Chambermaid

  “What the hell is going on, Sheila?!” Matthew asked, confused.

  “We’ll talk about it in a second, just let me get us out of here,” I answered, starting the car. Just as we were pulling away, Sanjay came running out of the house, turkey leg still in hand, motioning me to stop. Ludmila was hot on his tracks.

  I flicked them the bird, which seemed appropriate considering Sanjay’s newfound love for the animal, and sped off.

  Matthew and I were sitting at the kitchen table, sharing a forty-ounce Colt 45 that had been hidden behind mountains of Tupperware in my parents’ refrigerator.

  “Sheila, I’m so so sorry this happened,” Matthew said for the hundredth time, rubbing my back, “discovering that your boyfriend has been cheating on you isn’t exactly what you needed right now.”

  “And that he’s a secret meat eater,” I sniveled, “let’s not forget that.”

  “Yes, and that he’s a secret meat eater,” Matthew repeated after me. “Why would he be hiding that, by the way?”

  “Because his parents are devoutly religious and he is one of two lame sons who listen to everything their mother tells them. Which is why he was with me, I suppose. His mom had always wanted him to marry an Indian woman, and when we started dating it was like a dream come true. Indian and the daughter of her best friend.”

  “Right. Right. I know this might not be the most appropriate question right now . . . but why did you like Sanjay in the first place?” Matthew grabbed the forty, taking a long sip.

  “He used to be different. When we first started dating, he was unlike all the guys at Columbia. Sure of himself, but not arrogant. He’d come up to New York most weekends and we’d have a great time—eating out, taking walks, whatever. And I have to admit, being with him felt comfortable and safe. I didn’t have to explain myself, my family, where I came from.” I took a deep breath. “Then something changed, I guess about a year in. Maybe that’s when he met Ludmila . . . excuse me, I mean Gayle. In fact, that’s right around the time we stopped having sex.”

  Matthew chugged from the bottle, his face turning bright red.

  “I’m sorry, Matthew—you didn’t need to hear that, I guess.”

  “No, no, it’s not that. It’s . . . it’s just that Heidi and I are having—or I should say, have been having similar issues for a while. I guess since the start of this clerkship.” I motioned him to continue. “I mean, I know I’m partly to blame. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly the most social guy in the world. I guess being with Heidi twenty-four-seven in law school was my easy out. I didn’t have to make other friends. I just hung out with her and her friends. Which meant spending lots of time at the New Haven mall,” he paused. “I hate malls. I guess I didn’t realize how much I hated them until I got to Philadelphia and didn’t have to mall walk anymore.” He gazed out the window embarrassed, as if he’d just admitted to a murder.

  “It’s OK not to like malls,” I said, placing my hand over Matthew’s, “so long as you like Heidi. That’s the important thing.”

  “Well, that’s just it.” He looked at me directly. “I’m not even sure about that anymore. She’s not exactly supportive of me, especially now when I actually need her.”

  “If nothing else,” I noted, “working for the Honorable Helga Friedman certainly does force one to reevaluate one’s life.”

  Just then the front door opened and my parents walked in, quickly darting up the stairs. Puja and Charlie were right behind them.

  “Can’t you ever just shut up and be a gracious guest?!” Puja screamed. “I cannot even look at you right now.” Charlie, without a bedroom, took refuge in the hallway bathroom.

  “What happened?” Matthew and I sang in unison.

  Puja grabbed a chair and our forty. “We had to leave because Charlie picked a fight with Uncle Bharat—”

  “But how can you fight with Uncle Bharat? He doesn’t speak!” I interrupted.

  “Turns out, when you say—and I quote—’You don’t have a nuanced vision of the Kashmiri plight, that’s what wrong with all you Indians’—Uncle Bharat does, in fact, speak. He spoke loudly—’You are not welcome in my home. Please leave.’ The problem was you guys had taken the car, so we, along with Mom and Dad had to wait outside until Uncle Vikram emerged a half hour later and offered to drunk drive us home.” She finished off the Colt 45. “What happened with Sanjay, by the way? As soon as you left, he and that freaky freckled chick made a grand exit.”

  I sighed. “Well, he’s been sleeping with freaky freckles and he eats meat.”

