Chambermaid

  Blood rushed to Evan’s puny head: “The Su-su-su-preeeeeme Court?!”

  “Sheila, I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone, which is why I haven’t said anything to you,” Kevin apologized.

  Before I could respond, Betsy cut in, ignoring Evan, who appeared to be choking.

  “This has to be on the DL,” she said, her eyes bulging. “So, our secretary told us last week that the Bushies are getting paranoid, quite paranoid indeed, that this Hernandez character is getting Borked. It’s clear that the Democrats are going to continue filibustering him. Which they should. He’s a conservative motherfucker.” Betsy paused long enough on the fucker part to cause Evan to turn a deep shade of purple. “But now that some moderate Republicans are on board, Pennsylvania Avenue is really freaking out. So Specter, as in Senator Specter—you know, head of the Judiciary Committee, a good friend of the Adamses’—calls last Tuesday. Seems that Specter got a call from GW himself asking about Judge Adams. El presidente is getting heat from his advisers to nominate someone else. Someone less controversial. Someone who doesn’t fantasize about lynching abortion clinic workers. Someone who’d still kill a category. Someone still Republican. Voilà! Linda Adams. Female. Blue-collar background. She wins on gender and class. Only problem is she’s not Hispanic. But what the fuck—you can’t have it all.”

  Everyone fixated on Betsy, who clearly loved the spotlight. It occurred to me that being a clerk may be fabulous after all. We were privy to the news before it was news.

  “Specter has given her his personal stamp of approval. It could be as early as next month. Now she’s just waiting to get Shepard’s support. He’s a little wishy-washy because of her stance on abortion, but I think he’ll come around.” The end. She was done.

  So were we.

  Armageddon would follow shortly after Judge Friedman got a load of this. No doubt, this news would have profound ramifications for us. Kate didn’t get it.

  “I think that’s just so, um, wonderful. Sending someone, um, to the Supreme Court from here would be great. I don’t know the last time a justice came from the third. They always pick them, um, from the DC circuit or, um, the ninth. Not to mention the fact that I think it’s great they’ll fill the vacant seat with another woman,” Kate cooed. She looked like one of those naive horror-flick victims moments before they’re bludgeoned to death.

  “Oh good God! We’re finished!” I yelped. “Listen, you guys. I don’t mean to sound jealous, because I assure you, I’m not. The last thing I’d want is for Judge Friedman to get picked for anything, especially the Supreme Court. It’s just that . . . It’s just that . . .” The proper words escaped me. They found Matthew.

  “It’s just that she hates Judge Adams more than she hates us. More than she hates Janet, her secretary. More than she hates herself, even. This is going to destroy her. As a result, this is going to destroy us.” We had the captive audience now.

  Betsy couldn’t restrain herself. “Really? Your judge hates our judge? That’s fucking awesome! Soooo high school!” she exclaimed giddily.

  “It is pretty funny, you have to admit,” Walt chimed in. They weren’t getting it. Nobody got it, least of all Evan, who, rather than being scared, was jealous.

  “I mean, what are the chances that Adams will even get picked off a short list?” Evan asked, short of breath. “I also heard that Beckmeyer from the fourth and Mendes from the first were on the short list. Then there’s her abortion stance—which I wholly respect, for the record. That’s going to give her trouble in Congress. And I think Shepard is going to be a huge problem.”

  “Well, I think it’s wonderful, no matter what you all say,” Kate stated clearly, head held up high. The check arrived, we paid, and I managed to slip in one final question for Betsy.

  “So, do other judges know?”

  “Only Fleck. He called Adams shortly after Specter did. I guess Specter had called him, being the chief judge and all. And he and Adams are super tight. He’s fuckin’ thrilled. This would be really good for the circuit, actually. Not to mention for us. People will think we clerked for a fucking Supreme Court justice!” For some reason, when Betsy used the word fuck or a derivative thereof, it was cute rather than crass. Impressive, considering she used it with the kind of frequency most people reserved for prepositions.

  “Great, your happiness is our hell,” I replied. The four of us then headed back to the chambers, carting a mix of pride, misery, and jealousy.

  We opened the main door to Metallica.

  “MATTTTTTTHEWWWWW!!!! SHEEEERRRRAAAA!!”

