The others, including Matthew, sat speechless. What could they say?

There was nothing anyone could do to prevent what lay ahead.

Evan hid behind normalcy. “Good morning, Sheila.” Smile. “How are you, Sheila?” Smile. “Good morning, Matthew.” Smile. “How are you, Matthew?” George Washington was woodchucking my brain. While I probably smelled like burnt bungus, Evan smelled worse—reeked of Watergate-style cover-up. Who was he kidding? Every clerk this side of Cambodia was going to know he failed by noon, that is if they didn’t know already.

Kate paid me a visit. “Hey, Sheila, is everything OK with Evan? He seems, you know . . . different.”

Was I in the right place? Evan was chatting everyone up. Kate lost the stutter. What would be next? Janet would compliment Roy? Roy would brush his teeth? Maybe it was opposite day. Maybe the judge would come in and actually reward all of us with candies and sweets for being such good law clerks. And she’d give Evan an extra special treat, knowing he was hurting from his fall. Only time would tell. After sneering at me on my way to my cubicle, Janet muttered something about the judge having a doctor’s appointment in New Jersey at 9 AM. She still made it to work by 9:30. I suspected it was that electric broom again.

The witch was in the house, and there wasn’t a sack of treats in sight. Even worse, she didn’t walk through either the clerks’ cave or secretaries’ den to insult anyone. Instead, she went through her secret judge door and straight into the torture chamber. This didn’t bode well. Her morning insults, while unpleasant, signaled at least a mediocre mood. Silence could only mean one thing—a shit storm was on the horizon, one that would gain momentum after the clerk of the court sent out his annual pass/fail e-mail to every judge on the third circuit. Bringing dishonor to the Honorable Helga Friedman was a crime of epic proportions, and as I’d learned, Pennsylvania was trigger-happy when it came to the death penalty.

From the corner of my left eye, I could see the judge sitting, seething at her desk. What was pissing her off this super fine morning? She picked up the phone. Per usual, it was on speaker. “Give me Dr. Fermez.”

“Sorry, ma’am, Dr. Fernandez is in surgery.”

“Do you even know who I am? Do you? I am a FEDERAL JUDGE!” A twenty-foot manhole and international media blitz hadn’t taught her. Like the police officer, the hospital administrator couldn’t have cared less if she was a federal judge. The fact was, a federal judge should have known that if a cardiac surgeon ditched surgery for a call—any call—even one from the president of the United States—he’d be wiped out by malpractice.