I stood up, put my coat back on, and returned to my cubicle, unwilling to acquiesce once again to the judge’s penal system for failed emissaries. Matthew and I had been working tirelessly on the Nelson case. We’d spent the month bowing happily to the judge’s every wish, which included finding, reading, and rereading pertinent death penalty cases, making copies of them, and shuttling them to various judges’ chambers.

The battle lines were being drawn and Judges Adams and Friedman were negotiating alliances for their respective sides. In the end, Judge Friedman was able to convince eight of the twelve active judges on the third circuit, more than the simple majority required, to hear Nelson’s case en banc.

This was no small victory for the judge, who’d become a centerpiece for the national debate on the death penalty, civil liberties advocates serving as her biggest fans. Considering the somewhat somber view these particular individuals had taken of the Bush administration’s phone tapping program, I didn’t think that espionage would do much to bolster Friedman’s currently untarnished image.

As I stared at the gray-blue clouds hovering over Camden, the judge careened into my cubicle.

Spoken: “Did you bring lunch?” (Unspoken: You maid, you can’t get lunch because you were late. In fact, I want you to clean my bathroom because Eddie didn’t come today.)

Spoken: “No.” (Unspoken: I didn’t even get to change my underwear.) The judge suddenly transformed into a magician, producing two mangled packets of ramen from behind her back.

Correction: untarnished public image.

“Here”—she thrust them an inch from my eye—“take one and give the other to Kate. Bob can’t eat them anymore. Too much salt.” I reached for the petrified pork and chicken, doing the math. If she’d bought the packets when Bob could still eat salt, they were at least two decades old.

“Thanks, Judge,” I managed to say, staring down at the microwavable witches’ brew.

“You are most welcome,” she smiled. I smelled tuna fish on her breath.

“You know, that Evan and that Matthew, I just can’t count on them like I can you and that pregnant one.” This was her peace offering.

“Thanks, Judge.”

“She’s rilly rilly fat,” the judge said with a lowered voice, pointing to the back, before retuning to the torture chamber.

I walked to the back, like a cop delivering bad news.

“Hey, Kate. How are you?”

“I’m, um, I’m kind of tired.” Kate glanced at the clock. “It’s only, um, eleven-fifteen in the morning and I, um, need to take a nap.” And she did. Right on her desk. I placed her ramen next to her conked-out face.

“Where’s Markhew? Where is he?” the judge screamed at me from the torture chamber.