“Shhh,” she sternly lifted one finger. I hadn’t been shushed since the second grade. Just as she was about to speak, her phone rang. “Hello, Doctor,” she answered, motioning me to leave.

After several hours of wading through death penalty opinions, the judge catapulted from her office, purse in one hand, behemoth sunglasses perched precariously atop her bun: “Those stupid doctors can’t do anything!”

Before Matthew and I could respond, she’d planted herself smack in the middle of the clerks’ cave, speaking to nobody and everybody all at once. “I want all of your bench memos immediately! We rilly have to move, people! We have A LOT to do! Evan! Karin! Do you hear me?” Evan and Kate hurried over. “You all—all of you. Michael. Michael? Sheera? Are you listening?” Everyone in the state of Pennsylvania was listening.

“Yes, Judge.” In unison.

“You people are the slowest clerks I’ve ever had—EVER! We have so much to do and it’s not getting done, thanks to you people. Now I want whatever you’re working on on my desk tomorrow and you each will take new cases.” And she sped off to decapitate some poor unsuspecting cardiologist. DING! Thirteenth floor, going down.

Evan started wobbling. “I . . . I . . . There’s just no way. No way I can finish my memo. I just got the briefs two days ago. What am I going to do?” Matthew didn’t say a word, grabbed his stuff, and motioned me to follow. Predictably Kate didn’t respond and walked away, leaving me holding the bag. It was hard to believe that after four months, Evan hadn’t realized that the judge forgot almost everything she said the moment she said it.

“Evan, forget it. Why don’t you go home and get some rest. We’re going to need it for the next few weeks.” There. I’d done my duty. I grabbed my purse and jacket and followed Matthew, leaving Evan paralyzed in the dimly lit clerks’ cave.

Chapter Twelve

Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.

—Benjamin Franklin

“I can’t. Cannot believe she came here from Indianapolis! It’s beyond creepy,” James exclaimed, exasperated. Brian had ditched us for his mother, whom he’d called in an utter panic about the bar exam. She took the first flight out of Indianapolis that morning and was waiting for him at his apartment with a broccoli chicken casserole when he got home from work. Rather than being unnerved by his mother’s surprise visit, Brian exhibited something quite contrary—pride. So prideful, in fact, that he’d sent me an e-mail titled “great news.”