  “Sanjay eats meat?” Puja asked, astonished.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Judge Adams’s majority opinion in the Dell Nelson case arrived with the pomp and circumstance previously reserved for the Second Coming of Christ. Instead of e-mailing it to Judge Friedman, as was customary, Betsy graced our chambers with a personal delivery.

  The judge’s secret service detail—Roy and Janet—forgot one minor detail, namely not letting strangers into the judge’s office unannounced. Betsy strolled into the secretaries’ den, peered into the torture chamber, and casually walked inside.

  “Ahh, who—who are you?” the judge barked at her intruder.

  Betsy smiled sweetly, presenting her gift with two hands. “Judge Friedman, I’m Betsy Noland, one of Judge Adams’s clerks,”—the judge suddenly sat up straight and turned her frown upside down—“and here’s our opinion in Nelson. I thought I’d bring it to you personally.”

  “Why thank you, thank you, young lady,” the judge said and stood to accept the gift. “How are you? Come, come, meet my law clerks.” The judge took Betsy’s hand and towed her into the clerks’ cave.

  “Hey, Sheila”—Betsy fake smiled—“and hello, Matthew.” The judge and Betsy stood side by side, holding hands.

  “Oh, so you people all know each other?” The judge asked, feigning surprise. Kate and Evan were spared the spurious pleasantries. Failing the bar exam had its benefits—the judge pretended that Evan no longer existed and it wasn’t clear Kate had ever existed to her.

  “Oh yes, yes, we do,” Betsy chirped. “Nice to see you both. And in your natural habitat.” She glanced around our dingy chambers. “Well then, I must be getting back to our soon to be new justice’s office. It’s been a madhouse since the nomination.” She winked at the judge. “We’ve just been bombarded by the media.” Betsy pulled away, trying to liberate her hand. The judge secured her grip. “OK, then, I really must be going,” Betsy said, yanking again and sending a ripple through the judge’s bun.

  Betsy used her left hand to peel the judge’s fingers off of her right hand. “Bye!” Her fake smile evaporated as she jogged away.

  “I rilly don’t like that one,” the judge announced, strangling Adams’s opinion. “Roy! Roy!”

  “Yes, Judge.” Roy reported to duty, all but genuflecting at the judge’s altar.

  “Make two copies of this. Two copies, do you understand?” the judge howled. “Give one copy each to Matthew and Sheila and bring me the original.” Roy squinted, confusion clouding his vision, as he reached apprehensively for the opinion.

  Then she turned to us. “Read the majority opinion. You’ve had weeks to anticipate what it says, so I expect a draft of that dissent in a couple of days. We rilly need to get these opinions on the books so that Nelson can appeal for an en banc hearing immediately. Oh-kay, people?”

  “OK, that shouldn’t be a problem,” I replied with such confidence, the judge returned to her office appeased.

  The four days I’d spent at home over Thanksgiving had provided spa-like rejuvenation. Aside from the Sanjay debacle, the weekend in Reston had been divine. Puja shipped Charlie back to New York, enabling the rest of us to enjoy the weekend. We visited all the Raj family hot spots, namely the grocery store, the couch, and Tysons Corner Mall (Matthew respectfully declined this particular activity, opting to watch football instead).

  All in all, I’d returned to Philadelphia refreshed. So
much so that I’d even returned one of Sanjay’s calls. I remained on the line long enough to hear how he hadn’t meant to hurt me (then he shouldn’t have been banging Ludmila), how he’d never intended to fall for Gayle (her name wasn’t Gayle), how he’d felt so much pressure from his parents to marry an Indian (how novel) and wanted to be friends (not a chance).

  While Sanjay’s betrayal had left a sting, it’d become clear to me that we should have broken up months earlier. And in any case, who had time for relationships when dissents had to be produced ASAP?!

  Matthew and I hunkered down with Adams’s majority opinion, which focused solely on a court of appeals’ deference to the courts below, burying the Drexel case in a footnote. This meant Adams had simply cited it in passing, without attempting to differentiate it from our case. We planned to use Drexel, the ninth circuit decision with a fact pattern similar to the Nelson case, as our ticket to an en banc hearing. By ignoring Drexel, Adams made it that much easier for us. Maybe Adams really wasn’t an adequate pick for the Supreme Court.

