“That little girl is not welcome here again. Mark’s kids do not behave like that and I will not tolerate it.” Terry could’ve been one of Mark’s kids and she probably wouldn’t have known the difference.

“Yes, Judge. I took Terry back to Justice Adams’s chambers and they’re going to deal with her.” Her bun started moving again.

“She is not Justice Adams. She is Judge Adams.”

Oops—I’d slipped and referred to her as the Supreme Court justice she was about to become.

“In any event, you were saying—you went up to Judge Adams chambers?”

“Yes, Judge.” Knees wobbly. Bladder quivery.

“What was going on up there?” she demanded, running her teeny hands over a brand-new mechanical pencil.

Tip—eraser—back again.

“Um, not much. Just Judge Adams, lots of little kids, and I think one other judge. That’s about it.” My lip twitched as I attempted to smile, revealing one front tooth.

“Which other judge?”

Tip.

“Um, I recognized him as a judge but don’t know his name,” I answered truthfully.

Eraser and back to tip.

“You are an extension of me and don’t you think it would be embarrassing if I didn’t know the names of my colleagues?” The thought of being an extension was not at all appealing—what was I? Her bun? Her long leg or the shorter one?

“Um, yeah, I guess it would be embarrassing if—”

“Never mind that. Where are we with Dell Nelson?” she asked pointedly, resting the mechanical pencil on her desk.

“Well, I’m glad you asked. Um, I received a troubling call this morning . . . from Peter Nussbaum’s brother.” I waited for the information to sink in. The judge simply stared. “You know, Peter was the Penn student who was murdered and—”

“What?? What? Why are you telling me this now? This is the kind of information I need immediately.”

“Well, Judge, you weren’t here this morning and—”

“No! No! No!” She retrieved the pencil and tapped it furiously against a book. Only Helga Friedman could make a pencil ominous. I looked down, waiting for the storm to pass.

“Well? What did you say to him?” she asked after what felt like several days.

I looked up sheepishly. “He said that Dell Nelson was a heathen and I told him I couldn’t talk to him—that it was against the rules. And then I hung up. Whole thing lasted less than twenty seconds,” I explained, bracing for another wrist slap.

“Good, that’s good, Sheila. That’s exactly what you should have done,” she said, sitting up straight. I’d done something right? Good even? “But how on earth did he know to call you? I know I didn’t exactly hide my feelings on the case during arguments, but our decisions haven’t been made public.” She rubbed her forehead.

“That was my thought exactly. I just don’t know—”