“You’re here,” he whispered and pointed to a small, shaky cubicle with carpeting on the sides. When I looked over, I noticed the grand finale: fanny pack perched atop pleated pants! I hadn’t seen a fanny pack in at least a decade. I recalled a few here and there during my clichéd backpacking trip through Europe after freshman year in college. But Roy wasn’t backpacking. He wasn’t a college freshman. And this place certainly wasn’t Rome.

I carefully placed my first case on my new desk.

“I just got back from vacation,” Roy said in a hush. “I’m a medievalist—Felemid McDowell’s the name—and I was at the BIG MEDIEVAL festival in southern Jersey.” His eyes went wild. As for me, I concentrated on not gawking.

“I’m a twelfth-century Irish bard. My wife is the daughter of a sixteenth-century Jewish merchant.” No gawk.

“We’re way more into Markland than the Society for Creative Anachronisms.” Maybe slight gawk.

He then pivoted, turned, and skulked back to his room.

I sat down; my head was spinning. Medieval what? Irish beard? Twelfth-century McDonald’s? Jewish merchant from what century? Creative macramé?

As I turned to grab my case materials, out of the corner of my eye I caught a little person, big bun, even bigger sunglasses, peering over a newspaper. There was the judge staring at me. Oh no!! Though the clerks’ room was separated from the judge’s office by the secretaries’ den, all doors were open. The result: judge facing my cubicle. Staring (or was she glaring?) at me.

I waved. She didn’t wave back.

“Pssst. Back here.”

I turned and about ten feet behind me was a portly brunette sitting at another cubicle. I got up, the judge watching my every move, and slowly walked toward the brunette.

“You must be Sheila,” the woman stated in a manner that was almost accusatory. She didn’t even stand to shake my hand. I was beginning to feel like everyone hated me. Or maybe I was being paranoid? Mental note: Find shrink in Philly.

“Yes, and you are Laura, I take it?” I whispered, kneeling so we could see eye to eye.

“Yeah, I got here a little early. You know, to beat the crowds,” she said, pointing to her computer screen, already displaying the minutiae of a Westlaw case. “And I’m working on a really interesting case involving an unreasonable search,” she explained.

What happened to “How are you?”

Without an appropriate response to the Fourth Amendment comment, I simply nodded, smiling.

“So, you went to Columbia. I went to Chicago. I was editor of the Law Review and finished Order of the Coif. Did you Coif it?” Order of the Coif is the highest honor bestowed upon graduating law students. It means you’re a pocket genius who’s managed to get straight As for three years straight.