Chambermaid

  While it was true that these Main Line fathers were not the most obvious felons, it was also true that we probably should have caught on—the bumper-to-bumper traffic every night at six, not a single female driver, and I should have probably figured out that the pockmarked guy in overalls was not at all homeless but instead was selling his body for sex to suburban professionals.

  “Whatever, Sheila.” James shrugged his shoulders. “Honestly, I don’t even care. Sort of makes this whole clerkship thing that much more interesting. Edgy, almost.”

  Chapter Eight

  A Toronto judge fell asleep in the middle of a criminal trial but woke up when a defense lawyer dropped a 2,136-page copy of the Criminal Code on the desk in front of him, a court was told yesterday. “We decided that I would drop a copy of Tremeear’s Criminal Code . . . in order to wake His Honour.”

  —www.legalreader.com/archives/001406.html

  I woke up with that weird stomach feeling. The kind where you know something dreadful is in store for you but your memory hasn’t quite gotten up to speed. Five seconds later, I remembered that in a few short hours, I’d be experiencing my first sitting. I was too scared to even gasp or groan. Maybe I’d paralyzed myself in my sleep? Unfortunately, paralysis probably fit into the “you’re not allowed to get sick” category and wouldn’t fly as an excuse for a no-show.

  B-Day—the day I’d undoubtedly pick my entire scalp bald—had arrived. To think that I had to do this with Evan, and nobody else, made it that much worse. While I’d not heard a peep from Matthew since his dramatic exit, I still prayed for his sister-in-law nightly and had my mother light a few candles for her at the Infant Jesus of Prague Church. Well, maybe not the church. This one had vinyl siding and was in suburban Virginia rather than the Czech Republic, but it was the pious thought that counted.

  While I was at it, I should have prayed for myself and my more immediate problem. Suits appeared to be the appropriate sitting attire. The judge’s exact words were, “Don’t come in here in one of those—those—things for the sitting.” And then she just pointed at me. I’d deduced she either meant that we should shed our skin or refrain from the hideous category of clothing we’d all taken to—the dreaded “business casual.”

  Considering the judge’s affection for polyester pantsuits, I found her disdain to be a bit hypocritical. Unlike the judges, we couldn’t mask fashion atrocities with a big black robe. Had I ever even worn a suit? I quietly made my zillionth empty promise to the Person upstairs and threw open the closet doors.

  On the bright side—the really bright side—there was a suit. It was neon pink. A holdover from my news producing days in Miami. It made me cringe that I’d found the thing so chic a few years earlier. In a federal courtroom, it would be like garlic to a vampire. Nearly strangling myself on a hanger wading through the muddy river of five-seasons-ago clothes, I spotted the Jewel of the Nile: an old navy Ann Taylor pantsuit, circa 1990, with the biggest shoulder pads I’d ever seen. I grabbed it hungrily, crazy with excitement. How this veritable antique had managed to survive a decade of spring cleaning was way beyond me, but who cared? Thankfully, bigger was better back in 1990 and it fit just fine.

  On my way out, I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror hanging on my bedroom door. What I saw would have made even Arnold Schwarzenegger cry like a little girl. Bags under red puffy eyes. Crusty mouth. Boxlike body. The shoulder pads made me look like an actual house. Walking gave the appearance of a mobile home. Hey, all you women, children, and drug-addicted prostitutes, beware: “CAUTION: WIDE LOAD!”

  I was too embarrassed to come face-to-face with my Dunkin’ Donuts friends and proceeded directly to the courthouse. The metal detector went nuts when I went through. This came as no surprise. There was lots of junk in this trunk. After the third beep, a large male guard with a bushy mustache and a uniform at least three sizes too small approached me with a thick black instrument. He practically vacuumed Ann Taylor, and I kept beeping like a bomb, which I wished I had, for obvious reasons.

  “You got a belt on under there?” he asked, disgust dripping from his ’stache, pointing to my stomach. Frankly, he had no right to be grossed out. He was vile. “Nope. Just the suit. No belt.” He didn’t believe me, and before I could stop him, he’d yanked the bottom of my jacket and shirt up, exposing my bare—and growing—stomach, rolled over wrinkled pleats. Sweet Jesus! Then he lifted them higher so that the other security guards and everyone else passing through could see my peach Victoria’s Secret bra that was even older than the suit. Not to mention, my ragged underwear was sticking out of the pants. He was thoroughly grossed out now. “Go on,” he muttered angrily, pushing me toward the elevators. Rolling ahead in my mobile home, I actually felt sort of bad for having given the guy a third-rate peep show.

