Tuesday: similar racial, gender, aesthetic breakdown. “When’s the sun gonna come out? We’ve just had the worst summer!” “I just don’t know. Never saw a summer like this one.” Reno: Nothing.

Wednesday: See Tuesday + “isitalmosttheweekendyet?” Reno: Nothing.

Thursday: See Wednesday + “It’s supposed to rain Saturday morning but then get nice for a few hours Saturday afternoon, and then rain Saturday night and then Sunday is a wash but for maybe one hour in the afternoon. And—it’s almost Friday!” Reno: Twitched.

I dreaded the elevators as much, if not more, than the guards. The only saving grace was that the judges had separate, but unequal, elevators. As I battled the chanting phoniacs and engaged in meteorological banter about how Wednesday was not Friday and Monday was actually Monday but it was almost Friday on Thursday, the judges parked their luxury cars in a private underground garage and rode a private elevator straight to their respective chambers. This contemporary Plessy v. Ferguson regime proved ineffective, as the craziest person in that place was a certain robed rascal who wouldn’t hesitate blowing up anybody who failed to give her due respect.

Reluctantly, I hopped the ’vator for the masses along with two girls around the same age as me—clerks, I surmised—and one woman who looked like she’d just swallowed some nails for breakfast—plaintiff’s attorney, definitely. It didn’t seem like anyone knew anyone else. Maybe I’d be spared. Wrong again. Plaintiff’s attorney turned to me—gasp!—“Thank God it’s Friday.” DING! Thirteenth floor.

And there I was. The early battles of the morning had obfuscated the grander war I’d be facing that day. Laura had quit and the judge didn’t know yet.

Entering the clerk’s cave, I remembered happily that the new clerks would be there. Medieval Roy had already guided them to their respective cubicles, both of which were in the very back of chambers—farther away from the judge’s office and out of her immediate sight. I’d been geographically screwed. I put down my purse and glanced behind at Laura’s cubicle. Empty. Chair meticulously tucked under desk. Computer off. Multicolored case carefully closed and neatly stacked. You wouldn’t have even known she’d been there but for the one that got away—a plastic Twinkies wrapper. I had to hand it to Laura, the wrapper was a clever and final fuck you.

Maybe Laura had more chutzpah than I’d thought. But I’d spent enough valuable moments thinking about Laura and couldn’t spare any more. Laura had made her bed and shoved me and the new clerks into it. We’d be paying for her “sins.” Speaking of which, I had to warn—never mind introduce myself to—Matthew and Evan.