Anika from the ACLU had called a week earlier, wanting to schedule an interview “as soon as possible.” Judge Friedman’s newfound role as the Patron Saint of Liberty! Equality! and Justice for All! had rocketed my résumé to the top of the ACLU’s pile.

Pondering my outfit for the upcoming interview, I strolled through security and off the elevator.

“Sheerra!? Sheera?!”

“Yes, Judge!” I hurried into the torture chamber.

“The nurse’s aid just called”—a fleck of something decidedly heinous came flying out of her mouth, its whereabouts unknown—“and Bob is gone. He’s gone! He just walked out the door!” Where was that nasty fleck? I tried to remain focused on the issue at hand—a missing Bob. But the missing blob somehow seemed more compelling.

“And he’s neh-ked!” Okay, maybe missing, neh-ked Bob was more compelling. And embarrassing. The thought of a naked Bob made me blush. “He’s just so stupid!” She stood up, blue brief in her hand. “And I’m just too busy for this!” How anybody could be too busy to deal with their missing, eighty-five-year-old husband was beyond me.

“Um, Judge, maybe you should go home. You know, just in case he calls or something,” I ventured. Wrong answer.

“No! No! No!” I had hoped that spring would bring a new favorite catchphrase.

“Do you even know what I do here?” Yes, in fact, I do. You intimidate, frustrate, belittle, humiliate, and gross out everyone around you. “Federal judges can’t—can-not—just leave their chambers any old time! We have very important work to do. I am very important! Now get to work!”

Matthew was walking into the clerks’ cave as I beelined for my cubicle.

“What is that?!” he asked.

I reached for my forehead. Fleck found. I wiped it off, and sure enough, it was decidedly heinous. Chicken salad.

“I’m sorry, Sheila. That is disgusting. Really really disgusting!”

“Thanks, Matthew, as if I willingly put canned chicken on my face,” I whispered, dragging him to the back of chambers, where Kate was sleeping at her desk and Evan, having taken a lesson from the book of Matthew, was sitting up dead.

“Psst. You guys!” I said. Neither looked up. I tapped Kate on the shoulder. She lifted her head, drool streaming down her chin. Matthew slapped Evan into consciousness.

“Get this, you guys. Bob is missing. As in he finally escaped from that house. And apparently he’s naked.” I peered behind to ensure that the judge hadn’t crept in. Her new “sneaks” were extraspecial quiet. “And she’s flipped out,” I added.

“Hey, Sheila. What’s smeared on your forehead?” Evan asked, suddenly lucid.

“Chicken salad,” I answered matter-of-factly, calmly removing the additional flecks. Pregnant Kate gagged. This was no place for a child.