Chambermaid

  Matthew was plotting his great escape from Heidi. This had been going on for weeks and I couldn’t figure out why he didn’t just do it. I understood that breaking up was hard to do—the song was written for a reason. But it wasn’t that hard.

  My phone rang. It was Sanjay, whom I’d not heard from in months.

  “Sheila, hey, it’s Sanjay.” As if I didn’t have caller ID.

  “Hey, Sanjay, um, is everything OK? It’s really early.”

  “Yeah, yeah, but I just saw on CNN that your big case is being argued today, and, um, I just wanted to wish you luck . . .”

  “Thanks, Sanjay.” It was this kind of thoughtfulness that I’d loved about Sanjay once upon a time. “It’s really nice that you called. I’d love to chat but as you can imagine, I’ve got to get to work.”

  “OK. Um, Sheila—another thing—I’m married. Gayle and I eloped to Brighton Beach over the weekend and news is spreading and I didn’t want you to hear from your mom.” It was this kind of horrific behavior that made me hate Sanjay now.

  “Well,” I said, taking a deep breath, “thanks so much for letting me know this right before the biggest moment of my professional life. Great timing—really. And congratulations.” I hung up and splashed cold water on my face. My ex-boyfriend was married to a fake Russian and my coclerk was caught up with a camel toe. What was I doing wrong?

  My doorbell rang. Standing on the other side was Matthew, holding two coffees.

  “I figured you could use some company walking to work today,” he said, handing me a Starbucks, “and we’re going to be late.” He practically dragged me down the stairs into a glorious spring morning.

  “Thanks,” I said. I shut the building door behind me, regaining my composure. “Hey, you look . . . um, you look really good.” It was a fact. Standing in his beige linen suit, the sun highlighting the handful of freckles on his face, Matthew was turning a few heads on the street. Granted, most of them were homeless, strung-out male prostitutes, but heads were turning nevertheless.

  “Likewise, Ms. Raj,” he said, grinning. He led me down the street. “How are you feeling about today?”

  “Barfy. I feel totally barfy. We can’t lose this, Matthew. We just can’t. And by the way, Sanjay is married to Ludmila. You people never cease to amaze me.”

  “Huh? What? Sanjay married that Gayle woman? And how am I suddenly ‘you people’?”

  “Never mind. Honestly, not important. We need to focus on Nelson.”

  “OK, let me know when you’re ready to discuss that one,” he said. “And don’t worry—I have a great feeling about Dell Nelson. The guy’s going to get another chance.”

  “I hope you’re right. The thought of losing this case honestly makes me want to cry. I’ve never in my life wanted something so bad. It just keeps hitting me—this is real. This is not a fake constitutional law test case. This is a real, living, breathing person. Not to mention the implications the case has for hundreds of other people who’ve been screwed by their lawyers.”

  “I feel the same way, Sheila. So—if you had to do it again, would you rather have had this experience, the chance to be a part of such a monumental case and deal with crazy Friedman, or not have to deal with her and not have had this opportunity?”

  “I would rather know if Mayor Adams took money from Robert Nussbaum’s spinoff company. That’s what I’d rather,” I replied. “Holy shit!” We were nearing Independence Hall, which had transformed into a parking lot for live trucks, satellite dishes, and protesters.

  “Wow,” Matthew said, stopping. “This is even bigger than I thought. As for Nussbaum, Evan swore he’d get us the goods. So, let’s just focus on getting through today, OK?”

  Evan had been in contact with the clerk of the court regarding the Tarmac/Tartac/Adams’s contribution fund. The clerk felt indebted to Evan. He hadn’t realized that Evan had failed the bar when he sent out the test results to every judge on the third circuit. After all, he’d started the tradition of the “annual bar e-mail” because law clerks never failed the bar and it was meant to be a congratulatory sort of thing. Shortly after the fateful e-mail, Judge Friedman had called the clerk to chew him out for “humiliating” her. He immediately contacted Evan to apologize for what he surmised would be a “hideous punishment from that Friedman character.”

  Though Evan felt no sense of duty to Judge Friedman, he did feel passionately about the death penalty and, therefore, he’d offered months ago to help out with the Nelson case in any way possible. It wasn’t until Anika offered up her jewels of information that I’d found a role for him.

