Chambermaid

  “Hey, I got to go. Good luck with that”—I nodded toward the torture chamber—“you know that Bob is about to bite it and she’s going to be a mess when she finally tears out of here.”

  Calling someone else a mess at that point, even the judge, seemed a bit glass-houseish.

  The interview went swimmingly. That is, if you count out-and-out lying to be a positive thing. I met with three different attorneys. First up—Lexi from Immigrants’ Rights.

  “So, Sheila, that’s amazing. A court of appeals clerkship—and it’s with Judge Friedman. Amazing. Tell me about it.” Amazing wasn’t the first (or last or middle) word that came to mind, but I found myself smiling and nodding.

  “Yeah, it is really good. I mean, you know, it can be tough sometimes,” I said. Lexi grimaced. “But really really good. Yes, amazing.” Lexi looked relieved. Next—Alberto in National Security.

  “Hey, great to meet you, Sheila. We’re so excited to have you here. And, wow! Helga Friedman. I’ve always had so much respect for her. I know everyone else has been blabbing about her Dell Nelson opinion, which is great for sure. But I’ve been particularly interested in her recent Patriot Act opinion—she’s brilliant!” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that she’d rather unpatriotically slept through oral arguments in that case and that her subpar, pregnant law clerk had written the opinion from start to finish.

  “Yeah, she’s brilliant for sure. And that case was really interesting. You should have been to orals—the justice department’s lawyer crumbled early on . . . amazing.” The crevice in my bum from which I extracted that one didn’t matter. What did matter was Alberto’s unencumbered glee.

  “Sheila, so glad you’ve had such a great year so far. You know—some folks get upset that we rarely hire people who haven’t clerked, but you understand why that is now, don’t you? One year working for a judge—especially a federal court of appeals judge—is like six years doing litigation at a law firm, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Oh, I totally agree!” I nodded emphatically as Alberto walked me to Racial Justice Natasha. “The experience has been invaluable.”

  “Come in, please. Sorry it’s such a mess. Have a seat,” Natasha said, sweeping a chair clear of briefs. “So, Sheila, how are you? How’s Judge Friedman?”

  “I’m great thanks,” I said, getting warmed up for round three. “And Judge Friedman is—”

  “So incredibly amazing,” Natasha finished my sentence. “I mean, I hope that working here won’t be too much of a letdown after what you’ve just gotten to do for the judge. I know how devastated I was when my clerkship ended.” Letdown and devastated sounded familiar.

  “Yeah, you know it really has been just an extraordinary experience. Judge Friedman is basically the best person I’ve ever worked for. I’ve learned so much from her,” I said.

  “Wow—especially with the Dell Nelson case,” Natasha said, admiration dripping, “everyone here is rooting for her. You know the ACLU is her biggest fan. And we’re totally disgusted by that Linda Adams. I hope to God someone with half a brain will filibuster her confirmation hearings. Oh wait—does anyone in the Senate have half a brain?” She laughed at her own tired joke, signaling me to do the same. “So, can you give me the inside scoop? How’s the en banc going to shake out?”

  “Natasha—honestly, at this point, you know as much as I do. That there are two votes for no resentencing and one to resentence—Friedman’s. The rest are anyone’s guess at this point,” I replied, lying. I knew for a fact that Judge Friedman had all but secured the votes of three of her colleagues. I also knew that Judge Adams had as many in her camp. Twelve judges were voting—whoever got to magic number seven first, won. A handful were on the fence and it could go in either direction. I, however, was not at liberty to divulge this information and therefore had to fib.

  But who was I kidding? I’d been telling tales from the moment I arrived at the ACLU. Judging from the foam issuing from Natasha’s, Lexi’s, and Alberto’s mouths, I knew that the truth wouldn’t have gone over well. So, I lied. And got the job on the spot.

  “Sheila, we at the ACLU are thrilled to extend an offer to you to be our newest staff attorney,” Anika, the head of human resources, said, beaming.

  As my heart did flip-flops, she added: “This is just the best job any lawyer could ever hope for!” The record stopped. I’d heard those words before.

  “Well, Anika, you know what? I am so beyond honored, but I need just a few days to think this one through,” I said, surprising even myself.