  Good God! Was she dying? Matthew and I sped off.

  “Yes, Judge!” I screamed back at her, for the first time. We looked left and right. No judge.

  “MAAATTTTHHHHHEW!!!!!! SHEEEEIIIIILLLLLA!!!!”

  We followed the screams and came upon the judge, standing inside her elevator, eyes hungry like a wolf’s, robe being pulled east and west, arms prying doors open with mouth poised to scream again. Was that mayonnaise crusted on top of her smeared bright red lipstick? Was she stuck? I was at once worried and hopeful.

  “Have you seen Judge Stevens’s law clerks?” she asked, suddenly calm. We shook our heads. She pursed her lips, slid her arms inside the elevator, and off she went. DING! Thirteenth floor, going down. Matthew and I stood staring at each other. Kate and Evan peered around the corner, ensuring that the coast was clear.

  “What the fuck was that?” Matthew raised his arms in the air. Betsy’s use of the F-bomb was contagious.

  “Well, from what I could tell she just wanted to know where law clerks, who aren’t even her law clerks, were.” I thought I had answered Matthew’s question.

  “No, I meant what was that on her mouth? Was that chicken salad?”

  “Why didn’t she call for me?” Evan whined and flapped his arms, exasperated. Contrary to what teachers tell you, some questions were stupid and didn’t warrant responses. I returned to my cubicle, which proved strangely comforting amid the pandemonium.

  After a few moments of staring at Camden, I turned to my computer. There was a message from James, who’d recently started playing with fire by e-mailing me from the intracourt system:

  “Hey. Today was the first day of your sitting, right? I’m sure it’s heinous but take pleasure in knowing that the judge just got a new engine for his scooter, came tearing around the corner about five minutes ago, honking his horn and waving madly. Then he turned to me. Came to a screeching halt and started screaming, ‘Let’s move those motions. Put a little potion in that motion.’ Then he honked again and sped off. And to think that this guy gets laid more than I do.”

  As of late, I’d ignored the no e-mail policy and was about to write James when Kate approached my cubicle. “Hey, Sheila, um, I hate to bother you, but do you know what I’m supposed to do?” We weren’t hearing additional cases until the next morning, so I assumed she was supposed to work on a November case.

  “I guess Roy and Janet didn’t give you anything this morning?” She shook her head. Now that I’d gotten Janet’s number, she seemed somewhat less intimidating. I grabbed Kate’s arm and dragged her into the secretaries’ den.

  “Janet, hey, Kate doesn’t have anything to work on. Did the judge leave anything for her?” I inquired, unafraid. Instead of barking, she actually spoke.

  “No. And for your information, she’s gone to deal with Bob and may be gone for the rest of the afternoon.” Janet was now offering up jewels of information.

  “Thanks, Janet.” We headed back to the clerks’ cave. “I guess you can just hang out. By the way, I’m sorry today’s been so weird. No way to spend your first day. I feel like we didn’t get off to the best start.”

  She smiled and the two of us sat at the table in the middle of the room. A few feet away, Matthew couldn’t have been less interested in joining us. The chicken salad thing had really done a number on him. He sat, vacantly staring and hitting the refresh button on the Boise State football page as if there’d be breaking news.
I wondered if his foul mood was a result of the judge or Heidi.

  “So, you were—or are—a staff attorney?” I asked. The inquisition began.

  “Yep. Um, I’ve been here for about two years. Before that I, um, did litigation at Williams and before that I clerked on the New Jersey, um, Supreme Court.” I did the math. Kate could tell.

  “In case you’re wondering, I’m, um, probably ten years older than you guys.” She didn’t look it at all but I was glad she’d offered up the information. The only thing sadder than a nearly thirty-year-old law clerk with a bladder control problem was a nearly forty-year-old law clerk with a speech impediment.

  “And you live where again?” Lacking any creativity at that point, I opted for the safe geographical question.

  “My husband, Tom, and our dog, Linus, and I, um, live out in Wayne.” I nodded, feigning I knew (or cared) where Wayne was. To me, suburbs were suburbs and I couldn’t be bothered with distinctions, especially because the chance of my ever going to any Philadelphia suburb was about as great as the judge returning from her time with Bob as Carol Brady.

  “What about you? You, um, live around here, right?” Kate softly asked.