  “You’re right, we need to get through today,” I said, pushing past a hulking man wearing body odor and a muscle T-shirt that read: “God Gave Second Chances.” Scorning next to him was a soccer mom in an oversize windbreaker embossed with: Friedman Murderers.

  On the one day that increased security would have made sense, Matthew and I were waved through by the guards after barely flashing our ID cards.

  Betsy and Kevin joined us in the elevator just before the doors closed.

  “Good morning, Sheila,” Kevin said, uncomfortably. “And Matthew, how are you?”

  “I’m fine thanks, how are—”

  “I don’t think it’s appropriate for us to speak with the other side,” Betsy snipped, imitating something she’d heard once on Law and Order. In real life, even lawyers on opposing sides could say, “How are you” without violating the code of ethics.

  “Whatever, Betsy.” I accidentally gave her a once-over, an unwitting compliment to her amazing white suit. “Kevin, I’ll give you a call tonight.” Matthew and I stepped off the elevator.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Matthew whispered as we approached the clerks’ cave. “Honestly, I have to say, I’ve met lots of lame people in my life. But Betsy is almost unbelievable. I’m not sure who’s worse, law clerks or Judge Friedman.”

  “So nice of you two to make it in this morning,” the judge said. She was sitting at the table in the clerks’ cave. She was fully robed with a rounded bun and sunglasses. “We have lots to do before arguments today,” she said, folding her hands.

  “Judge”—I glanced at the clock—“I thought we said we’d meet here at—”

  “Tsst!” She raised a finger. “Today, I am in control.” As opposed to all the other days? “I don’t recall having asked you a question. Therefore, you will not speak. Please sit. Both of you.” She looked down at a list. “I need to ensure I know each of these case names inside and out. So, we’re going to do a little test run. Prabakerish?”

  “It’s, um,” Matthew said apprehensively, “it’s actually Prabaker-an. A sixth circuit case finding a lawyer to be ineffective when he failed to present mitigation evidence without a clear strategy.”

  “Trumbel?”

  “Trumbel is first circuit,” I flipped through my mental binder. “Finding no Sixth Amendment violation in spite of the lawyer being just shy of legal intoxication during sentencing.”

  “Horn?”

  “Horn, that’s the really great case from the fourth circuit,” Matthew said, sitting up straight. “The one where the lawyer slept through portions of the guilt and sentencing phases—but less than the Tipper slept in our case—and the court found a violation.”

  Peterson?

  Milken?

  Givens?

  “OK. As for Drexel. Please just correct any mistakes.” The judge raised her sunglasses, her eyes glimmering. “Drexel is a ninth circuit decision, from two years ago. A unanimous panel found that the lawyer was ineffective in an almost identical fact pattern as we have in this Drell Nuxel case—”

  “Judge, it’s Dell Nelson. Dell. Nelson.” Getting the defendant’s name wrong during today’s hearings would be deadly.

  “Dell Nelson,” she said, nodding. “An almost identical fact pattern as we have in this Dell Nelson case. The lawyer slept through large portions of the sentencing phase, failed to cross examine the state’s witnesses, and failed to
present mitigation witnesses even though many family members and friends offered to testify to spare the defendant’s life. Just like we have today in Dell Nelson’s case. The ninth circuit properly found a violation and gave Luther Drexel another hearing.” She spoke eloquently, using one hand to make her point to her moot court—Matthew and me. It finally made sense to me that President Ford had nominated Helga Friedman to the federal bench—she’d clearly been a brilliant orator back in the day. “Are we, the judges of the third circuit, going to say that Dell Nelson deserves fewer constitutional protections than his fellow citizen, Luther Drexel in California? I think not.”

  The judge was on. Matthew and I were speechless.

  “Well,” the judge said, patting her bun. “I think I’m ready.”

  Evan and Kate entered the clerks’ cave, all suited up.

  “You two”—the judge dismissively pointed at them—“collect my briefs and appendices from my desk and meet the three of us in the courtroom.” I didn’t know much about pregnancy, but it didn’t seem like Kate was in any position to do heavy lifting.

