“First of all, for the sake of full disclosure—I’ve known about this nomination thing for a while, but Kevin made me swear on my life not to tell anyone, so I couldn’t tell you. Well, actually I was going to tell you the other night before you took off for New York. Anyway, as for what the judge is talking about. I think it’s exactly what it sounded like.”

“Damn! I wish I’d stuck around. Advance notice would have been nice, especially considering how annoying my night in New York was.” Matthew paused to take a bite of a dumpling. “Anyway, what are we supposed to do? Spy on Judge Adams? And what does Dell Nelson and a dead man’s brother have to do with any of this? Is she saying that Adams is unethical because she doesn’t think that Dell Nelson should get a new hearing? Wrong?—yes. Unethical?—I don’t think so.”

Matthew had gotten up to speed on the basics of Dell Nelson’s case over the past few weeks. But we’d yet to sit down and discuss the details. It had occurred to me that we couldn’t even start writing the dissent until Judge Adams sent us her opinion. Dissents, after all, were written in opposition to the majority opinion.

“Well, it’s maybe partially that,” I said and pushed my greasy plate away. “But what I think she’s really pissed about is that call I got from Peter Nussbaum’s brother. And I can’t blame her for that. You have to admit—it’s pretty messed up that the guy (a) knew how Friedman was voting for sure on the case and (b) knew to call my line directly and actually got the number, which is unlisted.”

“You know I totally forgot about that. And you’re right, it is weird,” Matthew said, halfway amused. “But, it almost seems normal in this case. The briefs in the Nelson case read like a trashy novel. The drugs. The money. Had there been any juicy sex scenes, Heidi would probably want to take them down the shore for beach reading.”

“Speaking of—is Heidi in Fort Lauderdale for Thanksgiving?” I asked, signaling the waiter for hot tea.

“Yup. She’s at her sister’s place. Something about Thanksgiving in South Florida seems strange”—he paused—“but who am I to judge? I’m spending Thanksgiving by myself with a TV dinner. Hey, I have a good one.” Matthew perked up. “Would you rather spend Thanksgiving with Roy and his wife or”—he paused to reflect—“give the Judge an hour-long foot massage in the torture chamber.” Matthew’s would-you-rathers had accelerated, both in quantity and quality, revealing an innate talent for the game.

“It’d have to be the massage,” I said, wincing. “Can you imagine what Roy must eat for Thanksgiving? And what he wears? Roasted hyena with an armored thong. No thanks.”