I jumped, practically knocking Matthew over. “Just don’t say anything. She wants us in there.” I pointed toward the torture chamber. His concern transformed to obvious fear. I touched Matthew’s arm and continued: “It’ll be fine. Just don’t say anything. Wait here.” I ran back to retrieve Evan, who was still sitting and reading like a gnome. I couldn’t tell if he had progressed or was staring at the same page from before.

“Evan, she wants to see us,” I explained. He looked up sheepishly but wasn’t budging. Desperate times called for desperate measures. I leaned over, grabbed his arm, yanked the blue brief from his grasp, and pulled him up.

“Come with me,” I insisted, prying him from his chair. Collecting Matthew along the way, we scurried past Medieval Roy and Janet, who had bowed their heads and stopped breathing. No wonder Roy preferred twelfth-century Ireland. A more innocent time and place.

“SHEEEEBBBAA!!!”

We were standing shoulder to shoulder in the torture chamber before she could even finish slaughtering my name for the second time in less than a minute. The judge approached. The intrepid investigator. The glaring began. Up, down, left, right, and then again. This whodunit charade was particularly aggravating because our short Sherlock Holmes was herself holding the smoking gun, which, incidentally, contained a signed confession by the culprit, who was definitely not in the lineup at that moment.

Incredibly, though, today wasn’t about Laura. Instead, it was about the three clerks whose only crime was showing up for work on time. With letter in hand, the judge dragged all twenty inches of herself and her lengthier leg toward me and parked it.

“Sheila!” Did she have any other words in her repertoire?

“What do you know about this?!” She shoved the letter, which I could have sworn was actually steaming, in my face.

“Ummm. Ahhh—”

“DO YOU THINK I’M A—” she was searching the letter for Laura’s exact words—a HOSTILE BITCH?!”

Wow. Did Laura actually say that? The judge stood staring. Waiting. Oh no, she actually wanted an answer.

Am I a hostile bitch? Yes? Maybe? Was I under oath? Could I lie to a federal judge? To spare my life. Definitely.

“No,” I perjured myself softly. But it wasn’t a lie technically. “Crazy” seemed more accurate. It didn’t matter; my answer wasn’t good enough. The judge stood there, inches away from me, glaring. Tail in air. Bun twitching. It appeared that her bouffant twitched when angry. Left, right, left, right. A true marvel. Thankfully, as I became engrossed in her epileptic hair, she lost interest in me. She turned to Evan.