“Yes, Judge.” He bowed like a drunk samurai and stumbled off. Incredible. The woman exposed her tonsils to the East Coast just to get a copy made? Maybe she was nuts? I’d never been around a certifiably crazy person before, so I couldn’t be sure. But for two days straight, all she’d done was alternately glare and stare. Today, she was pistol-whipping anyone in her path. It was clear she hated Roy most, which was particularly sad as it seemed like he was lacking in the self-confidence department to begin with.

Before Roy could screw up the xeroxing, it started again.

“JANET!!!!”

“Yes, Judge.” Those magic words again. Janet jumped into the torture chamber.

“Have we heard from Judge Adams in Morgan versus Taylor?” she asked, lips pursed.

“Um, er, Judge, her secretary just sent me an e-mail saying she needed to talk to you about Morgan before signing on.” Janet braced herself.

“What! What! Why are you just telling me this now?”

“Because I just got the e-mail a minute ago and—”

“Let’s not forget something! You work for me! Not for Judge Adams!”

“Yes, Judge.”

“That woman is getting way too big for her britches. I’m not taking this from her!!!” Judge Friedman obviously didn’t like Judge Adams. Then again, she didn’t seem to like anyone, not even her husband. Janet, the messenger, was caught in the crossfire.

“Judge, er, um, do you want me to call Judge Adams’s chambers?”

“No! I’ll call her myself. This is RIDICULOUS!” The fact that another judge actually read and wanted to comment on an opinion before it became law for thousands of people—that was ridiculous? “Give me her number,” the judge demanded.

“Um, OK, I’ll go get it.” Janet turned toward her desk.

“What? You don’t have it here? Forget it. I’ll do it myself. Can’t you do anything? You, you, you’re so stupid you make me want to die. Get out!”

The judge never called Judge Adams. Instead, she sat behind her desk for the rest of the day, muttering to herself about “big britches” and how “this will have to stop.” The woman talked to herself all afternoon, which I strangely preferred to her staring. Having her occupied with something enabled me to make headway on the labor case. By the time she picked up her phone, I’d waded through a dozen cases and was about to commence my bench memo.

“Good afternoon, Judge Fleck’s chambers,” said a timid-sounding voice. It was Brian.

Lucky for me, the judge seemed fond of the speakerphone.

“It’s Judge Friedman. Give me Judge Fleck.”

“Sure. Um, um, Your Honor.” Brian was such a Goody Two-shoes. He was one of those law students who often stayed after class to tell the professor how “interesting” his or her lecture had been. But when faced with a real-life judge, Brian could barely speak.