  “Well, um, sure, take all the time you need,” she replied, cautiously. “Is there anything else I can do to help you make this decision, Sheila? I sort of was under the impression that you were quite eager to come here.”

  “Anika, I am eager to work here. It’s just that I have had so much on my mind recently,” I fumbled, reaching for the most palatable excuse, “you know, with the Dell Nelson en banc and everything. I just want to give this a good think before committing. That’s all.”

  Anika smiled and put her arm around my shoulder. “Ah yes, of course! The Dell Nelson case,” she purred, opening the door to the building. We walked out onto a bustling street. “You know, I almost forgot to tell you. I’m glad you reminded me. Such a small world. So my sister works for that Peter Nussbaum’s brother’s company.”

  “She works at Tartac?” I asked.

  “Close—Tarmac.”

  “I think the family business is Tartac,” I corrected Anika.

  “These names are very confusing,” Anika giggled. “From what I understand, Robert Nussbaum started a spinoff company, about a year ago, that specializes in tar for airport runways. Hence the name Tarmac. My sister just got hired as their Web designer. It’s a super-duper small company and up to now they haven’t had a Web presence at all. But don’t worry, she’s not, like, friends with Robert Nussbaum. But small world, right?”

  “Yeah, small world for sure,” I responded, not quite knowing what to make of this information. “And it would be fine if she were friends with Robert. Robert hasn’t done anything.”

  “Oh, whatever,” Anika said. She shook her head, suddenly bored. “I just was tickled by the connection and wanted to let you know. So, just give me a call once you’ve made up your mind. We really want you here, Sheila.”

  “Thanks, Anika, I’ll definitely call you soon.”

  Tarmac? Tartac? Tar-whickety-whack?

  Without thinking, I hopped the 4 train to Midtown and walked into Barnes and Hellman, the law firm where I had worked as a summer associate. I found myself on the fortieth floor, asking for John Powers, the hiring partner who had extended me a permanent job offer two years earlier. John’s secretary, Amy, had taken a liking to me during my summer there. Amy had gotten a bit tipsy at the Maritime Hotel during a summer event and I’d heard her call John a “hateful asshole” in the bathroom. I’d never breathed a word of it to anyone (at the firm). Amy had not forgotten the tremendous act of kindness, so she squeezed me in for five minutes with the hateful asshole.

  I’d forgotten how nice Barnes’s offices were, especially compared to the ACLU and Friedman’s torture chamber. Big open space, lots of light, Lichtensteins adorning the walls, hardwood floors. How could such a beautiful place be bad?

  “Ah, hi.” John said, coming out of his office and appearing to have gained twenty pounds since I last saw him. He glanced at what looked like my résumé. “Hi, ah, Sheila? Please come in, have a seat.” It was a bit disconcerting that he clearly had no clue who I was, considering I’d worked closely with him on a bond offering two years earlier. I explained to him how my clerkship was coming to a close and I was deciding between Barnes and the ACLU. While I’d not expected the red carpet treatment (in fact, I’d developed a severe aversion to red carpets over the course of the year), it was nonetheless off-putting that my former colleague didn’t bother to look up as I spoke. Instead, he sat, breathing heavily, frantically thumbing away on his BlackBerry.


  “Hmm, I see, yes. Ah, well I do hope you come here,” he muttered, typing. “We have tons of really interesting SEC investigations right now.” Weren’t lawyers supposed to be convincing? Something about the way he mumbled “interesting” gave the impression that he didn’t know what the word meant.

  I took a good look around. Deal toys cluttered the bookshelves. “Merrill Lynch 1979” in small red, white, and blue letters on a plastic plane. “Goldman Sachs 1986” on a glass car. I squinted to read the little words on a miniglobe. Thankfully John was still glued to his BlackBerry and didn’t notice my looks of disappointment. The prize was a poster of a huge ship in the middle of a raging sea. It read, “THE PERFECT DEAL,” with “JPMorgan 2002” scrolled at the bottom. A knockoff from the movie poster of The Perfect Storm. That was it—I knew I’d drown at Barnes. I hadn’t nearly died at the hands of Helga Friedman to be a nameless, faceless bitch to the BlackBerry.