  “So my thought is that we highlight the fact that Adams has brushed over Drexel,” I whispered to Matthew, joining him at the table between our cubicles.

  “And simply drive home that if we decide not to give Nelson a resentencing,” Matthew added, “we’ll create a circuit split—plain and simple.”

  “Exactly,” I said, smiling. “It doesn’t have to be long. I think in this instance, the shorter the better.”

  “Yeah, agreed—but even if Drexel didn’t exist, you do realize that appeals courts can hear cases en banc in cases of exceptional importance. This, to me, seems like one of those cases. You know, Sheila, I just can’t understand how someone would actually vote to not give this guy another hearing. Most of the time, I can see both sides of the issue. And honestly, I was sort of on the fence before about the death penalty. But this case has sent me far in the direction of thinking we have to get rid of it altogether. If the government can’t administer death fairly, it has no business administering it at all,” Matthew pronounced, impassioned.

  “The best part is that some of the most vocal advocates of the death penalty are the very same people who are pro-life. Seems contradictory, no?”

  “Heidi’s got a terrific argument about how to reconcile the two.” Matthew blushed. “If and when you two ever meet, you should ask her about it.” Matthew’s grievances about Heidi had been steadily growing in shape and size. Having never met the woman, I felt uncomfortable aiding and abetting the slander. And besides, why was he still dating her?

  “I try not to lead with abortion when meeting people for the first time.” I stood to return to my cubicle. “I vote we divide and conquer. I’ll put together an outline of our dissent and then we can just split it up, OK?”

  “Sounds good, Sheila,” Matthew said, punching my shoulder playfully. “And you were right, you know—this whole working together thing hasn’t been so bad.”

  Roy was standing directly in front of my cubicle, wearing a red and green knit sweater, watering what looked like potted weeds.

  “Good morning, Roy.”

  “Hey, Sheila, I got you a Christmas present”—he lifted the pot—“it’s a weeping fig. You like it?”

  “I love it, Roy,” I said, genuinely touched by his gesture. “Thanks so much. That was really thoughtful.”

  “Yeah, I love Christmas. You know, I’m the presider of this year’s great medieval Christmas feast,” he announced, leaning forward, petting the crocheted reindeer on his chest. How was it that the cold didn’t kill Roy’s breath? Instead, with each drop in degree, the smell ratcheted up one level. Any colder and Roy’s mouth would be Mace. No wonder the fig was weeping.

  “Hey, Roy,” Matthew announced, “hey, Sheila.”

  “Hey, dude. I got you something, too.” Roy stumbled to Matthew’s cubicle, water spilling from his jug. He shoved a hand into his pocket—no easy feat considering that his pants were at least two sizes too small—and produced a small round object.

  “Thanks, um, Roy,” Matthew said, inspecting his Christmas gift. “It’s really, ah, nice.”

  Roy giggled. “It’s one of the napkin holders we used at last year’s totally awesome Christmas feast and it’s—”

  DING! Thirteenth floor, going down.

  The speed with which Roy tripped his way out of the clerks’ cave was totally awesome.

  Lately, the judge had been coming in earlier and earlier and leaving later and later. Judging from her afternoon calls, Bob’s health had not been improving.

  “What are you looking at, Roy?!” she barked before taking position at her desk. “Sheila! Sheila! Get in here now.”

  “Yes, Judge?” I stood before her in the torture chamber.

  “Haven’t I told you I hate seeing you people wear those thick coats inside? It makes me hot just looking at you!” She had. In fact, every day she ordered me to remove my coat, but it was colder inside than out.

  “Yes, Judge. But I’m cold,” I explained for the hundredth time.

  “That’s just ridiculous. It’s not cold in here. Take it off.” Technically, she was right. The torture chamber was the capital of the Bahamas, whereas the rest of chambers was a suburb of Antarctica. Like everything else, judicial jingoism controlled the thermostat.