  “Judge, I’ll meet you and Matthew upstairs, I just need to run to the restroom,” I lied, as Matthew escorted the Honorable Helga Friedman to her throne.

  “Hey, Kate, why don’t you take it easy. I’ll help Evan. We’ll see you in the courtroom, OK?”

  “Thanks, um, Sheila,” Kate said, placing her hands on her hips to support her back.

  “Hey, Evan. Did the clerk say anything?” I asked, following him to the torture chamber.

  “Good morning to you, too, Ms. Teacher’s Pet,” Evan said, smiling.

  Medieval Roy was standing in the middle of the judge’s office, mumbling to himself.

  “Ah, good morning, Roy,” I said. “What, what are you doing?”

  “Sheila.” He bowed. “Evan.” Another bow. “Is the judge here? I came in early today to bestow upon her Gothic greetings of good luck.”

  “She’s already left for court,” I explained, wondering what the future held for Roy, “but I’ll pass along your, er, your Gothic greetings.”

  “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Roy, Sheila and I have work to do,” Evan said pointedly.

  Roy meekly returned to his cubicle. “As for the clerk, he’s digging around still and said he should have something to me by today or tomorrow,” Evan reported. “You know, as much as I hate Judge Friedman for treating me like trash, I have to say, I do hope she kicks butt today. I am so sick and tired of people shitting on poor African American men. I bet if roles had been reversed—had Dell Nelson been found slaughtered in the U. Penn dorms—we wouldn’t be talking about it twenty years later.”

  “I agree,” I said, lifting a pile of briefs and walking to the elevator. “And I think Judge Friedman knows that. The crazy part of all this—what’s getting lost in the media—is that Nelson’s not even asking to be freed or anything like that. All he wants is a fair hearing that will result in death once again or life in prison. It’s not really asking for a lot.”

  We entered a packed courtroom. Midtown Manhattan during rush hour seemed less crowded. Evan and I placed the judge’s materials in her chair, to the right of Chief Judge Fleck, who’d be presiding over today’s hearing. Hundreds of eyes fixed on us.

  I allowed myself a quick glance from the bench, like a janitor sweeping the stage at Madison Square Garden before a Rolling Stones concert. A mosh pit of law clerks, lawyers, and regular citizens. The media wasn’t allowed inside the courtroom, and despite a threatening letter from Geraldo Rivera (unearthed by the Smoking Gun), most reporters seemed OK with waiting outside.

  Evan walked down to our seats with Matthew and Kate. I turned to follow him when I caught Dell Nelson out of the corner of my eye. He smiled and nodded, looking meek in an oversize double-breasted suit. I returned the gesture before sitting down between Evan and Matthew.

  “How are you?” Matthew asked, putting his hand on my knee. I jumped instinctively, causing him to quickly pull back.

  “Fine, fine.” I took a deep breath. “I just saw Dell Nelson.”

  “Really?” Matthew asked. “Where is he?”

  “Right over there, between those beefy security guards,” I said, pointing. “Oh my God, Robert Nussbaum is right behind him.”

  “Where?” Evan and Matthew whispered in unison.

  “All rise,” the clerk of the court announced. The crowd silently stood, following his solemn order. The door behind the bench opened and a stream of old people in robes paraded in one by one, taking their place behind their respective chairs, arranged—like everything else in the legal profession—according to seniority. Standing next to Chief Judge Fleck and three seats down from Judge Adams, Judge Friedman surveyed the room.

  “I present the Honorable Judges of the United States Court of Appeals for the Third Circuit.”

  Judge Friedman nodded in our direction. I felt tearful, much like I did when the national anthem was performed before the Super Bowl.

  Their Honors sat, the rest of us following suit moments later.

  “Good morning. Welcome everyone,” Judge Fleck began, “today is special in that we are sitting en banc, something we do in only the most extraordinary of circumstances. The case we hear today presents such a circumstance. Then again, you all know that—I trust you’re here to witness history in the making and not to inspect my new haircut.”

  Nervous laughter erupted. Not laughing at a judge’s joke was a misdemeanor in some states.

  “Today, we’ll hear arguments in Nelson v. Donald Timmons, Secretary, Pennsylvania Department of Corrections. In ordinary oral arguments, each side is allotted fifteen minutes to argue its position. Today, counsel for Mr. Nelson and for the state will each have thirty minutes to present their cases. As always, the person appealing will go first—in this case, that’ll be Olivia Northum.”

