Just as my twitchy tendons were reaching for the keyboard again, Evan the judicial evangelist came sauntering by my desk, pausing so briefly I almost didn’t have to look up at him. Almost.

“Have you finished Robinson yet?” This was stated more as an accusation than a question. Accusation verified by his ever so polite pivot and turn. With his impossibly straight back facing me, Evan whispered: “Well, I’m handing in Welbert and with any luck will get something challenging.”

I truly didn’t know how Harvard Law School managed to do it, but somehow that place picked the world’s most vapid, chainsaw-to-spinal-cord annoying people to fill its esteemed corridors. Grades, LSAT scores, whatever. The true test was being able to irritate your grandmother into committing murder in a minute flat.

Alas! I heard a stir from behind. Could it be Matthew? I turned and indeed he had managed to sit up and was stretching in my direction. I furrowed my brow. He rolled his eyes. Translation. Me: “What?” Matthew: “Evan is a total moron.” Communication complete. Over the past few weeks, we had managed to master the universal language of judgment without actually speaking.

DING! “Thirteenth floor, going down!” It was the judge’s elevator, our only warning of her impending arrival.

“SHEEEEERAAAA!!! SHAYYYLLLLA!!!”

Not this again. The decibels I’d grown accustomed to. But my name was SHEILA. Not Sheera. Not Shayla. Not Sheba (though I secretly liked it when she called me Sheba).

“GET IN HERE NOW! ARE YOU DEAF?!!”

I wish.

I dashed into the torture chamber, skidding to a stop before the Honorable Helga Friedman. She was clearly pissed. Vertical eyebrows. Penciled in. Squinty eyes. Lips curled. Dancing bouffant. She was about to pounce. So was her bright red lipstick, which was curiously everywhere but on her lips.

“Yes, Judge.”

“I read your memo in W.A. versus Trenton. Do they not teach you English in Pakistan?”

Not the Pakistan thing again. I was Indian. Not that I was one of those Indians who hated Pakistan. It’s just that I wasn’t Pakistani. Just like I wasn’t Croatian.

“Your Hon—Your hon—”

“I surmise not. All I can say is that it doesn’t take a Supreme Court justice to interpret basic state statutes—and you failed to do even that!”

“I, um, Your Hon—”

“NO! NO! NO!”

The dreaded hat trick of noes. It wasn’t a good sign.

“I AM A FEDERAL JUDGE!”

Indeed, among other things.

“Can you even comprehend what I’m saying here? Can you?”

Eyes got even smaller. Bouffant started break-dancing. Little hand reached for big Supreme Court casebook. Slow mo. Hand lifted book.

“I just, um, thought—”

WHACK!

She’d nailed me, yet again. This time smack in the face.

“NOW, GET OUT! GET OUT!” She pounded her small fist on the desk.