  As I’d done for weeks on end, I followed her command. Something about me in my cubicle practically naked with chattering teeth had a soothing effect on the judge. Sufficiently pacified, she wouldn’t notice that I’d almost immediately put my coat back on, until the next day, at which time we’d rinse and repeat the cycle.

  “Where’s that dissent?” she asked, just as I’d removed my jacket and turned to leave the torture chamber.

  “We, um, we have it but—”

  “But nothing,” she said and jumped up. “I’m going to your playroom to get it myself. I’m rilly tired of having to beg you people to do anything.” Matthew and I had been working on the dissent around the clock for the past week. The judge had been otherwise engaged, yelling at most of Philadelphia’s doctors about their ineptitude and negligence. It was this respite that had enabled us to write a solid first draft, one that we nonetheless were nervous about showing to her. After all, neither of us had written a legal opinion before.

  Matthew was seated at the table between our cubicles, poring over the dissent, something he’d been doing incessantly since we completed the draft.

  “I’ll take that,” the judge said, snatching it from Matthew’s hand, leaving him a considerable paper cut. His jaw tightened. “I’m going to read this. In the meantime, I suggest you people start focusing on that little Adams project I assigned to you,” she ordered.

  Halfway back to her office, she delivered a classic look behind yell: “I don’t know how you people work—it’s cold in here!”

  Matthew raced to the bathroom to reattach his finger to his hand, while I cautiously bundled myself up.

  “Um. Sheila. Can we, um, talk for a minute?” Kate tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Sure,” I said, swiveling around.

  “Listen, um, I’ve got some news. I’m, um, pregnant.” Kate once told me she never wanted kids. She was almost forty, childless, and had been married for fifteen years. And then it all made sense—she actually got herself knocked up to prematurely escape the clerkship. Kate won “would you rather” and I didn’t even know she had been playing.

  “Uh. That’s incredible. Great. Congratulations!” I gave her an awkward hug.

  “The judge, um, knows,” Kate continued. “She told me that she didn’t approve of her clerks getting married or pregnant but said that she wasn’t going to do anything about it.” Kate said this as if she believed the judge could, but had decided not to, take action against her pregnancy. “I’m, um, going to tell Evan and Matthew, but can we all just not talk about it? I, um, don’t want to make it, um, any more obvious than it is.”

  Teenagers had been trying to hide pregnancies for centuries. I wasn’t sure how K
ate was going to succeed where legions had failed.

  If nothing else, it was an unusual Christmas morning. Never before had I spent the holiday alone and without a tree. Well, that wasn’t true—I’d taken the weeping fig home the night before and placed the tiny wrapped box Matthew had given me underneath it. It was a charity gift, I presumed, considering he at least got to spend the day with Heidi at her parents’ house in Trenton. Heidi seemed like the kind of girl who’d dress up as one of Santa’s elves and spend the day sprinkling sugar cookies. I’d stopped trying to wrap my mind around how someone like Matthew could be with someone like Heidi—given that I’d dated a closeted meat eater for over two years.

  After exchanging holiday greetings with my family, I opened the gift from Matthew. Inside were Roy’s napkin ring and a note: “I figured it was big enough to squeeze your head through should the holiday take a detour south. Have a Merry Medieval Christmas, Sheila!” I laughed my way to the freezer, put a frozen pepperoni pizza in the microwave, and counted my blessing—a full day with nothing to do but stuff my face, watch romantic comedies, and read trashy magazines.

  Just as I popped Dave into my VCR, a trauma of gargantuan proportions occurred: The crushed red pepper canister was empty. The convenience store up the street claimed it’d be open on Christmas Day, so I bundled up and made a break for it. I took advantage of the deserted streets to openly peer into a window on the corner. A young couple in flannel pajamas was opening gifts—voyeurism never went out of style. As I passed an alley on 12th Street, I noticed my favorite prostitute/drug dealer with bad skin hovering in the shadows. His guest looked up at the sound of my footsteps and made eye contact. Oh God—it was Evan! Shoving Roy’s napkin holder around my neck didn’t sound so bad.

  Evan appeared to be hatching an exit plan as he walked over to me, eyes bloodshot. “Sheila? Um, hey. Ah. Merry Christmas?” It was one of the few times that a statement actually deserved a question mark.