Chambermaid

  I was doomed. We hadn’t even heard our first oral arguments for our first sitting and already I wanted to sit out. Be benched. There were five sittings after this one. Puberty had gone faster than this. Let’s face it—a wet bottom was not doing much to ameliorate the situation. Trapped. Cubicle. Staring, mean, demonic judge to my left. To my right, computer, where I typed meaningless rubbish not fit for legal consumption. Around the left bend, ecstatic Janet, happy I’d been hit, petting her stuffed puppies. In front of her, persecuted Roy, somehow feeling like he’d been wronged. Behind me, Matthew’s empty cubicle.

  What if he never returned? What if Evan were moved to his seat, near me? While I couldn’t actually see him, I had a feeling Evan was glued to his computer, creating legal genius too complex for this dunce to decipher. He was surrounded by an army of interns who hadn’t spoken since the David incident. David, for one, wouldn’t even return your hello in the morning. Kid would just stare down at whatever brief he was reading. Judge Friedman undoubtedly sent more business to local psychotherapists than bad marriages.

  Yet even the interns had it better than the law clerks. For one, they were only in chambers two days a week. Secondly, the judge’s refusal to address interns personally, considering their “mediocre” law schools, was a blessing.

  “Attending Rutgers, Villanova, and Widener—they should consider themselves lucky to have the opportunity to work for a federal judge.” That phrase was spewed every time the judge “hired” an unpaid intern. Friedman wanted Harvard, Yale, Columbia, NYU, Chicago, and Stanford. Penn, Duke, Virginia, and Cornell would do in a pinch. That way, when she knocked you down, there would be a substantial fall.

  It had been a trying afternoon, and the last thing I felt like doing was the complex conflict of law analysis that my November case warranted. So, I slyly returned to the Dell Nelson case to determine where my memo had gone awry.

  Tip—“you can just call me the Tipper”—Evans wasn’t a bad guy, just a dreadful lawyer. It’s one thing to be a crappy corporate lawyer and haphazardly draft stock purchase agreements; it’s an altogether different trauma to botch someone’s death penalty trial. The Tipper snoozed through the prosecution’s opening statement, its cross-examination of Dell Nelson, and at one point, “awakened himself with a loud bout of flatulence, screaming ‘objection.’” Indeed, a curious move, as the judge had just called for a recess. The guy even nodded off during his own direct examination of Dell, a particularly egregious act considering that he should never have placed Dell on the stand to begin with. Even the casual Law and Order watcher knew that criminal defendants almost never testified on their own behalf. The frequency with which Tip Evans fell asleep would lead any bystander to believe that he was getting a hot stone massage rather than trying to spare someone’s life in a court of law.

  The crazy part was that Dell Nelson wasn’t appealing on the basis of Tip’s aforementioned behavior, which occurred when the jury was considering whether or not Dell Nelson was guilty of murder. Rather, Nelson took issue with Evans’s performance during the sentencing phase, namely when the jury was deciding life or death. The Tipper didn’t call one witness to testify as to why Nelson’s life should be spared. Not one of his sisters, nor his grandmother, all of whom clearly adored Nelson, a young guy who’d been supporting the family since he was barely out of grade school. The jury didn’t hear about how Nelson often babysat for his neighbors’ kids, put food on anyone’s table who asked for it, and personally delivered groceries to the elderly folks in his public housing development.

  The most disturbing of all was Tip Evans’s treatment of Kyle Cooper, a fellow Arch Homes resident–drug-dealer–thug. Kool Kyle, as he was known in the neighborhood, should have been Nelson’s ticket out of the electric chair. Thanks to the Tipper, Kyle served as the prosecution’s star witness. One snippet from the trial transcript:

  District Attorney: “So, Mr. Cooper, you mentioned that Dell Nelson was a big-time drug dealer, pushing speed, heroin, crack, preying on mere children, right?”

  Kyle Cooper: “Ya. Ya. Man, the guy was whack. Once I even saw him peddling some shit on a little girl, she couldn’t have been older than five.”

