Chambermaid

  “Evan. What are you doing here?”

  “I-I,” his teeth chattered. “Oh Sheila.” And he started to cry. It was the second time in as many months that I found myself cradling Evan, strange considering we barely spoke to each other.

  “Evan, listen, I live right down the street—why don’t you come home with me?” He didn’t attempt to resist.

  This was one sorry Christmas tale. Evan’s brother had been killed in a car accident six years earlier. Unable to deal with the loss, his parents divorced shortly thereafter. His father moved to Paris and Evan hadn’t heard from him since. His mother, already a diabetic, had taken to drink and was drinking herself to a quick death. She’d recently been hospitalized. (The good news was that judging from Evan’s mother’s symptoms, I certainly didn’t have diabetes).

  Studying let him get away from it all—or, studying and crystal meth did. It was at Harvard Law that he’d discovered the stuff. He and his roommates at first did it only occasionally, and suddenly he couldn’t get through Corporations and Evidence without it. He’d started working part-time at a local Boston law firm on the weekends to subsidize his habit. Once he’d even stolen some cash from the office. He hated himself for that and a million other things. Nevertheless, Evan had graduated at the top of his law school class, was an editor on the Harvard Law Review, and had landed a federal court of appeals clerkship.

  He’d promised himself that he’d lay off the drugs. Philadelphia was a new start and all was going according to plan. He’d even gone out on a few furtive dates with a cute, blond district court clerk. Other clerks seemed to like him even though everyone in his own chambers—the judge included—thought he was a jerk. Then he failed the bar.

  That night at the Vegas Lounge, the cute blond district court clerk ignored him at first and later told him that they “should just be friends.” Brian and his minions kept saying, “You shouldn’t think that you’re stupid or anything.” He hadn’t until they said it. After all, he’d never gotten below a B on anything in his life, let alone failed a test.

  The problem was, his mother had been very sick during the “bar summer” and instead of spending his afternoons studying, he’d spent them taking care of her. In the end, it didn’t matter. The doctors told him they’d be surprised if she lasted through the year. Walking home from the Vegas Lounge that night, he’d remembered the judge saying that the corner of Spruce and 12th was a place for drug activity. “You know, the time she drove us home.”

  He decided that he deserved a little meth. After all, he’d had “a most unpleasant day.” He’d immediately spotted a pack of “shady people—drug dealers for sure.” Once he started he couldn’t stop. He was relieved that the judge wouldn’t address him, as that meant no more pressure to perform. He got through the day just so he could go home and do more drugs. The other clerks had altogether ditched him. In fact, he’d spotted Brian and the cute blonde together heavily petting each other on several occasions.

  Outside, church bells rang.

  “God, Sheila, all this talking has made me hungry. Maybe you can make me something to eat?” Evan propped up his feet, making himself at home on my yellow couch.

  As if serving as a therapist and halfway house weren’t enough, now I was spending Christmas night microwaving frozen pizzas for a drug-addicted squatter who up until a few hours earlier had merely been an irritating colleague.

  Indeed, It’s a Wonderful Life.

  Chapter Fifteen

  We were still a couple of days away from the New Year, but the party had already started in Judge Friedman’s chambers.

  “It’s here! It’s here! Front page!” Unable to adequately express her excitement through traditional dance, the judge’s bun broke into a bastardized jumping jack. “Sheba! Markhew! Did you see? Did you see?” The judge flew into the clerks’ cave, waving a Philadelphia Inquirer. On the cover, above the fold, was the Dell Nelson case, with excerpts from the majority opinion as well as our dissent. With Judge Adams’s nomination hearings scheduled for February, the media was watching her every move through a microscope. A death penalty case ordinarily would never have received such press.

  “You both did a rilly rilly good job.” The judge smiled at me and Matthew. While we were thrilled with the compliment, it was still perplexing. We’d spent a day earlier in the week, going over the opinion, line by line, word by word, with the judge in the torture chamber. When she wasn’t dozing off, sitting up, clutching her mechanical pencil, she was busy criticizing every inch of the dissent, down to comma placement. I was sure she’d rewrite the whole thing behind our backs. She hadn’t and now it was in the newspaper!

