Chapter 15: Inquest

Delgado sat in the waiting room of the Commission of Judicial Conduct with his elbows on his thighs and his fingers steepled against his lips. The room was no bigger than his foyer at home. The walls were bare except for the words "Commission of Judicial Conduct" in bronze letters directly above the seal of the Unified Courts of the State of New York, hanging over the receptionist's window. A troop of empty, armless chairs surrounded him, their rusting metal frames upholstered in black vinyl. In one corner, a small table held a mess of magazines from six months ago. There was also a large, fake tree by the entrance, opposite the coatrack where Delgado had hung his trench coat and fedora and umbrella.

Directly across from him was the reception window with its sliding panel shut against him. It was the only window in the room. Beyond it, the receptionist held an office phone to her ear and studied her computer screen. She watched him out of the corner of her eye.

The room was so silent, he could hear the whisperings of his constant, bodiless companions.

Dirty jurissst… Dissshonessst man…

Out of time… Hopelesssss…

Recuse! You lose! Recusse! You lose!

He closed his eyes and put a hand over his heart, over the pocket holding his souvenir of Christine.

He wanted to go home.

He was in Manhattan, and he'd had to pay to park in a garage. He could have taken the subway, but the stares from commuters and the questions from children would have destroyed his tattered composure. As it was, he'd had to walk several blocks from the parking garage. At least the storm had given him an excuse to hide under his umbrella, but it hadn't helped him in the lobby, or in the crowded elevator as he rode to the twelfth floor. There had been a few double-takes as folks first saw him, then awkwardly glanced at their own shoelaces or the walls or even the ceiling. Anything besides him. And when he had found the right suite and walked into that God-forsaken waiting room, the receptionist had risen from her desk to stare at him through the window with her mouth wide open in alarm. He'd given his name casually, leading by example, but she hadn't heard him the first time because she'd been too busy discovering his boutonnière. After he had repeated himself, she'd turned to her computer and looked all over her desk in a fluster, mumbling for him to take a seat as she closed the window.

"Judge Delgado?" she now called politely, having re-opened her window to stare at his boutonnière. "They're ready for you."

Delgado stood and straightened his tie. The receptionist left her desk and opened the door leading to the inner sanctum, then led him down a clean, bright hallway into a room lined with bookcases. A long conference table filled the room, surrounded by mushroom-colored office chairs from the 1980s.

His shoulders drooped. No courtroom; no dark-paneled walls or vintage chandeliers. No polished wooden bench. After a decade in his distinguishing career, his fate would be decided by strangers in a cheap conference room.

At least the state and national flags were in attendance, crammed together in three feet of space between bookcases. Golden letters on the beige wall above them read IN GOD WE TRUST.

Across the room, between two tall windows dressed in aluminum miniblinds, sat a man Delgado recognized as a stuffy, older lawyer from Brooklyn. The man had the long jowls and condescending frown of an English bulldog. He wasn't even wearing a suit; a sweater vest covered his shirt and tie. A stenographer sat to his right.

Neither of them rose from their seats to greet him.

The man's gaze flicked to Delgado's face before dropping back to the legal pad in front of him. "Judge Delgado," he said dourly, "I'm Ted Rosenbaum, an appointee of the Commission. You were subpoenaed to answer allegations concerning your relationship with Christine Dale, an attorney with The Bronx Defense Project. Please understand that this—" He glanced up from the table and found that Delgado was still standing where the receptionist had left him before closing the door. "You may be seated, sir."

"Anywhere in particular I should sit?"

"Wherever you're comfortable—closer to the stenographer. She needs to hear you."

Delgado nodded at the startled stenographer before taking his seat.

"As I started to say, this is not a formal hearing. Think of this as an inquest. You will be under oath, and we have a stenographer here to make a transcript, but at this stage we're merely investigating the allegations and haven't filed formal charges. Do you understand?"

"Yes, but I thought the Commission usually just mails interrogatories."

"That's true in most cases, but in this case your presence is required so we can make observations."

Delgado scowled. "What kind of observations?"

Rosenbaum shifted on his chair and cleared his throat. "Well, like your…." He gestured with his expensive fountain pen at Delgado's scars.

"You wanted to see if I was as ugly as the rumors say."

Rosenbaum shrugged. He was already staring down at his legal pad again. "Your appearance is relevant to our assessment—I mean, as far as whether we can believe…"

"… the juicy gossip in the New York Post," Delgado finished for him. "What do you think so far, Mr. Rosenbaum?"

He cleared his throat again before replying, "We will make our determination at the conclusion of the investigation, after all the facts have been drawn."

"But what will you tell the Commission about your 'observations'?"

Rosenbaum ignored him. He pulled his chair closer to the table and wagged his fountain pen between his fingers while he read his notes for the hundredth time. "You'll know our findings when we issue our decision. Please raise your right hand."

Delgado knew Bronx judges who were on the Commission, and he wished one of them could take his testimony instead of Rosenbaum. But, of course, the Commission on Judicial Conduct would never allow colleagues to investigate each other. He obediently raised his hand and swore to tell the truth.

"Do you know Christine Dale?" Rosenbaum asked him.

"Yes."

Surrender… Resign… Hope isss losssst…

"What is your relationship with her?"

"Professional acquaintances. She appeared in my court a handful of times."

"I see…" Rosenbaum tapped his pen against his notepad. "Isn't there a motion pending for your recusal in one of her cases?"

"There's a motion pending, but the case is not hers; one of her Defense Project colleagues has the case."

"But Miss Dale has appeared on the case?"

"Yes. Once."

"And are you aware of an article in the New York Post alleging a romantic relationship between you and Miss Dale?"

"Yes, I'm well aware."

"Then why haven't you recused?"

"There's no basis for my recusal."

Rosenbaum snorted and peered at Delgado. "Really? You don't think the Post article suggests impropriety?"

"It certainly does, but none of that was my making. I've done nothing improper."

"Well, let's examine that, Judge Delgado. When Miss Dale was last in your court, didn't you—"

The door opened and the receptionist stuck her head in. "Excuse me, Mr. Rosenbaum, but Christine Dale is here for her appointment. She knows she's early—"

"And we're behind schedule. She'll have to wait."

The receptionist nodded and left the room. The door shut quickly behind her.

Christine! With him, in Manhattan! in the same building, on the same floor, in the same suite…! Delgado had to see her. She would brighten his shitty day, her gaze falling over him like warm sunshine, and then he could easily endure the indignities of this inquest.

But at what cost? What if he lost control, as he seemed to do whenever they shared the same room? The last thing he needed was to give Rosenbaum more opportunities for "observations."

"Let's have her join us," Delgado said aloud. In the end, he just couldn't stop himself. It went against all reason, contrary to logic, and certainly against his own interest—but he needed Christine right then, as though he couldn't breathe without her.

Rosenbaum's pen froze, and the man looked up from his notes with his Churchill disdain. "Excuse me?"

"She's here by subpoena too, isn't she? I'd like to ask her some questions as well. We can do it together. Like a deposition."

He shook his head. "That—I can't allow that. It's—Sir, that's highly irregular—"

"Well, so am I. Anyway, it wouldn't prejudice your investigation. You can still make your record, and I can make mine, and then you'll make your decision."

He was still shaking his head. "You don't understand… I have to follow procedures—"

"But you said yourself this isn't a proceeding. You're just gathering information at this stage. Wouldn't it save time to talk to us together?"

Rosenbaum stopped shaking his head and studied his watch with a long sigh. "Off the record," he said to the stenographer. "Wait here while I clear it with a supervisor."