. But he was a liar, a predator, and a murderer. Or was he? If he did murder Becket and shove the corpse into his own vestibule, then why had he looked so distraught when the body was found? Why invent that story about a man named Nasr Khan, and why warn her that she was in danger and had to stay away?

The sheets wound around her ankles as she tossed and turned. By some miracle, she finally drifted off to sleep, dreaming of hollow, gray eyes and a red rose corsage.

She was out on sick leave for three days.

Raoul let her stay. He bought her clothes and pajamas and cooked for her every evening. While he was at work, she lounged around and admired the view, which looked out over the Hudson River to Hoboken. It was already early October, and the leaves were turning vivid, fiery hues.

The private investigator sent her a text message: Can confirm the tip was NOT from Khan, he wrote. Does the name Deshawn Brown ring a bell?

No, it didn't. All the more reason to move on.

Still she thought more of Erik than she did of Raoul, but only because the former was still an enigma: Respectable jurists don't usually bargain with the Devil. And why cast a spell over her? He could surely find a date without such subterfuge.

She forced herself to think of her host. Her relationship with Erik was over, and here was Raoul sparing no expense on her behalf, sacrificing his comforts for hers. He still slept on the living room sofa—when he slept at all. She'd suggested they switch, but he wouldn't hear of it. She wasn't attracted to him, and felt guilty for it. Compared to Erik, he was still a boy, paler and more docile and less fearsome. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't imagine giving in to him the way she'd surrendered to Erik on the roof of his courthouse.

Sorcery.

Although he was awake now, and sane and sober, Judge Delgado believed he was in Hell. His own eyes punished him, transforming ordinary items into hideous hallucinations. Shadows played across the wood-paneled walls of his courtroom like a nightmarish kaleidoscope. Familiar attorney's faces decayed into features he had tried to forget, faces twisted by torture and dripping with blood. He reached for his gavel and drew back in horror: it was a severed arm. A second glance, and it was only his gavel again, though he didn't want to touch it. And the spirits continued their constant whispering, filling his mind with disturbing, sinister static that crawled in his ears like teeming spiders on reaching, prickling legs. He sucked in deep breaths and fought the urge to scream.

This was the consequence of Saturn entering Scorpio. Or rather, the consequence of his own actions decades ago under a similar sign.

He kept Christine's locket in the breast pocket of his suit, close to his own heart. When he was alone, he held it in both hands like a sacramental. It was all he had against this nightmare. But it wasn't enough; he suffered alone. He missed Christine. Forgetting her was like giving up breathing. He lost his appetite, lost sleep, lost focus at work. Still, he considered himself lucky. For a brief, miraculous time, he had shared a love both sensual and sincere. He had kissed her. Heard her laugh. Seen her eyes smile when she looked at him. His memories would get him through purgatory—until God showed mercy and ended it all.

Meg was not the only colleague to hide a knowing smirk when Christine came in late Monday morning with Raoul. The receptionist stifled her own smile before passing Christine a large manila envelope.

"Delivery for you. I had to sign for it."

Raoul carried it for her down the hall to her office. By the water cooler, staff were still discussing the blackout. Those who'd been asleep when it'd happened had seen the carnage that it'd left behind. One of the senior attorneys suspected terrorists.

Christine dumped her bag behind her office door before settling in her chair and ripping into the envelope. She expected briefs from opposing counsel on many of her cases, but none of those papers had to be hand-delivered. Maybe one of the lawyers was being extra thorough.

She wasn't expecting to see the name of Judge Erik R. Delgado.

His name could still stir her insides, as though the syllables were the eerie melody of a bewitching song. She had hoped to never hear of him again.

"If you're all set, I'll leave you to your work—" Raoul stopped when he saw her face. "What's wrong?"

She brushed her fingertips across Erik's name. "It's a subpoena," she answered, her voice barely above a whisper. "From the Commission on Judicial Conduct. They're investigating Judge Delgado, and they want me to appear on October 31st for testimony." Her voice wavered as she said the word, as though it meant damnation.

"Testimony. About whether the Post article is true?" Raoul laughed. "I guess that's one way to prove—"

"I can't do this." Still staring at Erik's name, she dropped the paper onto her desk and shoved back her chair.

"What! This is your chance to clear your name. Besides, it says here you'll be arrested if you don't cooperate."

Her hands slid along her throat for her locket before she remembered it was lost.

"Christine?"

"Christine!" cried Meg at the open door. "Your face! What's wrong?"

Frank Richards and Carlotta, passing down the hall, peered past Meg into Christine's tiny office.

"She has to testify about the Post article," Raoul explained with a shrug. "I'm not sure why that's so bad."

Meg erupted into wicked peals of laughter. "Because it means she has to confess to everyone that it was you she kissed instead of Delgado!"

Christine leapt from her chair. Her mouth fell open.

"What… What are you talking about?" Raoul turned to Meg. "We've never kissed."