  As soon as the judge headed for her private bathroom, paper in tow, Matthew brought up the Inquirer’s Web site on his computer and I read over his shoulder. Not since getting an offer to clerk had I felt so proud—entire paragraphs that Matthew and I had written appeared verbatim. Death penalty advocates and critics commented on each side, the president of the Pennsylvania chapter of the ACLU noting: “Once again, Judge Friedman has proven herself to be the rational calm amid a hateful, irrational storm of conservative jurists. We expected more from Linda Adams, but she has revealed herself to be no more than a political hostage of Republican senators.” The junior senator from Texas called Linda Adams a “hero who refuses to bend our beloved Constitution to allow murderers to walk the streets and kill our children.” According to Professor Neil Haltow, the constitutional law guru of the University of Pennsylvania Law School, “in finding no Sixth Amendment violation, the majority opinion has indeed, as the dissent points out, created nothing short of a circuit split, considering the striking similarity in facts between the Nelson and Drexel cases. Notwithstanding Drexel, ruling on sleeping lawyers falls squarely within the ‘exceptional importance’ category for which en banc hearings were created.”

  “Oh my God,” Matthew whispered gleefully, “we’re in the middle of a feeding frenzy.”

  “Yes, yes we are,” I murmured, pinching myself. “I know the old lady isn’t exactly a dream to work for, but you have to admit, this is exciting!”

  The phone rang off the hook throughout the afternoon, Roy and Janet taking turns explaining to the press that Judge Friedman never took calls from journalists (it wasn’t clear that journalists had ever called before). As for the judge, she sat staring at her name in the paper, gloating. That is, until she received a call from Dr. Fernandez.

  “What! What! You rilly can’t do anything?!” she screamed. I suspected that the good doctor was about one call away from euthanizing Bob. “Did you see me in the paper today?! I do things to help people. Clearly you don’t.” She slammed down the phone, grabbed her bag of tricks, and stormed into the clerks’ cave.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she barked behind me. I spun around—Kate was standing directly behind my cubicle.

  “Um, ah—”

  “Are you sick?” In an instant the judge turned the blessing of life into an insult.

  “I, um, I’m pregnant,” Kate stuttered.

  “No! No! No! You look weird. I don’t have time for this!” the judge yelled.

  Kate hobbled away, leaving me directly in the judge’s view.

  “Sheba, get me some answers on Judge Adams now! We should be receiving Nelson’s petition for a rehearing any day now, maybe any hour. Janet! Roy!” Both appeared instantly. “Look out for the Nelson petition today. If I’m not here when it comes in, make copies and give them to Matthew and Sheila.” With that, she stormed off to the hospital.

  I spent most of the afternoon Googling “Dell Nelson” and “Friedman.” The national media had picked up the story and by the time I packed up for the day, the number of search results had tripled from the morning.

  As I was about to leave, Evan emerged from the back, eyes puffy. The day after Christmas, while most Americans disposed of unwanted gifts, I had spent the day at the courthouse and the evening at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting with Evan. I hoped he hadn’t already fal
len off the wagon.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “What’s going on, Evan?”

  “My mom has passed. She’s gone.” Evan shook his head, as though he himself didn’t believe his words. “My aunt found her passed out, with an empty bottle of bourbon by her side. She wasn’t breathing.” He paused to process the unimaginable. “I’ve got to catch the next plane to Chicago and deal with her body, the funeral, her apartment.” He started bawling, drawing Matthew’s attention.

  The two of us huddled around Evan, who bravely collected himself and headed to the airport. The minute he left, Janet’s internal (and perfectly delayed) GPS led her to the clerks’ cave: “Did I hear some commotion in here?” she cooed, arms cradling what looked like briefs.

  “Evan’s mother died. He went home,” I replied angrily.

  “Anyway, here are the petitions for rehearing.” She sighed with exhaustion, as if she were delivering quadruplets rather than several sheets of paper. “And by the way, in case you speak to Evan, be sure to tell him that he’s not getting paid for the days he misses.” Didn’t the Bible preach kindness?

