“Ugh,” Roy gurgled, his top hat tilting just a bit. He wasn’t going to survive the day, I just knew it. I also knew we had to find Esther. Four-one-one—no Esther Friedman. White pages—not there either. We didn’t know her married name. According to Janet, Bob had cut off ties with her at the behest of the judge many moons ago. So, Janet had absolutely no record of Esther. Drastic times called for drastic measures. I called the judge at home.

“Um, Judge, we—”

“Where are you people? You people are supposed to be here! It’s rilly rilly embarrassing that my people aren’t here. I am a judge, a federal—”

“Judge, it’s only nine-ten right now. Is anyone even at your house?”

“Well, er, Sheera, the caterers are here and the flowers and—”

“Judge, we are trying to locate your sister-in-law, Est—”

“NO! NO! NO! I do not have time for this. I do not have time for her. Get over here now!” Click. She’d clearly forgotten her request from three minutes earlier. We collectively shrugged our shoulders and hopped a cab to the judge’s.

I didn’t know what I’d expected of the judge’s home, but whatever it was, it wasn’t this. Stunning prewar brownstone on tree-lined Locust Street. Window plants abounded. Bright red door, gold handle.

“PEOPLE, WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?!” There she stood, black pantsuit barely on, zipper undone, buttons halfway through their holes. Most alarming was the apparent confusion of lipstick for eyeshadow. Her perfectly rounded, fresh bun didn’t do much to fix the picture. “People, people, Sheera! This is unacceptable. You cannot come and go as you please!” The four of us stood, staring. Factor in our costumes and it felt like a botched trick-or-treating.

She dragged us inside. “What’s that? What’s that?” she asked, pointing to Medieval Roy’s head. He petted his goatee, smiling nervously.

“Yes, Judge.” For once, that particular answer was totally wrong. She furrowed her lipstick-laden eyebrows and jumped up to swat at his top hat. Roy remained as still as a dead church mouse. Once, twice, three times a charm. It came toppling off his greasy head. Perhaps lobotomies were common at certain medieval functions. The judge kicked the hat. She was wearing new sneaks for the occasion. We proceeded through her immaculate house. It just couldn’t be. Light streamed in through large french windows hitting dark hardwood floors, only partially covered by lavish Oriental rugs. Seeing the judge in such a pleasant environment was rilly rilly rattling.

The doorbell rang. I answered it. Standing before my eyes was a rival United Nations delegation. The Namibian, the White, and the Mixed. An ignorant outsider would probably mistake them for your basic American family.