  I headed straight for my cubicle, bypassing the secretaries altogether. I couldn’t deal with Medieval Roy and Janet. Just as I tried to parallel-park myself, the darnedest thing happened. “Hey, what’s up?” Matthew asked nonchalantly, breezing in as if he’d never left. He sauntered into the clerks’ cave, looking like a Brooks Brothers ad in a snappy gray suit and pink-and-white-striped tie.

  It turned out that Allison, Matthew’s sister-in-law, was going to pull through, and aside from a nasty scar on her right forearm and a lifetime aversion to cabs, she’d be fine. She’d been crossing Fifth Avenue during morning rush hour when a taxi came flying around 34th Street and pegged her. It also turned out that Matthew had yet to speak with the judge and wasn’t sure whether he was still welcome in her torture chamber.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” I explained. “The judge doesn’t seem to have noticed you even left in the first place.”

  “Well, I guess that’s good news,” he said, getting reacquainted with his cubicle. His face suddenly reddened. “This will be taking a bit of rest,” he mumbled, grabbing the glittery beach shot of Heidi and shoving it into a drawer.

  Their lovers’ spat was definitely none of my business, but inquiring mobile homes wanted to know.

  “I take it things aren’t going swimmingly with you two,” I ventured.

  He stared blankly, threatening to resume the sitting-up-dead position he’d mastered prior to his dramatic exit weeks earlier.

  “Oh, it’s been a pretty crappy few weeks. If you can believe it, Allison’s accident and my confrontation with the judge weren’t even the worst of it.”

  I shimmied myself into the narrow parking spot in front of Matthew’s cubicle and gave his impeccably groomed brownish blond head one gentle pat. “So, what happened? Is everything O—”

  “It’s Heidi,” he blurted. “She wasn’t overly supportive, to put it mildly. When I got to New York, I figured that she’d meet me at the hospital, right? I mean, that’s what I would have done but—”

  “Um, hello? Are you guys, um, law clerks?” Matthew and I whipped around at the sound of a foreign voice.

  “Hi, um, I’m Kate, I’m um, the new clerk, um.” I’d totally forgotten that Laura the Lesbian’s replacement was starting that day. From the looks of her, there was no way Kate would last as long as Laura. Insecurity-inspired posture. Glasses thicker than my shoulder pads. And a distracting love of the word um. At least she was wearing a cute suit.

  “Um, is that guy, um, in the back, um, a clerk also?” She pointed to Evan’s corner. It was obvious that Evan hadn’t introduced himself to her, let alone provided pertinent information such as: Don’t talk, don’t smoke, don’t get sick, and don’t eat lunch.

  Matthew stood up, gently grabbed Kate’s and my arm and ushered us to the back. “Hey, Evan,” he said brazenly, “did you meet our new coclerk, Kate?” Prior to his showdown with the judge, Matthew had barely spoken two words. Now he was taking charge, as if the showdown had broken a lifelong seal.

  Pretending not to have noticed that a new clerk was in our midst and that Matthew had returned from sabbatical, Evan looked up. “Oh, hi. I’m Evan. Nice to meet you.” Liar. He didn’t thi
nk it was nice to meet her. He didn’t think it was nice to meet anyone who couldn’t do something for him. Recently, my disdain for Evan had ripened into loathing.

  Evan had picked up a nasty habit: sauntering by my cubicle every day to announce status reports (“Just two days away from yet another bencher.” “Just a day away from that bencher.” “Turning in the bencher”). The real punishment was Evan’s delivery-style, like that of an Agent Orange plane, dusting me with deathly updates without so much as a glance.

  Just then, I remembered that Janet had ticked off exactly one zillion things to do for the judge in preparation of the sitting. Hot flash. “Hey, guys, don’t we need to do something for the judge?” Flash. “Some xeroxing or something?” Flash. I felt the beginnings of a mustache growing in. “Matthew. Evan. I can’t remember any of it. And Janet just told me the other day. Oh God!”

  Evan sighed: “I took care of everything for the sitting. You guys owe me,” he said smiling.

