Chambermaid

  “Sheila. Get. Her. Out. Of. Here. NOW! We will talk about this later!”

  I was so close to peeing my pants I couldn’t even muster up the usual “Yes, Judge” and just nodded instead.

  Mini Benedict had other plans. The moment she saw me, Terry ran and hid under the judge’s desk. She wouldn’t budge. It dawned on me that I must have been a serial killer in my previous life. Posthumous punishment was the only explanation.

  “Terry. Please come out. Please, honey.” I wobbled to the front of the judge’s desk, got on my knees, and shoved my face underneath. Ugh! She had one of the judge’s tennis shoes in her hands and was playing with the orthotic insert. I had to have been worse than Ted Bundy. The judge was standing right above me, breathing like a bull. Bull was about to kick victim if Terry didn’t come out.

  “What is wrong with her?!” The judge screamed, rage accumulating as evidenced by her break-dancing bun. She caught a glimpse of what the minityrant was doing. “My sneaks! My sneaks!”

  Bun moonwalked.

  Desperate times called for desperate measures. One. Two. Three. I shot up, maneuvered to the front of the desk, grabbed the delinquent, yanked the orthotic free of her sticky grasp, and pulled her out. In addition to being a huge brat, Terry was the biggest ingrate of all time. I’d just saved her from a fate worse than death and all she could do was scream, all the way out the door, which I shut behind us.

  Terry was getting shipped to sender. “Janet, Roy—I’m going up to Judge Adams’s chambers to return Terry. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” I headed up to the twenty-first floor. The moment we left our chambers, Terry stopped screaming.

  On the elevator, she turned to me puffy-eyed: “That lady is really mean.” I suddenly loved Terry but not enough to keep her. The two of us crashed what must have been the most raging party ever to have taken place at the courthouse—a joyful mess of pizza, soda, candy, and children. Terry took off to join the fun. To the left sat Kevin and Walt, reading to a few little ones. To my right were Judge Adams, another judge I couldn’t quite place, and Betsy engrossed in conversation. Betsy spotted me and quickly walked over.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked impatiently.

  “I came to return my tutee,” I replied, embarrassed. “She’s kind of a nightmare.” Somehow it didn’t sound as good an idea now as it did moments earlier.

  Betsy didn’t bother to conceal her disgust. “She’s a child. And we’ll happily take her. See you,” she said, leading me to the door.

  When I returned to my cubicle, the judge’s door was still closed. Matthew was sitting at the table between our cubicles reading to Eric, who apparently hadn’t opened his mouth. Matthew got up and walked over. Eric simply sat, hands folded in his lap, staring straight ahead. They even sent the craziest kids to our chambers: the class mute and the class maniac.

  “What happened?”

  “Matthew, I think I may quit. For real. I can’t do this. And there’s no reason to do it.” He grabbed me and yanked me to the back, where Evan was engrossed in yet another case. Kate was staring out the window. They didn’t notice we were there.

  “Sheila. You cannot quit. You think the ACLU would ever hire you if you didn’t finish this thing? Never. Don’t let one woman ruin your career before it’s even started,” he argued.

  Matthew was right. Though unlikely, it was feasible for a law firm to take in a clerkship quitter. But there was no way in hell the ACLU would do it. The ACLU, after all, fought uphill legal battles on a daily basis. The people there wouldn’t have much use for someone who couldn’t endure one unsavory year with a sociopathic, homicidal, bipolar jurist.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” I admitted. “I think I’m just super stressed about the bar. Listen—a group of us are going out tonight to drink our way to midnight. Want to come?”

  “Sure, that’d be—”

  “SHHHAYYYLA!! SHEERRAAA!”

  “Yes, Judge.” I tripped into the torture chamber.

  “That little girl is not welcome here again. Mark’s kids do not behave like that and I will not tolerate it.” Terry could’ve been one of Mark’s kids and she probably wouldn’t have known the difference.

  “Yes, Judge. I took Terry back to Justice Adams’s chambers and they’re going to deal with her.” Her bun started moving again.

  “She is not Justice Adams. She is Judge Adams.”

  Oops—I’d slipped and referred to her as the Supreme Court justice she was about to become.