  “Yeah, I live on 12th between Spruce and Pine. I like it,” I replied.

  She nodded. I sensed we didn’t have much else to say to each other, so instead of returning to my cubicle, I did the usual. Panic manic talk. “It’s fine, I mean. Apparently, there are lots of drugs there. And also hookers. But it’s nice. I mean—it’s totally fine. I mean, I like it. It’s fine. That’s what I’m trying to say.” Kate looked spooked. So did Matthew, who’d been awakened from his coma by my monologue.

  “Is everything OK?” He asked, swiveling around.

  “I don’t know. This place turns me into a total freak,” I answered before returning to my desk. Kate returned to her corner in the back and Matthew to his Idaho sports page.

  It was nearly six and the judge still hadn’t come back. Another half hour and I was free to drop off my mobile home and dart over to Banana Republic to buy a more appropriate suit for the next day.

  I wondered if the panel had come to a decision on Dell Nelson. I’d caught a glimpse of Dell in court earlier that day. He had been sitting between two guards behind the podium, so I only saw him for a split second when he stood to leave the courtroom. He was not at all as I’d expected. Actually, I wasn’t sure what I’d expected, but whatever it was, it wasn’t that slight, smooth-skinned man with probing eyes. He didn’t seem angry, just a bit confused, which was probably how I’d feel if I’d spent my adult life on death row, fighting a sleeping lawyer. It was strange to think, however, that he was fighting not to be free of prison, but rather to remain there for decades. Talk about a will to live.

  As I stood to have a heart-to-heart with myself in the bathroom, the phone rang. It had to be the judge. Nobody else ever called. Janet had gone home and Matthew was in a stupor, so I answered.

  “Good afternoon, Judge Fried—”

  “JAAAANNNNEEETTTT??!!!”

  “Um, Judge, Janet’s left for the day. It’s—”

  “Damn it! Nobody works around there. Who is this?”

  “Ah, it’s She—”

  “Oh! SHEEEILLLLLAAAAA!”

  I was beginning to hate my name.

  “I’m in a HOLE! I’m in a HOLE!”

  Huh? I put my hand over the phone and beckoned Matthew to help.

  “I AM IN A HOLE. DID YOU HEAR ME???!!!!” For the billionth time in less than ten hours, we exchanged looks of pure puzzlement.

  “Judge, I’m sorry. I just don’t understand what you’re saying,” I admitted.

  “ARE YOU DEAF? I was driving, now I’m in a hole on Market Street.” The woman thought “How are you?” was an irrational question but thought the words “I’m in a hole on Market Street” were self-explanatory. Sensing a meltdown on my part, Matthew generously grabbed the phone.

  “Judge, hello, it’s Matthew.”

  “Thank God, someone who can do something.”

  “What do you need, Judge?”

  “Call the marshal. I’m in a hole on Market and Seventh, right outside the building. I was driving and my car is in a hole. I need to be towed out.”

  “OK, we’ll be there in a minute.” And with that, he hung up. “She’s apparently under the ground somewhere in her car. Let’s just get our things and go see what she’s talking about.”

  By the time we got outside, it was like a scene from Law and Order. Camera crews everywhere. Police had the place surrounded, securing the site and directing people away from a massive hole in the street. Matthew grabbed one of them who had tried to shoo us away initially.

  “Excuse me, sir. Our boss is down there. She just called us.” The cop looked at once confused and relieved. “Oh good, so you know whoever’s down there is OK?”

  “As of about ninety seconds ago, she was fine. She just wants to get out,” Matthew explained.

  “DAMN IT, I’M IN A HOLE!” The judge had managed to roll down her window from twenty feet under.

  “That seems clear. Wow, she’s got a voice on her,” the cop noted, wincing.

  “You have no idea,” Matthew said, chuckling.

  “She’s also going to be arrested, your boss.” The thought of the judge in handcuffs, while alluring, was absurd. “Seems that your boss didn’t feel like obeying the road sign.” He pointed to a quadrangular orange sign that read, DANGER: MEN AT WORK. “This manhole was surrounded by orange cones and your boss just plowed through and I guess her car went in. At least that’s what a couple of witnesses said.” He shook his head slowly from side to side, just like the cops did on TV. “If she’s OK, then I’m sure her car is totally wrecked. And she’s damn lucky all the construction workers had headed home about twenty minutes earlier. If anyone had been hurt, she’d be looking at a misdemeanor at least. Felony maybe.”