"In the park—"

"Guys! I have to work." Christine returned to her seat and opened a random case file. "Please, just—"

"…But," Meg said, "if you didn't kiss Mr. DeChagny… then…?"

Raoul's eyes traveled from Meg's look of confused horror to Christine's flushed face. "Oh, God…. Oh, Christine. Is that why you can't testify?"

"No, I, uh…" She had nowhere to run. Too many people blocked her exit. If only her office had a window, she could have made her escape. She wanted to sink into the floor, or just disappear. Her face was burning.

"I told you that's how she wins her cases!" Carlotta cried. "She's fucking her inbred, Latin lover!"

"How dare you! It's not like that at all!"

"Everybody, shut up!" Frank commanded. "All of you, get back to work. I'll speak to Christine." He stepped into Christine's office. Closed the door. There wasn't enough space for him to sit, so he leaned against the door and crossed his arms. "Explain yourself."

She swallowed. Shame constricted her throat, strained her voice. "I… I kissed Judge Delgado—"

"Oh my God." He groaned and covered his face with his hands.

"—and told Meg that I kissed Raoul. But that was all. I mean, I didn't… do anything else."

"Does Ratner know this? Is that why he complained to the CJC?"

"He might have seen us together."

"Jesus Christ, Christine," Raoul muttered. "You should have told me you were seeing someone."

She couldn't meet his eyes.

"When did… how long has this been going on?" asked Frank.

"Since Polini's reception. We just sorta… admitted our feelings for each other. But after the Post article came out, we kept our distance. We broke up last week. Turned out he wasn't the man I thought he was." That wasn't entirely true, but it would have to do for now.

Silence as both men considered her answer.

"Well," Frank reasoned, "you have to testify. There's no way out of it, unless Delgado recuses himself from the Albrizzio case and the CJC agrees to drop the investigation. But at least you can minimize the damage: testify that the relationship is over and explain why you ended it."

Dread spread through her veins like a sour poison. "But my reasons are very personal!"

"It's your only chance to exonerate yourself."

Exposing Erik's treachery had seemed like the right course of action when she'd been sitting in the dark bus after discovering his deception. But in the light of day, after a week's deliberation, she had second thoughts. He wasn't all bad. He'd shown her clients kindness and compassion. Inspired her career. Didn't he deserve the same mercy?

"I'll have to think about it," she replied.

"What's there to think about?" said Raoul. "You have no choice! Your own reputation is at stake." He counted his arguments on his manicured fingers: "You have to testify. You have to admit to your relationship with Delgado—however short-lived and distant it may have been. And you have to explain why you regret it."

"And what if I refuse? What if I'd rather go to jail?"

"What?" laughed Carlotta from behind the door. "Does she have a beau with the Department of Corrections, too?"

Frank turned to the closed door. "Still there? I thought I told you to get back to work!"

"Christine," said Raoul, "don't be foolish. This is your chance to clear your name."

"I can't exonerate myself at his expense."

"Well, he's forcing your hand," Frank said. "He hasn't recused."

"This is crazy," she sighed, close to tears. "He's crazy for not recusing, and you're both crazy for thinking I should go through with this!"

"You have no choice!" repeated Raoul, raising his voice in frustration. "You heard Carlotta. She's not the only one who thinks you have an 'arrangement' with Delgado. You've got to control the damage, take the stand and explain what really happened."

She shook her head. She couldn't imagine how such an inquest would play out. She needed to think, she needed to be alone, and she needed her father.

"I'm taking my lunch break now." She rose from her chair. Slung her purse over her shoulder. "I'll be back in an hour."

Without waiting for a response, she pushed past Raoul and her boss and opened the door. Meg and Carlotta were too shocked to say anything, their mouths hanging open like catfish. She pushed past them, too, and past half the office, and ran out of the crowded waiting room without a word.

On the street, she hurried towards the subway station, her flat shoes pounding the pavement and her purse swinging from side to side. An old lady with a cane paused to watch the white girl plunge into the steaming subway.

A train pulled into the station with a noise like rumbling thunder. Christine all but dove down the stairs, but even as she swiped her MetroCard and slid through the turnstile, she knew she was too late. The train pulled away just as she reached the platform. With the morning rush already over (and since she was going north rather than down to Manhattan anyway), it would be at least ten minutes before another train came. She sighed and slumped onto one of the benches. Hopefully no one from the office followed her.

The platform was empty except for a Middle Eastern-looking man wearing a golf shirt and khakis. His skin was lightly tanned; he had a narrow nose and regal, arching eyebrows. His eyes were an arresting pale green.

He approached her casually. "Miss Dale, I presume?"

"Do we know each other?" She'd often run into former clients while on the street or taking public transportation. But she couldn't recall ever seeing him before.

"I should be asking you that question, I think. After all, you've paid good money to find me." He smiled at her confusion. "I'm Nasr Khan."

a/n: YOU GUYS. I love all of your reviews. Thanks so much for taking the time to drop me a note. They're very helpful. Especially that epic novel of a review left by "magic." Wow.