  “In any event, you were saying—you went up to Judge Adams chambers?”

  “Yes, Judge.” Knees wobbly. Bladder quivery.

  “What was going on up there?” she demanded, running her teeny hands over a brand-new mechanical pencil.

  Tip—eraser—back again.

  “Um, not much. Just Judge Adams, lots of little kids, and I think one other judge. That’s about it.” My lip twitched as I attempted to smile, revealing one front tooth.

  “Which other judge?”

  Tip.

  “Um, I recognized him as a judge but don’t know his name,” I answered truthfully.

  Eraser and back to tip.

  “You are an extension of me and don’t you think it would be embarrassing if I didn’t know the names of my colleagues?” The thought of being an extension was not at all appealing—what was I? Her bun? Her long leg or the shorter one?

  “Um, yeah, I guess it would be embarrassing if—”

  “Never mind that. Where are we with Dell Nelson?” she asked pointedly, resting the mechanical pencil on her desk.

  “Well, I’m glad you asked. Um, I received a troubling call this morning . . . from Peter Nussbaum’s brother.” I waited for the information to sink in. The judge simply stared. “You know, Peter was the Penn student who was murdered and—”

  “What?? What? Why are you telling me this now? This is the kind of information I need immediately.”

  “Well, Judge, you weren’t here this morning and—”

  “No! No! No!” She retrieved the pencil and tapped it furiously against a book. Only Helga Friedman could make a pencil ominous. I looked down, waiting for the storm to pass.

  “Well? What did you say to him?” she asked after what felt like several days.

  I looked up sheepishly. “He said that Dell Nelson was a heathen and I told him I couldn’t talk to him—that it was against the rules. And then I hung up. Whole thing lasted less than twenty seconds,” I explained, bracing for another wrist slap.

  “Good, that’s good, Sheila. That’s exactly what you should have done,” she said, sitting up straight. I’d done something right? Good even? “But how on earth did he know to call you? I know I didn’t exactly hide my feelings on the case during arguments, but our decisions haven’t been made public.” She rubbed her forehead.

  “That was my thought exactly. I just don’t know—”

  “Shhh,” she sternly lifted one finger. I hadn’t been shushed since the second grade. Just as she was about to speak, her phone rang. “Hello, Doctor,” she answered, motioning me to leave.

  After several hours of wading through death penalty opinions, the judge catapulted from her office, purse in one hand, behemoth sunglasses perched precariously atop her bun: “Those stupid doctors can’t do anything!”

  Before Matthew and I could respond, she’d planted herself smack in the middle of the clerks’ cave, speaking to nobody and everybody all at once. “I want all of your bench memos immediately! We rilly have to move, people! We have A LOT to do! Evan! Karin! Do you hear me?” Evan and Kate hurried over. “You all—all of you. Michael. Michael? Sheera? Are you listening?” Everyone in the state of Pennsylvania was listening.

  “Yes, Judge.” In unison.

  “You people are the slowest clerks I’ve ever had—EVER! We have so much to do and it’s not getting done, thanks to you people. Now I want whatever you’re working on on my desk tomorrow and you each will take new cases.” And she sped off to decapitate some poor unsuspect
ing cardiologist. DING! Thirteenth floor, going down.

  Evan started wobbling. “I . . . I . . . There’s just no way. No way I can finish my memo. I just got the briefs two days ago. What am I going to do?” Matthew didn’t say a word, grabbed his stuff, and motioned me to follow. Predictably Kate didn’t respond and walked away, leaving me holding the bag. It was hard to believe that after four months, Evan hadn’t realized that the judge forgot almost everything she said the moment she said it.

  “Evan, forget it. Why don’t you go home and get some rest. We’re going to need it for the next few weeks.” There. I’d done my duty. I grabbed my purse and jacket and followed Matthew, leaving Evan paralyzed in the dimly lit clerks’ cave.

  Chapter Twelve

  Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.

  —Benjamin Franklin

  “I can’t. Cannot believe she came here from Indianapolis! It’s beyond creepy,” James exclaimed, exasperated. Brian had ditched us for his mother, whom he’d called in an utter panic about the bar exam. She took the first flight out of Indianapolis that morning and was waiting for him at his apartment with a broccoli chicken casserole when he got home from work. Rather than being unnerved by his mother’s surprise visit, Brian exhibited something quite contrary—pride. So prideful, in fact, that he’d sent me an e-mail titled “great news.”