  “Thanks, Evan.” I forced myself to add, “In repayment, I am officially inviting you to lunch with Judge Adams’s law clerks today after the sitting. Oh, and Kate and Matthew, of course the two of you are invited, too.”

  Since the Edict of No Lunch, I’d started bringing some form of a sandwich to work on most days and eating it in the bathroom (hereinafter “toilet lunch”). On the other days, I’d still venture out. Just like everything else she said and did, the judge only sometimes remembered the lunch ban.

  “What?! Lunch with Judge Adams’s clerks? How did you get that?” Evan panted with excitement.

  DING!

  Suddenly the judge was standing before the four of us. She produced a toothy smile and boasted a new robust bun. “Hi, Kate—so nice to have you here!” she exclaimed, with a tinge of sincerity.

  “Hi, Judge Friedman,” Kate replied softly, bowing her head.

  Without looking at the rest of us, including the clerk who’d told her to bugger off, the judge ordered: “Now we need to get moving, people.” She clapped, like we were cattle, before heading to the torture chamber. The four of us followed her like the farm animals we’d become. She abruptly stopped in front of my cubicle, causing a most unfortunate rear-ending.

  “What are you people doing?” she sneered, without turning around. “I didn’t mean right this second. We still have a half hour before argument starts.” With that, Her Highness dragged her uneven legs into her office and shut the door.

  The four of us returned to our respective homes. I felt especially bad for Kate. Unlike Matthew, Evan, and me, she hadn’t sent out the truckloads of applications. She was just living her life and got picked out of the blue and at random, like jury duty except this wasn’t just a few days but a year. And she couldn’t say no to Judge Friedman. In her preclerking life, Kate was a staff attorney who wrote bench memos for all judges on the third circuit. She focused only on pro se cases, in which prisoners represented themselves rather than having the benefit of a lawyer.

  Considering that Kate had worked for the entire court, including Friedman, she didn’t really have the option to nix the judge’s offer (i.e., demand) to be her law clerk. Judges were better extortionists than most convicted criminals. They were not necessarily more clever. Just above the law.

  “Sheila.” Matthew motioned me to his cubicle. The mobile home cruise-controlled itself over. I was hoping to get the rest of the Heidi story. “Hey, do you have your bench memos and everything else?” he whispered. Oh no! In all the excitement, I’d totally spaced on the most important thing. I quickly grabbed my Nelson memo and the massive appendices that went along with it. My first day of kindergarten was less nerve-racking than this, which was no small thing, since I’d barfed all over Mrs. Dalton’s desk after snack time.

  “SHEEEEELLLLLAAAA!” Why didn’t she ever scream for anyone else? I nearly crashed into Janet speeding around the corner.

  “Yes, Judge.” Behind closed doors, she’d robed herself and applied lipstick. She looked like a witch trying to turn a trick.

  “It’s time to go. Get everyone,” she ordered. And I delivered. We went into her office and collected everything Evan had prepared. I just hoped that he had done it in the correct fashion. There was no time to worry about that now. “Law clerks come with me on the judges’ elevator,” she announced. What a treat! Carrying stacks of paper, we followed her one floor up. Two elderly people in black robes greeted us as the elevator doors opened. Immediately, Judge Friedman started acting weird—like she liked us. She grabbed Evan and shoved him forward, nearly toppling the fragile male judge. Then again, it looked like a careless whisper could have knocked him over.

  “This is Harvard. Um. Ah. E-Evan,” Judge Friedman stuttered. I was next up and unceremoniously pushed into the female judge. “And this is Columbia. She-la,” she enunciated carefully, before producing a grand smile and grabbing Matthew. “This”—she paused dramatically—“is Yale!” Then she rubbed Matthew’s back.

  With each stroke, more color left Matthew’s face, leaving him pasty and pale. Kate stood in the corner like leftover salmon. The judge caught a glimpse of her and noted: “Oh yeah. That’s Ja-Ja-Sylvia. She’s from Cornell. But from forever ago.” Then as an afterthought, she added: “My chambers are like the United Nations. I have one black,” she said, pointing to Evan with a smile (which he returned), and then she touched my back, “one Pakistani,” moving onto Kate, “here’s my Jew,” then back to Matthew, “and the White.”

  “That’s nice, Helga,” the male judge muttered.

