“Judge, his train stopped miles outside of Philly. He’s walking here. I’m sure he’ll be here as soon as he can”—I reached for the phone—“I can call him.”

“No! No! No! You cannot use the phone—haven’t you been here long enough to realize that?”

An e-mail popped up—it was from Puja.

“Are you OK? We’re worried sick. After you left, the judge called here, screaming at me, thinking it was you. I explained to her that I was your sister and that you were on your way to work. She said that she was a federal judge and then hung up on me. Please let us know you’re OK. She’s even scarier than you said. XOXO, Puj.”

Never before had the judge called me at home. For some reason, that was one boundary she’d respected. This was definitely unusual. I peered to my left. Act 2 was in full swing. Small judge behind big desk. Twitching. Agitated by nothing to do. Click. Speakerphone. First on her list. Judge Fleck. No answer. Judge Haskell. No answer. Judges Stevens, Greenman, and Newburg. Nothing. It was when nobody picked up at Judge Adams’s chamber that she slammed down the phone, jumped up, and started hollering.

“Nobody around here works. Nobody but me. ME ME ME! And to think that that woman is going to be a Supreme Court justice!” I crouched. “Damn it! Shit! This is ridiculous.” I tilted my head for a better view. Bun tilted to the side, hanging on for dear life.

“Shit. Damn. Damn it. Fuck. Fuck it.” And my personal favorite. “Fuckshit.”

At that moment, every American should have breathed a deep sigh of relief, knowing that the third branch of their government—the federal judiciary—was in good hands.

Suddenly, her bun came to a rest. She sat down, clearly pooped. Who wouldn’t be after that performance? But I was mistaken. It was time for accolades not for a nap. The judge started clapping, wide-eyed. She was ecstatic. Euphoric. The courthouse was a nuclear wasteland, and we were the only survivors. Not only did she, the general, make it out alive, but she’d saved her troops. Me and comatose Kate. Just as she was about to bestow herself a Medal of Honor, her phone rang. She picked it up instantly. It was her niece Dana, whom she occasionally referred to as her “best friend.”

“Aunt Judgie, what on earth are you doing at work?”

“Well, Dana, being a judge is not like being a housewife. I actually have a LOT of work to do.” Work included muttering, pacing, slinging profanities, specifically ruining her maids’ days as part of a grander scheme to ruin their lives.

“But, how did you get there? The roads aren’t even plowed!”

“I drove.” The judge was standing now, patting her bun.

“But what about Uncle Bob?” Bob Shmob.