  District Attorney: “I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

  Judge Jackson: “Mr. Evans, you may approach the bench for cross-examination. Er, um, Mr. Evans? Can someone please wake up Mr. Evans.”

  Upon awakening, Evans was so disoriented, he simply said, “I rest my case.” Resting, obviously, but where was his case? A case that could have—indeed, should have—involved questioning Kool Kyle about how he’d made repeated threats against Nelson, proclaiming their mutual neighborhood as his turf, not Dell’s. How he, and not Dell Nelson, had been arrested two years earlier for selling cocaine to a group of ninth-graders. And when Kyle spent six months in the slammer, how Dell Nelson cared for Kyle’s pregnant girlfriend, sending her money and food. The jurors never heard any of this testimony, all of which would have at once discredited Kool Kyle’s prior testimony and educated the jury as to Dell’s good qualities. Instead, the Tipper rested his case. And the jury recommended death.

  To me, “ineffective” seemed like a nice way of describing Tip Evans’s services. A compliment almost. Horrific, god-awful, disgraceful would have been more accurate. The Pennsylvania Supreme Court didn’t agree, finding that, while “not great,” Evans’s performance nonetheless fell within the “permissible range of competency” after reviewing the Tipper’s explanations for not questioning Kyle Cooper and failing to call mitigation witnesses (i.e., “those sisters of his were trampy and would have made a bad impression.”) The federal district court agreed. As far as I was concerned, Nelson deserved relief even under AEDPA’s strict standards.

  BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ. It was the judge.

  “Yes, Judge,” I carefully asked, shoving Nelson’s trial transcript under a brief.

  “Hi, Sheila, please come to my office and bring Matthew and Evan.”

  The weirdest part of her command was not the fact that she’d forgotten that Matthew had walked out but that she sounded nice, got all of our names right, and said please. Something smelled in Philadelphia and it wasn’t my underpants. When I went to collect Evan, he was sitting perfectly still with a pocket copy of the Constitution in one hand and a U.S. Reports—which contained Supreme Court cases—in the other. He had a creepy smile on his face.

  “Hey, Evan,” I said, gingerly interrupting his mental masturbation.

  “God, I love the takings clause. It is just amazing!” he quietly exclaimed to his computer. Jiminy crickets! Who loved the takings clause?—an utterly neutral clause that doesn’t let the government take your property without “just compensation.” Loving the First Amendment or the equal protection clause would be understandable. But the takings clause? It was like loving mops.

  “Hey, Evan, I hate to rip you away from your little Constitution, but the judge wants to see us.” He almost started hyperventilating with excitement.

  “She—she wants to see me?” He pointed dramatically to himself, as if he’d just landed the lead in Mamma Mia. He probably would have started doing his hair and makeup had I not grabbed him and dragged him out of his seat.

  We entered the torture chamber to the happiest judge I’d ever seen. Nobody mentioned Matthew. I wondered how long Evan would pretend that he hadn’t heard all the commotion.

  “Come around here and take a look and see,” the judge said, pointing to her computer, still flashing her sparkling fake pearls. Her screen was filled with electronic people standing in front of a big glass building with the words—in big bubble red, white, and blue—“NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE CENTER, JULY 4.”

  “Isn’t it wonderful!” she crooned.

  “Yes, it’s amazing!” Evan impulsively ass-kissed. It was unclear what the amazing part was. Computers? Yes, computers were amazing. Completely ignoring Evan, she turned to me.

  “Sheila, what do you think?” Think? I didn’t think about anything except
how stupid and unhappy I was.

  “Ah, it’s great,” I lied. That’s all it took. Her curtain call.

  “You see, law clerks, I’m on the board of the Independence Center. And tomorrow night we’re having a big awards ceremony for all the survivors from the internment.” The two of us nodded ferociously. “See this?” She clicked on something and all of a sudden we were inside Stephen Sondheim’s Pacific Overtures. Japanese graphics flew across the screen, with a TV commercial kind of male voice narrating how America had royally screwed over the Japanese during World War II. We watched and watched and watched.