  James, Kevin, and I had nestled into our table at Friday, Saturday, Sunday, one of Philly’s most celebrated restaurants. Though pricier than Ralph’s, splurging on New Year’s Eve was an American tradition. We were still waiting for Matthew, who’d decided to join us since Heidi was in Miami with friends. Without any vacation days, Matthew was left to fend for himself.

  I took a sip of water, deciding to get business out of the way. “Kevin, look—is there anything you can say about Adams, anything at all that I can bring back to Friedman just so she knows that I actually did snoop around for her?”

  “Sheila, as I told you before, the woman is squeaky clean. Do I disagree with her on this Nelson case the whole world is talking about? Absolutely. Does that make her a crook? Absolutely not.” He gesticulated effusively, emulating an argumentative tactic picked up from oral arguments. “Speaking of—I’ve been meaning to mention this to you but keep forgetting. So, we all had a holiday lunch with the mayor last week, all of Adams’s clerks. But Adams herself couldn’t make it at the last minute because she had some photo shoot with Philadelphia Magazine—she’s going to be on next month’s cover. So, it was just me, Walt, Jana, Betsy, and the mayor—who, by the way, is quite attractive. We were about to leave the restaurant when this guy walked over, patted the mayor on the back and introduced himself to all of us as Robert Nussbaum. Anyway, when we got back to chambers, Betsy giddily told us all that that was Peter—”

  “Nussbaum’s creepy brother,” I interrupted.

  “Yeah! How did you know?” Kevin asked, shocked.

  “Because he’s called me twice to threaten me with ‘not letting the animal who killed his brother go free’ and I’ve received between two to ten hang-ups since oral arguments in the Nelson case. Did he seem to know the mayor?”

  “Yeah, uh, yeah,” Kevin said as his eyes followed an attractive waiter. “Um, ah, so what were we talking about?”

  “We were talking about New Year’s resolutions,” James seized the opportunity to change the subject. “Where’s Matthew? It’s already eight-thirty—we’ve been here for a half hour and I want to order.”

  “He’ll be here, don’t worry,” I replied, trying not to sound as irritated as I was that Matthew was late. “So Kevin, did the mayor say anything about this Robert Nussbaum guy?”

  Kevin shook his head. “Nope, the mayor said nothing. He just told some golf joke, the guy’s got lots of sports jokes. But I had a feeling you’d be interested, Sheila, you know, having worked on that case and being into gossip and all.”

  The truth was, I was beyond interested, but not because of gossip. I silently chided myself for not having Googled Robert Nussbaum the first time he called me. An incredible oversight considering that I’d started Googling everyone I’d ever known in my life. I’d already polished off grades K through four (Stan Miller, the bully of third grade, was serving time for child porn!).

  As our waiter came by, yet again, to take orders we couldn’t give without our fourth guest, my cell phone rang. It was Matthew.

  “Hey, where are you?”

  “Sheila, um, didn’t you get my other messages?!” he screamed over what sounded like Britney Spears in the background.

  “No, no, it’s kind of loud in here. I guess I didn’t hear the phone ring. What’s the deal?” I asked, a lump creeping up my throat.

  “Look—Heidi’s flight got canceled to Miami because of some hurricane down there,” he sighed. “So, I’m in Trenton with her and her friends.”

  “Chicas! We’re the CHICAS!” a loud female voice corrected Matthew.

  “Sorry, Sheila, I’m in Trenton with Heidi and her chicas,” he said, irritated. “I’m so so sorry. I’d really been looking forward to the night with you guys. Will you please apologize for me to James and Kevin.”

  “Sure, yeah, of course”—the lump expanded, tickling my tear ducts. “OK, I’ll see you tomorrow then.” I hung up and darted to the bathroom. What was the big deal? Why was I crying? No doubt, it’d been a long day, week, month, year—I was entitled to a good old-fashioned cry every now and then. But why now and not then?

  Two thirty-something women burst into the bathroom, laughing, paper New Year’s hats holding on for dear life on the sides of their overdone heads.

  “Hey there! Are you OK?” one of the women asked, giving me the onceover, as the other there-there’d me.