  “Law clerks—this is Judge Stevens,” she said. Then, quickly spinning around to the female judge, “and this is Judge Adams.” Her bun twitched and she turned green, exposing pure envy. I wanted to hug Judge Adams, tell her that I loved her.

  Judge Friedman was talking like a windup doll on crystal meth, about this and that and then this and that again. We all just stood there until—thankfully—Judge Stevens whimpered: “Helga, Linda, we ought to get going.”

  Before proceeding through the special judge door, Friedman directed us to another, lesser passageway: “Law clerks, through there.” Our United Nations delegation passed through the secret clerk entrance to the courtroom, which was packed.

  “Um, Sheila, um, I’m not, um, Jewish,” Kate whispered.

  “I’m not Pakistani. Just play along. You are Jewish for the year.” She looked puzzled. She’d learn. Judge Stevens’s and Adams’s clerks had already taken their positions along the side of the room. The clerk of the court directed us to place Judge Friedman’s materials in front of her empty chair, which we did in no particular order. That wasn’t good. In a place steeped in methodical process, our arbitrary preparations didn’t bode well. But to my knowledge, none of us was a mind reader and there was no training; we weren’t allowed to talk to the judge unless addressed by her, Medieval Roy had about as much information as a tongueless cat, and Anna Wintour was more approachable than Janet. We were alone.

  The four of us took our seats, next to Judge Adams’s clerks. I sandwiched myself between Matthew and Kevin, who grimaced at me after a careful once-over. I couldn’t blame him. I was clearly the front-runner for worst-dressed in a courtroom full of pleats and polyester. There was one bald guy standing in the back who was wearing tight black slacks that were too short, revealing thick, hairy ankles, and an oversized red-and-black-striped shirt that was barely tucked in, revealing a brown braided belt. He was my only real competition. And I was pretty sure I had him beat.

  “ALL RISE!” the clerk of the court announced, and we, the masses, scrambled to our feet. In walked Stevens, Friedman, and Adams, in that order. The three of them stood behind their stately black leather chairs, all in their black robes, at least a dozen feet above the rest of us. Friedman stood in the middle. She was the presider, the most senior judge on the panel. It was a miracle her ego, her bun, and my shoulder pads all fit in the same room at that point. After a few dramatic seconds during which we, the entranced audience, stared in awe at the appellate god
s, they sat. Then we sat.

  Judge Friedman began. “Good morning. Thank you all for joining us today,” she said with a smile. I looked into a sea of worshipping lawyers. She looked down at the table before her. Suddenly, she didn’t look happy anymore. She started scrambling around, obviously unable to find something. She looked over, under, right, left. And then directly at the four of us.

  With one bony finger, she motioned for one of us to approach the bench. There was no way I going up there dressed like I was. Evan had gotten us into this pickle and he’d have to lead us out of it. But he just looked down, pretending not to see her. He was the only one. The way she was waving, Ernie the blind cafeteria worker probably saw her. Matthew bravely followed her silent order. We couldn’t hear anything but just watched her scold him for something or another and then he left through the same door from which we had arrived.

  “There seems to be a bit of technical difficulty. While each of you is probably nervous today, take comfort in the fact that you are not one of my law clerks right now.” She smiled. Laughter all around. Then she turned to Evan, Kate, and me and slipped us an ominous glare. Not so funny.

  After a few minutes that felt like several hours, Matthew returned with a sheet of paper and handed it to the judge, who quickly grabbed it without tipping the delivery boy. “Uh-hem. We will first hear arguments in Nelson v. Donald Timmons, Secretary, Pennsylvania Department of Corrections.” Great! I was first up. Nelson’s shockingly young attorney approached the podium, which was situated at ground level about ten feet away from the bench.

  “Good morning, my name is Olivia Northum and may it please the court. First and foremost, this case is about fairness and what the Constitution require—”

  “Ms. Northum, we know what the Constitution requires. Can you please move on to why we should disagree with all the courts before us? We are, after all, supposed to defer to their judgments,” Judge Friedman said pointedly, leaning forward an inch while keeping her small shoulders perpendicular to her neck. This impeccable posture, coupled with the fact that she’d nailed the lawyer’s name on her first try, removed any semblance of insanity. Even her bun was at rest, lending her a regal air. Who was this woman and what had she done with Helga Friedman?