Terry was getting shipped to sender. “Janet, Roy—I’m going up to Judge Adams’s chambers to return Terry. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” I headed up to the twenty-first floor. The moment we left our chambers, Terry stopped screaming.

On the elevator, she turned to me puffy-eyed: “That lady is really mean.” I suddenly loved Terry but not enough to keep her. The two of us crashed what must have been the most raging party ever to have taken place at the courthouse—a joyful mess of pizza, soda, candy, and children. Terry took off to join the fun. To the left sat Kevin and Walt, reading to a few little ones. To my right were Judge Adams, another judge I couldn’t quite place, and Betsy engrossed in conversation. Betsy spotted me and quickly walked over.

“What are you doing here?” she asked impatiently.

“I came to return my tutee,” I replied, embarrassed. “She’s kind of a nightmare.” Somehow it didn’t sound as good an idea now as it did moments earlier.

Betsy didn’t bother to conceal her disgust. “She’s a child. And we’ll happily take her. See you,” she said, leading me to the door.

When I returned to my cubicle, the judge’s door was still closed. Matthew was sitting at the table between our cubicles reading to Eric, who apparently hadn’t opened his mouth. Matthew got up and walked over. Eric simply sat, hands folded in his lap, staring straight ahead. They even sent the craziest kids to our chambers: the class mute and the class maniac.

“What happened?”

“Matthew, I think I may quit. For real. I can’t do this. And there’s no reason to do it.” He grabbed me and yanked me to the back, where Evan was engrossed in yet another case. Kate was staring out the window. They didn’t notice we were there.

“Sheila. You cannot quit. You think the ACLU would ever hire you if you didn’t finish this thing? Never. Don’t let one woman ruin your career before it’s even started,” he argued.

Matthew was right. Though unlikely, it was feasible for a law firm to take in a clerkship quitter. But there was no way in hell the ACLU would do it. The ACLU, after all, fought uphill legal battles on a daily basis. The people there wouldn’t have much use for someone who couldn’t endure one unsavory year with a sociopathic, homicidal, bipolar jurist.

“Yeah, you’re right,” I admitted. “I think I’m just super stressed about the bar. Listen—a group of us are going out tonight to drink our way to midnight. Want to come?”

“Sure, that’d be—”

“SHHHAYYYLA!! SHEERRAAA!”

“Yes, Judge.” I tripped into the torture chamber.