  “Yeah, yeah, fine thanks,” I said, wiggling away. Toilet lunch could be construed as edgy, indie, alternative. Getting consoled by tipsy New Year’s revelers in public restrooms was the stuff of John Hughes movies and there was a reason he’d been on the dole for decades.

  “Well, Happy New Year!” the women exclaimed simultaneously. The elastic under one of their hats snapped, sending both into interminable fits of laughter.

  “Happy New Year to you, too,” I replied. James and Kevin stopped talking upon my return. They, too, were donning paper hats.

  “What?” I asked self-consciously.

  James handed me the grandest hat of all, paper tassels spilling over the top, and a glass of champagne. “Sheila, this next year is going to be awesome for you, I promise.” He and Kevin raised their glasses. “No more philandering men, minus the judge, plus the ACLU.”

  “I’ll cheers to that.” I smiled, securing my hat. “So, what should we order?”

  “Sheila”—Kevin put his arm around me—“he’s going to come around. Everyone knows that.”

  “Who is he?” I squirmed away. “And who is everyone?”

  “Oh come on, Sheila—Matthew, of course,” James replied, pouring himself another glass. “And everyone is me and Kevin. What other opinions matter?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Blizzard (n): A gale of piercingly cold wind, usually accompanied with fine and blinding snow; a furious blast.

  —BrainyDictionary Web site http://www.brainydictionary.com/words/bl/blizzard137536.html

  The blizzard dumped more than two feet of snow in Philadelphia and about the same from DC up to Boston. The East Coast had shut down. President Bush had to cancel dinner with the Latvian president. Students were ecstatic. So, too, were the meteorologists who dreamed about this kind of thing. In fact, everyone was thrilled—including the Latvian leader—except for the snow plowers, EMT workers, and the Honorable Helga Friedman.

  She was a furious blast.

  Puja had come to visit that weekend and was stuck. Amtrak and SEPTA had shut down. So had the airport. You couldn’t even walk outside, let alone drive. According to the local news, an elderly man had had a heart attack while shoveling his front steps near the Italian Market. Mayor Adams ordered the citizens of Philadelphia to stay at home. It made good sense, then, that the courthouse was closed. The clerks’ office had a recorded message to that effect. Nonetheless, I called the chambers repeatedly, just in case. Puja said I was crazy.

  James had come upstairs t
o spend the snow day with us. “Even Friedman won’t make it in today,” he said, adding his two cents and looking out the window.

  Redial redial redial. Nobody was there. It was after nine and still nobody. Matthew had already called to tell me his train had gotten stuck about twenty minutes outside of town. When I called Evan, he stated that he was in bed and planned to stay there for the remainder of the day, as “That woman has yet to acknowledge the death of my mother. She can screw herself.” It was remarkable that Evan hadn’t resumed the drugs.

  I didn’t have Kate’s number and I had exhausted my resources. In any event, there was no plausible means to get to work. James and Puja staked out prime real estate on my couch, helping themselves to hot chocolate and Regis and Kelly. I stood in front of them, phone in hand. Alec Baldwin was the guest. Someone told me once that he wore a girdle. I leaned in two inches from the TV and swore that I could spot a panty line on his abdomen. Redial redial redial. Nobody. Not even Medieval Roy.

  Just as I was negotiating a spot on the cramped couch, the phone rang. It was Matthew.

  “Sheila. Kate just picked up. She just got to the office and said the judge had called to announce that she was on her way over. Kate says the judge is pissed we’re not there. I’m walking and—”

  “You’re walking on the highway?”

  “Yes, I’m walking and I’ll be there in a couple of hours . . .”—a screech, followed by a siren, interrupted Matthew—“unless I’m dead first. Anyway, get to work. Save yourself.” Another screech and the phone went dead. How was I supposed to traverse twenty blocks?—the snow came up to my torso and I didn’t have cross-country skis. Mayor Adams had just declared a state of emergency. Why couldn’t I do the same?

  What was Kate thinking?—she was six months pregnant and lived in the suburbs! Not to mention, had she kept herself and her unborn daughter in the safety of her home, the judge wouldn’t have a basis for thinking it was even possible to get to the courthouse.