  Olivia Northum had aged ten years since the original arguments just seven months prior, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing considering she looked barely legal before.

  “Good morning and may it please the court,” she began, “we are here today to breathe life back into the Sixth Amendment. An amendment decimated by Judge Adams’s majority—”

  “I think we all know why we’re here, Ms. Northum,” Judge Fleck interrupted. She’d been standing there all of five seconds—let the games begin! “And we’re hearing this case from scratch; it’s as though Judge Adams’s majority and Judge Friedman’s dissenting opinions don’t exist. Please tell us something we don’t know, namely why we should disturb the trial court’s finding of no constitutional violation. After all, we are to afford that judgment profound deference.”

  “With all due respect, Chief Judge Fleck,” Ms. Northum replied, without batting a lash, “that deference is only appropriate when the trial court’s opinion is reasonable. Here—”

  “Would you say it was reasonable for Tip Evans to keep Dell Nelson’s sisters and friends away from the witness chair, away from testifying on his behalf, namely to testify what a good brother, good provider he was for the family? Is that reasonable, Ms. Northum?” Judge Friedman asked.

  “Judge Friedman, I’m glad you asked that—”

  “It is most certainly reasonable,” Judge Adams said, leaning forward, “as a matter of strategy. Lawyers have a million reasons to do or not do things. We are not here to question their strategy.”

  “You’re right, Judge Adams,” Ms. Northum said and smiled. I sensed a future judgeship for this one. “You are not supposed to second-guess strategy—”

  “But what strategy can you point to, Judge Adams?” Friedman hissed. “There isn’t a shred of evidence that Tip Evans had a trial strategy.”

  Both Judge Adams and Olivia Northum poised themselves to respond, but Judge Haskell beat them to the punch.

  “I’m glad you mention strategy,” Haskell said. He looked into the distance pensively. “One thing that really struck me was this Kyle Cooper character. Can you please explain how he figures into Mr. Ev
ans’s strategy or lack thereof.”

  “I’m glad, Judge Haskell,” Ms. Northum started, “that you bring up Kyle Cooper, or ‘Cool Kyle’ as he was known. He serves as an illustrative example of Mr. Evans’s lack of strategy. He testified on the state’s behalf against Mr. Nelson.” Ms. Northum nodded ever so slightly in Dell Nelson’s direction, causing every judge to look at the clean-shaven, innocuous-looking man they were about to send to the electric chair. “All Tip Evans had to do was cross-examine Kyle on a host of things—such as how he’d been arrested and jailed for drug dealing and, while he was serving time, how Mr. Nelson provided for his pregnant girlfriend—”

  “Yes, but let’s not get away from the basic fact that we are dealing with a man who was convicted of a gruesome murder,” Judge Newburg said, waving both of his hands, “and we’re not talking about a situation where a man wasn’t afforded a proper trial and sentencing.” Judge Newburg, a former entertainment lawyer, had been appointed by President Reagan, allegedly as a favor to a former Hollywood chum. Newburg was notoriously average. Considering the irrelevancy of his point and his misplaced gesticulation, “average” seemed generous.

  “With all due respect, Judge Newburg,” Ms. Northum said, looking embarrassed, “we’re here to determine whether a man was, in fact, afforded a proper sentencing. That is not something presumed at this stage.”

  “What I think Judge Newburg was saying”—Judge Adams came to the rescue—“is that one could argue, as Tip Evans did, that he chose not to cross-examine Kyle Cooper because his testimony had been so damning; he just wanted him out of the witness chair as soon as possible.”

  “HE WAS SAYING MY BROTHER WAS GRUESOMELY KILLED BY THIS ANIMAL!” Robert Nussbaum screamed, grabbing Dell Nelson’s ear.

  Half the room, including many judges, ducked to the ground.

  “My ear! He’s pulling my ear!” Dell Nelson squealed, swatting at Nussbaum’s hand. Even some of the folks who’d stopped, dropped, and rolled managed to crook their necks to glimpse the gruesome murderer with the voice of a preteen girl.