  At the end of the lengthy matinee, the judge swiveled around, tears in her eyes. Barely able to speak, she murmured: “Isn’t it just so moving?” Her chapped lips trembled. Pulling an All My Children move, Evan managed to tear up himself.

  “Yes, it’s really beautiful,” he whimpered. Evan was the greatest jackass ever to have lived. It was a small wonder that some beefcake hadn’t pummeled him to death in college. As for the judge, she was most definitely insane. I couldn’t be more sympathetic to the victims of the internment, but her sheer audacity! She’d spent her day eviscerating two of her law clerks and now she was crying for Japanese victims from five decades ago? She again ignored Evan and turned to me.

  “What did you think, Sheila?” she sniveled. While I had no clue what the Independence Center was, I did know that I was about to spontaneously combust.

  “I think it’s wonderful you are recognizing the survivors. They deserve it.” I had her at you.

  “Very well, you all have worked so hard today. Why don’t you go home,” she said, as if releasing us twenty-three minutes early atoned for her sins of the day.

  I was out of there lickety-split. Evan stayed behind. As I collected my belongings, I overheard him ask the judge, “Do you think I could go to the awards ceremony tomorrow?” Had he absolutely no shame? And why on earth would anyone want to spend an evening—let alone a Friday night—with the judge? It was for persons like Evan that the word dickweed was invented. Friedman thought so, too.

  “No.” Plain and simple.

  As I was about to make a break for it, the judge yelled over Evan’s defeated shoulder, “Sheila, Sheila, you live in Center City, right?” She’d asked me that no less than a dozen times.

  “Yes, Judge.”

  “I’ll drive you home.” It was an order. And just like that, the judge stripped me of my cherished walk home.

  “I live in Center City, in Rittenhouse,” Evan piped in. The judge also lived in Rittenhouse Square. She wouldn’t be able to get out of that one.

  “Well, get your things together, Esther. We’re leaving in two minutes.”

  Evan rode shotgun. But the judge had no interest in talking to him. Speeding down 7th Street, she rotated 360 degrees.

  “Sheila, now where are you from?” No, not this again.

  “Judge, I grew up in Virginia,” I said for what felt like the hundredth time.

  “No! No! No! You’re from Pakistan or something!” Deep breath. Namaste.

  At least five people had honked at her. She didn’t care. Honk. Oh no, a blond girl in tight jeans just flipped her off. Window down. Miniature lady peering out window.

  “Do you even know who I am!!??? You should not make that gesture to a FEDERAL JUDGE.” Crouching clerk, hidden Pakistani in the back. Giddy judge and Evan in front, cackling, excited by demeaning, then nearly killing, nice pedestrian girl. As it turned out, said pedestrian didn’t give a shit if it were Judge Judy who’d nearly killed her. She gave the bird to the federal judge again.

  We sped off. I was actually going to die there and then. The judge was drunk-with-power driving. Surely that was illegal. Judge suddenly had interest in her cohort. Turning to Evan, she extended her right arm to touch his chest: “You’re bllaaaack.” He took it as a compliment and smiled.

  “Yes, Judge. I am black,” he boasted. It wasn’t like the dude had penned the great Dr. King Jr.’s “I have a dream” speech. Thankfully we were approaching the corner of 12th and Spruce.

  “Judge, you can just drop me off here,” I muttered from the back.

  “No! No! No! This is where all the gays and druggies are,” she exclaimed.

  “This is where I live,” I explained, hoping she’d realize that the two weren’t mutually exclusive.

  “No, no. This is a bad area. You just can’t live here.” She put the pedal to the metal, attempting now to move me from my apartment. The buck stopped there.

  “Judge. I really live back there,” I insisted. We were at the corner of Spruce and Broad, three blocks past my humble home. Maybe she really was kidnapping me and Evan was in on it, too. Torture for having done a less than stellar job on the Nelson memo.

  “Fine. But you do realize you live amongst prostitutes and drug dealers,” she announced with disgust. Evan nodded in disapproving horror. But I couldn’t be bothered. She’d finally stopped and I was out of there faster than you could say Independence Center.