  “Well then, John, thanks for seeing me. I, um, will let you know what I decide.” He stood, still looking down, and shook my hand.

  By the time I returned to the courthouse, everyone but Matthew had left for the day.

  “Well?” he asked excitedly, “how did it go?”

  “Matthew—you’re so nice to have stuck around for me,” I replied, sitting at the table between our cubicles. “And I have a few things to report. First, I got an offer from the ACLU.”

  “Congratulations, Sheila!” He jumped up and bent down to hug me. “That’s fantastic. So you accepted on the spot, I presume?”

  “No, I actually didn’t.” Matthew looked confused. “But wait, I’m going to call and accept this week. After my interview there, I bizarrely trekked up to Barnes—I don’t know why. Maybe just to make sure that I wasn’t impetuously jumping into another horrid work situation.”

  “And?”

  “And the hiring partner didn’t even remember having hired me to begin with, didn’t look up from his BlackBerry, and generally sucked. I’m definitely not cut out for a law firm.”

  “Not so many people are, Sheila,” Matthew sighed. “Some of us have astronomical law school loans to repay, but if you don’t, there’s no need whatsoever to subject yourself to it.”

  “Yeah, I know, so I’ll call the ACLU tomorrow. Speaking of—so the HR lady there told me something pretty interesting. Her sister works for Tarmac—a company owned by Robert Nussbaum.”

  “Don’t you mean Tartac?”

  “Ha! I had this same conversation with her. No, it’s definitely Tarmac, a spinoff from Tartac that specializes in tar for runways. Hence, the name,” I said, parroting Anika.

  “And?”

  “And they have no Web presence, are allegedly a tiny company, and I wonder if it’s possible that Tarmac, and not Tartac, made any contributions to Mayor Adams’s campaign and that’s why they were so chummy that day. It’s possible that the powers that be here just didn’t know to do a background check on Tarmac.”

  “I suppose that is possible,” Matthew said, rubbing his forehead. “And I hope for everyone’s sake that that’s the case. Apparently Judge Greenman just decided today to vote with Adams in Nelson and the judge is furious. It didn’t help that Bob was ‘acting out’ again at home and she had to leave early. I honestly think if we lose the Nelson case, you and I might be going to the electric chair with Dell.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Condoleezza Rice came to the Independence Center in early May. She was honored as one of the “Women Who Have Made America.” So, too, were Madeleine Albright, Hillary Clinton, Sandra Day O’Connor, Helga Friedman, Linda Adams, and a dozen or so others. Kate, Matthew, Evan, and I joined Judge Adams’s law clerks at the reception honoring our respective bosses. It was a sea of middle-aged and elderly women in pantsuits with their groupies—mostly young men and women like yours truly—also dressed in pantsuits.

  Judge Friedman presented Columbia Sheila and Yale Matthew to Senator Clinton. Pregnant Kate was introduced as, well, Pregnant Kate, and Evan introduced himself to the cheese plate, where the rest of us assembled once the judge cornered the senator.

  “Hillary, you don’t mind if I call you Hillary, now do you?”

  “Of course not,” our former first lady said, shaking her head. Her coiffed bob didn’t budge. The judge needed to switch hairdressers.

  “I’m very worried about the upcoming confirmation hearings”—the judge looked to her left and right—“that Linda, I just don’t think she’s going to be good for the issues that we care about.” The judge swung her hips and tapped Senator Clinton, intimating their deep ideological connection. The senator spilled her lemonade but didn’t flinch, exhibiting the same poker face the world scrutinized during a certain sex scandal.

  “Judge Friedman, you know it’s very rare for the Senate not to confirm nominees. And Judge Adams does share my opinion on abortion and—”

  “What about the death penalty?” the judge interrupted. “Don’t you care that the state’s ultimate punishment come with the proper procedural safeguards?” Standing on her toes, barely reaching the senator’s neck, advocating justice, it was tough to dislike the judge. It was also tough for a senator to say anything that could be perceived as soft on crime, the reason most of them shied away from addressing capital punishment.

  “Well”—the senator’s bob quivered a smidgen—“fairness is a—”

  “Senator.” Judge Adams bounded over. “How are you? How’s Chelsea doing up there in New York?”