  The reality was sinking in much like the judge’s car. Judge Friedman was in a hole on Market Street. The lady hadn’t lied.

  “I don’t know what possessed me to return to this.” Matthew shook his head.

  “Well I, for one, am thrilled you did. Can you please promise not to ditch again?” I begged.

  Matthew smiled: “Deal, Sheera.”

  It took a little more than an hour for a tow truck to come and yank the judge’s red BMW out of the gaping hole. The car was unscathed, without a single scratch. The cops and remaining bystanders looked amazed. I wasn’t. I knew she’d get out of it. It’d take a hell of a lot more than a twenty-foot manhole to hurt her or anything she owned. What was incredible was that the judge appeared to be furious—much like she did after awakening from her nap on the bench that morning. She surfaced from the hole, thrusting her minifist in the air like Louis Farrakhan. Matthew and I walked over to the driver’s side to help her out.

  “NO! NO! NO!” She swatted us like flies, practically falling out of her car in the process. She was still wearing her robe and the chicken salad—making the whole scenario unquestionably the weirdest one I’d witnessed to date.

  “Are you OK, Judge?” I asked.

  “Where are they? Where is the moron who did this?” she demanded angrily. I considered shoving a mirror in her disheveled face. Three cops slowly walked over. They had reason to be apprehensive. Rabies wasn’t out of the question.

  “Ma’am, we’re going to have to talk to you.” One reached for her shoulder.

  “You will not talk to me. I want to know who’s responsible. I AM A FEDERAL JUDGE!” she yelled, yanking her arm away. These guys couldn’t have cared if she were Playboy’s Playmate of the Year. They’d just spent the past two hours redirecting traffic from Market, the main artery of Philly, during rush hour. I smiled on the inside while maintaining a stern poker face. She was aghast.

  “Maybe you didn’t hear me. I AM A FED-ER-AL JUDGE.” The tallest and youngest-looking one stepped forward. He had a crew cut and was rather handsome in a cheesy sort of way. He was pissed. And tired.<
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  “Ma’am, you drove into a hole that was clearly marked off-limits. I don’t care who you are.” He reached rather roughly for her arm. She jerked it away again. I was thrilled at the prospect of watching her take on—and take out—the young, buff cop.

  “Helga? Helga?” It was Judge Fleck and he was crossing the street.

  “Richard—THANK GOD!” She hugged him and shot the rookie an evil eye. Now the poor guy had two old people with massive egos to deal with. Judge Fleck leaned over and grabbed the cop’s hand.

  “Hello, son. What’s going on?”

  The cop pointed to Friedman.

  “This woman. The federal judge decided to plow through various traffic signs and landed inside that manhole. We’re all lucky nobody was down there. My brother was working in there and left just a half hour earlier. She’s lucky she didn’t hurt him.” He was seething now.

  “Well, I don’t have TIME for traffic signs. I am rilly busy. Maybe you’d understand if you knew anything about JUDGES. Or knew anything about ANYTHING important.” Judge Fleck took her aside, right next to me.

  “Helga, you are going to be thrown in jail. Just be agreeable and I’ll get you out of this. Now PLEASE just keep your mouth shut.” Tall order for the short lady. He went back to the cop. She played coy and started smiling, strangely resembling my friend Anna’s drunk nana from Duluth.

  “Sir,” Fleck had upgraded the cop from son to sir, “my friend Helga was in a hurry to get home to her husband. Her husband is really sick.” Young police officer glanced at drunk nana and looked sick with disgust. I couldn’t blame him. She had that effect on me, too. Fleck was undeterred. As chief judge of the third circuit, it would be mortifying for him if Friedman had to serve time. “She was in a hurry to get home and get back to him. Please let this go. She’s an old woman with a sick husband.” Drunk nana sobered right up.

  “Tell him I’m a JUDGE,” she ordered, nudging Judge Fleck. He ignored her. Lucky for the judge, the cop just wanted her to go away. He looked at Judge Friedman much in the way the security guard had looked at me that morning, before turning to Judge Fleck.