  Walking back, I noticed my overalled friend talking to a handsome middle-aged man in a BMW sedan. He was always talking to men in cars. Come to think of it, there were always skinny guys lurking around the corner. And my neighbor upstairs always had men coming and going from his place. I’d just figured he was way more popular than me. I guess I’d never considered why he was more popular.

  OMG! Maybe the judge was right? Was he—along with all the other loitering men on my block—selling drugs? Sex? Both? At that moment, I noticed Mr. Overalls accepting some cash from the driver before getting in on the passenger side. They sped off. Could it be that I lived in the Red Light District of Philly? No wonder my rent was so cheap. I called James, who thankfully was home.

  “Hey, can you meet me outside, right now?” I asked compulsively.

  “Is everything OK?”

  “Just come outside, OK?”

  “OK, be down in a minute.” James came out moments later, in his after-hours uniform—jeans, sweatshirt, tennis shoes. “What’s going on? You’re home early,” he commented.

  “Yes. The judge drove me home. Did you know we lived in a prostitution drug circle?” I implored. James shook his head, confused. I pointed to the posse of skinny men. “Look. Those guys are always there. Random cars pull up and stop and talk to them. Sometimes they get in. And that guy who lives upstairs in our building always has men coming over.”

  “Sheila, just because they’re not wearing Façonnable shirts doesn’t mean they’re selling drugs.” James replied, smirking.

  “Listen, the judge told me that corner was where prostitutes and drug dealers were.” I pointed again, this time with slightly more drama.

  “OK, so now Judge Friedman’s the final word on coke and sex? Look Sheila, I just don’t think so. This is a really beautiful, nice neighborhood,” he said smugly. I was frustrated now.

  “Does it not occur to you that sex and drugs could possibly be sold in nice neighborhoods? For example, Washington Square Park, Greenwich Village? I think we should ask someone.”

  “You want me to proposition one of those guys. No thanks. I’m still smarting from the whole Brian-Jana episode. I don’t need to add getting arrested for seeking out homosexual sex to my résumé at this point.” Fair enough.

  “Maybe we can just ask the guy, I don’t know, at the Laundromat or something?”

  James didn’t think so.

  “Listen. I have an idea. Why don’t you go to the Laundromat. Ask the nice, eighty-year-old Korean man who doesn’t speak English if he knows where you can buy some crack and sex. But man-on-man sex, clarify that part. Then call me and we’ll go grab a beer.”

  At that moment, I noticed a cop walking out of Pine Street Pizza, at the corner of 12th and Pine. I ran down the street and caught up to him before he got back into his police car.

  “Excuse me, sir,” I panted.

  “Yeah?” He asked, irritated that I’d come between him and the foot-long sausage stromboli he’d shoved undernea
th his armpit.

  “Yes, I moved down the street not long ago and my boss just told me she thought that corner,” I pointed up to Spruce and batted my lashes, “was a place where prostitutes and drug dealers were.” The sheer eloquence was lost on him. The cop just stared. “Is that true?” I asked. He leered.

  “You must be from the country. A small town or somethin’?” Me—a farm hand?!

  “If you must know, I moved here from NEW YORK CITY.” I was bragging about a city I no longer lived in to a cop with a sausage up his armpit.

  “Well, Ms. Big City, in that case, it should be obvious to you that’s where people sell drugs and sex. Why else would all those queers be getting into those cars? Those cars are driven by Main Line faggots who screw those guys and then go home to their wives and kids.” He appeared to grow enraged just thinking about it.

  At least those guys didn’t beat their wives and kids, I thought, noticing his wedding band. Good thing he carried a gun, a beating stick, and mace.

  “Great, thanks.” And I was off. James was standing where I left him moments earlier. “Yup. Guns, drugs, sex to the north. Scary, hateful, homophobic wife-beater cops to the south.” James’s mouth dropped.

  “We are such assholes. You are such an asshole—you actually asked a cop if people were selling drugs.” He shook his head. “How lame.”

  “Oh come on, James. Look around. It’s a bunch of middle-aged men in silver Land Cruisers. How on earth could we have known that they were getting blow jobs on their way back to Little League.”