  Judge Friedman tapped her on the shoulder. “Linda, I was here first.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize there was a line,” Judge Adams said with a laugh.

  “It was nice talking to you both. I haven’t seen Maddie in ages. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” The senator scurried to Madeleine Albright, betraying not even an ounce of discomfort. Maybe she was presidential material.

  Judge Friedman patted her bun. Judge Adams placed her hands on her hips. I popped another square piece of mild cheddar.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself, Linda,” the judge whispered. “Maybe not always articulate, you’ve at least always been fair—fair to defendants. Is getting to the Supreme Court worth your self-respect?” Considering the Faustian bargain the judge had struck with herself, her soapbox seemed a little slippery.

  “Fair? You have the audacity to call me unfair, Helga? With all due respect, the way you’ve treated me all these years, the way you treat everyone—your secretaries, Bob”—she swung around to reference the cheese-popping peanut gallery—“your long-suffering law clerks. I don’t even know how you keep getting clerks, quite honestly.” The judge glowered at us, demanding aid. I, for one, was too busy picking another bald spot with both hands. Matthew spit out a piece of Havarti. Kate rubbed her belly. Evan crossed his arms and returned the judge’s stare, unwilling to provide even a look of encouragement.

  “As I was saying,” Adams continued, emboldened. “I don’t think you are an expert on fair treatment, Helga. And if you’re referring to my stance in the Nelson case, you’re going to have to put half or more of your colleagues in that camp. I’m pretty close to the simple majority I need to win.”

  “I think that’s the fair treatment Judge Friedman was referring to,” I said. By the time I realized I’d said it out loud, everyone was staring at me. “You know—not giving a man a fair hearing before he’s sent to the electric chair. I think that’s what she was referring to.” Judge Adams looked at me like I was a traitor, while Judge Friedman stood in silent astonishment. My coclerks held their breath. “So, why don’t we wait until the en banc before declaring winners and losers. It seems that even if you win—as you put it—America has lost.”

  That’s a wrap!

  Linda Adams stormed off, seeking refuge with Betsy by the smoked salmon. Judge Friedman spun around to chase after Sandra Day O’Connor. Kate and Evan relieved their lungs and bolted for the door.

  “Jesus, Sheila—America has lost.” Matthew laughed. “Which movie did that come fro
m?”

  “I have no clue. A Few Good Men maybe. But don’t you agree? I think Adams seems like a lovely person, but her stance on Nelson is disgusting to me. And while Friedman is a nightmare personally, I respect that she’s gone to bat for a man in the most hated segment of society—death row.”

  “It’s tough for me to separate the good from the bad at this point, I guess,” Matthew said, shrugging his shoulders. “Hey, I’m going to run to the bathroom, I’ll be right back.”

  Waiting for Matthew, I took a long sip from the water fountain. Didactics were dehydrating. I felt someone breathing heavily behind me. It was the judge.

  “Sheila, I will never forget what you did for me.” She touched my hand. “Thank you.”

  Before I could respond, Matthew reappeared, the judge’s face contorted, and she clapped.

  “Come on, people. Back to the office. We’re rilly rilly busy.”

  I got my period when I was twelve. Exactly three minutes later, Puja jubilantly announced to a houseful of aunties and uncles: “Sheila thinks she has butt cancer—isn’t that hilarious?!”

  The morning of the en banc was even less hilarious.

  Nelson v. Pennsylvania dominated the morning news shows. Matt Lauer interviewed a former death row inmate whose innocence was gleaned from DNA evidence just a few weeks before his scheduled execution. He discussed his new book: Off the Ledge: Faith, Healing, and Happiness. Diane Sawyer chatted with the mother of a woman slain by a man who’d been executed a year earlier. She was pounding her fists, crying. It looked like she could use the other guy’s book.

  I switched it off—TV wasn’t helping. Had we properly prepared the judge? What if I missed a case? That wasn’t possible, right? I mean, Matthew and I had scoured Westlaw and Lexis. I’d read more cases in the past six months than I had in three years of law school combined. In fact, my life had taken on an entirely jurisprudential framework: pizza v. pasta; Airplane v. When Harry Met Sally; Matthew v. Heidi.