  Great news was the end of poverty and achieving world peace. So, too, was winning the lottery, sleeping with Brad Pitt, and a new burrito option at Taco Bell. I could think of a dozen or so adjectives to describe a twenty-eight-year-old man coaxing his mother to catch the red-eye to hold his hand while accessing exam results. Great was not one of them. Throw in the casserole and it was downright deviant.

  Nonetheless, I was grateful to our geeky Oedipus for providing us with a diversion. James took a long sip of his beer before asking the million-dollar question: “Do you guys think he and his mom are going to sleep in the same bed?”

  “Definitely,” Matthew answered with certainty.

  “I bet they’re spooning right now,” Kevin added.

  In the end, however, Brian may have been the smart one. The rest of us could have been arrested on charges of bad conversation for the ensuing hours.

  “Do you think I failed?” and “I know I failed” miraculously didn’t get old. Not for us, at least. But it did for the seventy-year-old man who’d had ten too many gin martinis sitting on the bar stool next to us: “Can’t you talk about shumthing elsh?” Whatever he was asking, the answer was no. Anyway, why was he drinking martinis at an Irish pub?

  We hopped from bar to bar, muttering the same exact words and ending up at City Tavern—“Ben Franklin drank here!” Where didn’t old Benny F tie one on? Based on the little plaques outside of every bar in Old City, the guy—and his esteemed colleagues—spent more time boozing than drafting the Constitution. The whole thing lent credence to my theory that the Constitution framers were really just a bunch of philandering drunks who realized that drafting a “constitution” was a pretty good rap that would get them laid. Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised if Independence Hall had been a brothel. It was directly across the street from the City Tavern.

  Inside was a smorgasbord of colonial fun. Butter churners. Book-binders. Darners. You name it, they were there peddling their wares. I was certain there was a secret trapdoor, to the left of butter-churning Betty and right behind darning Dick, where sadomasochistic gimps in bonnets whipped each other for some good old-fashioned eighteenth-century fun. Wrong century, but Medieval Roy would’ve enjoyed it nevertheless.

  We careened past the toothy pack of fiddling fifers on our way to the back, where a roaring fire roasted ill-fated wenches-cum-waitresses in thick hoop skirts. We turned down the $17.89 “Commemorative Constitutional Dinner,” choosing mugs of “George Washington Woodchuck Cider” and “James Madison Madeira” instead. Mine tasted like petrified skunk.

  “I mean, really, what are the chances that any of us failed,” I asked for the fiftieth time.

  “You definitely passed, Sheila. I failed,” James answered for the fiftieth time, motioning the waitress for another round. At this rate, we’d all be passed out before midnight.

  “Jesus—we all did fine,” Matthew blurted. “And I’m going outside for a little air.” He stood abruptly, nearly knocking over his chair. I followed him out just as James and Kevin resumed the pass/fail intrigue.

  “Hey, you OK?” I tapped Matthew on the back. He’d shoved his hands in his pockets and was rocking back and forth on his heels. Matthew’s mannerisms were often louder than his words.

  “Hey, sorry about that, Sheila.” When he turned, I could see anguish riddling his face. “Look—this bar exam is really freaking me out. I can’t fail. My parents would be devastated—they’ve been so proud of my having gone to Yale. Nobody in my family has ever gone to grad school. I’m the first”—he rocked—“and Heidi. God—she’d be so horrified if I failed. We studied together—and she consistently did better on those stupid practice tests.” He bowed his head in premature defeat. Hulking insecurity—both advertised and internalized—seemed to be a prerequisite to the legal profession. Most cases of the internalized sort bred bogus bravado of the Brian/Evan sort. Since Matthew had consistently exhibited self-assuredness without an ounce of arrogance, I’d assumed he was the one lucky law school student who’d escaped with healthy self-esteem.

