“What’s the issue?” she demanded. To be fair, I should have known the issue after two full days.

“Um. Well, it’s this union and they’re mad because they say that, um—”

ZAP!

“I do not have time for this nonsense. You’re rilly rilly slow and not at all clear. I have law clerks to quickly—and succinctly—state the issues. I want that bench memo on Monday!”

That gave me three days to figure out how to escape the chamber, change my identity, and find a nice two-bedroom Afghani cave.

As soon as the judge assumed staring position in her office, she picked up the phone. This was a first. For such an important woman, the judge didn’t receive many calls. Over the past two days, the phone hadn’t rung once. She didn’t call anyone either. I was curious. She was probably just calling Philip Morris and RJ Reynolds to let them know she’d just put them out of business. It was the least she could do.

RING! Speakerphone. I’d get to hear the whole thing!

“HU-LLO,” a very old, dear-sounding man answered.

“BOB! BOB! BOB!” Heavy breathing from his end. “Go outside! Sit on the patio—that’s why I had it built, damn it!” With that, she slammed the phone and started screaming again. “Where’s what’s-his-name? What’s-his-name! What’s-his-name!!”

What the heck was going on? What was what’s-his-name? I pretended to keep working. At this rate, I’d definitely have the memo finished within three to four years.

“Where. Is. He?” Type. Type. Type. “Shandraaaaaa!!!!” I jumped for the second time that day, and it wasn’t even 9 AM.

“Yes, Judge.” Maybe I’d been too harsh on Roy. The words “Yes, Judge” were the only ones that produced themselves.

“Where is who’s-it?”

Who was who’s-it and how was I supposed to know his or her whereabouts? And wasn’t it totally clear that I didn’t know anything about anything.

“Him. Him!” She pointed out the door, in the direction of Roy.

Case cracked. Roy apparently had multiple personalities. In addition to being a middle-aged, fanny-pack-wearing secretary and a twelfth-century tribal poet singer from Ireland, Roy was also “what’s-his-name” and “who’s-it.” How obvious.

“Um. I’m not sure, Judge. He must have just gone to the bath—”

“Yes, Judge!” Who’s-it came plowing into her office from who-knows-where. Thank God.

“I know you can’t do anything, but xerox this,” she snarled, shoving a crumpled piece of paper in his traumatized face.