“You think I’d tell Mrs. Judge that I didn’t do this on my own?” the aid said, shaking her head. “No sirree Bob.” Bob looked up at the mention of his name. He hadn’t said a word since leaving the deli. As Matthew and I shut the door, he peered out the window and smiled, a small tear running down his face.

Chapter Eighteen

A white lie is a lie which is believed harmless or innocuous, or is in accordance with the conventions of the culture. A common example of a white lie is, “You look marvelous.”

It came as no shock that the judge forgot having green-lighted my interview at the ACLU. While insisting that I come to work before and after the interview (bookending the day with a few minutes), she’d nevertheless been “thrilled” that one of her law clerks was considering something “meaningful” rather than the “rilly silly” law firm route. Never mind that the judge had spent well over a decade engaging in such banalities, as a partner at one of Philadelphia’s white-shoe firms.

It was just after nine in the morning. I’d arrived at work fifteen minutes earlier, giving me just enough time for a bathroom chat with myself.

“Sheila, where do you think you’re going,” the judge sneered, as if I were trying to pull a fast one.

“To my ACLU interview?” I asked/stated as I entered the torture chamber.

“Hmf! You’re getting too big for your britches!” she said. Well, that was definitely true. Subway apparently didn’t make everyone skinny, like their commercials claimed.

“OK, well then, I’ll see you afterward, Judge.” I quickly backpedaled my way out and shut the door just as she prepared to fire her triple noes. Interviews were unnerving enough and her reaction wasn’t exactly inspiring confidence.

“Janet, Roy, hey, I’m heading to New York for a job interview this afternoon, so I’ll see you both later.”

“Isn’t that nice—a little trip to New York,” Janet replied, her eyes collapsing into two slits. “Well, in case you care—Bob’s doctor called a short bit ago and he’s not expected to last long”—she nodded toward the torture chamber—“she’s not very happy about it.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, thinking that death sounded more peaceful than Bob’s current life. Heck, it sounded more peaceful in general.

Medieval Roy swiveled around in this chair. “Kick ass, Sheila, kick ass,” he said, giving me a thumbs-up.

“Thanks, Roy, I’ll try.”

Matthew accompanied me to the elevator.

“Sheila.” He grabbed both of my shoulders, squarely looking at me. “You’re going to do great. The ACLU loves Friedman right now—you’re totally set.”

I could hear the judge screaming a version of Matthew’s name in the distance.