  “Matthew—I’m sure you did fine. Stop worrying about disappointing everyone else. As for your family—you could always lie, tell them you passed and then just take the bar again, right?” Finally, the beginnings of a smile. “And really, that would be the worst part about failing—taking that exam again, not the humiliation.” I paused. “Actually, the worst part would be having to tell Judge Friedman you had to take the exam over again.”

  “Ha—I hadn’t even thought of her for some reason.” Matthew chuckled. “Something about the woman’s mayonnaise-crusted lips makes her less scary to me. Actually, I think I hate her too much to be afraid of her.” Matthew shoved his hands back into his pockets.

  “I have to say—I wish that hate and fear were mutually exclusive things in my book, but unfortunately the two seem to go hand in hand,” I explained. “And as for Heidi, she wouldn’t really be horrified as much as sad for you, right?”

  Matthew pursed his lips and resumed rocking just as the clock at Independence Hall struck 11:30. It was almost midnight and we were about to turn into pumpkins.

  I left Matthew to his nervous bouncing and went to retrieve James and Kevin, who were carousing with women who were twice their age and out on a self-proclaimed “girls’ night out.” I grabbed James from the clutches of a lady whose tight red and green twinset gave the illusion of holiday leftovers in Saran Wrap. Kevin reached for me like a life jacket. A woman with expired highlights had been gabbing to him about her son, who seemed “just like” him . . . “funny—like, you know.” God bless her—she loved her boy “even still.” Girls’ night out seemed to inspire open-minded declarations from suburban moms right around the third cosmopolitan.

  Outside, our chariot awaited us. Matthew was sitting in the back of a horse-drawn carriage with a young man in dungarees leading the way. He’d finagled a bargain rate for a ride back to James’s place. Let’s just say it wasn’t a joy ride—drunk, packed, horse, awaiting bar exam results. Upon pulling up to the building, the horse defecated on our front stoop. We went inside.

  11:56. Tick. Tick. Tick. Suddenly, I envied Brian. I wanted my mom.

  11:58. Tick. Tick. Tick. Rocking.

  Felt like on an airplane. With turbulence.

  11:59. Tick. Tick. Tick.

  Clock struck midnight. We logged on: http://www.nybarexam.org. Come on come on come on. Posting bar exam results online—at midnight no less—was cruel and unusual punishment. Especially considering that some kid named Joe actually offed himself in his basement apartment in the Bronx last year at 12:01 when he didn’t find his name on the pass lis
t. But there was no time for institutional change. Our cell phones were ringing manically. I screened out Puja, Sanjay, and my mom.

  12:01 AM. The Web page still hadn’t come up. That’s what happens when eight billion type As try to get onto the same Web site all at once. Sweat. Heart palpitations. The only thing worse than a panic attack was a panic attack drunk on dead skunk, stinking of horse manure. Click here for Exam Results.

  “Who’s first?” Kevin demanded.

  “Not me.” There was no way I was going to be the first to fail.

  James stepped up to the plate. New York divided up its scores into four departments, broken down geographically. We scoured the A–F section under the first department (New York City). No James Calloway. We assured him he was in the fourth (for anyone who took the bar in NYC but was no longer there). He didn’t look remotely convinced and turned a bright orange. Sure enough—there he was. James exhaled a tornado before color returned to his face.

  Kevin went next. I’d gone completely silent and still. Kevin Peterson was quickly found under the fourth.

  My turn. Spinning. Sweating. Rocking.

  “Are you OK, Sheila?” Matthew rubbed my back. “It’ll be fine. You passed.”

  Ragazzo, Antonio. Raghavan, Sunil. Rahman, Abdul. Raoul, Julio. Sweat sweat sweat.

  A-B-C-D-E-F-G-H-I-J.

  “Oh my God! J before O. I failed. I failed! I should have been before stupid-ass Julio!” I ran into James’s bathroom and splashed cold water on my face.

  Kevin yelled after me: “Sheila. You’re probably in the first department still. Just calm down.” Easy for him to say.

  Matthew put his arm around me and my cell phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Claustrophobia set in.

  The first department—server is busy. This was a hideous dream. Point, click. Server is busy.

  Server is out to lunch. Pace, splash. Phones were ringing everywhere. Nobody was answering. Even Kevin, James, and Matthew looked worried now. Server is Dead.