“It’s fine, just fine,” I fibbed again, “and I’m looking forward to our sitting. I have this one death penalty case that I’m really excited about.”

“Ha! You’re working on the Dell Nelson–Peter Nussbaum one, huh? I am, too. But since we’re not supposed to be talking about cases, I should probably shut my trap.” She paused. “But we should have lunch after the sitting,” Betsy suggested cheerily.

“Sure, that’d be great,” I said, getting off the elevator. Entering the secretaries’ den, there was Eddie hovering over Janet’s desk. Eddie was the chamber’s janitor, and aside from a predilection for cleaning the bathroom barefoot, Eddie was by all accounts a normal sweet guy. He loved his two teenage daughters, college football, and didn’t for a second seem perturbed that after a stint in the United States Army, he’d been relegated to a life of scrubbing toilets for old, mean people who treated him like he was lucky that he got to serve them. God bless America!

But even Eddie wouldn’t talk to Medieval Roy, who was sedulously watering the judge’s plants. While the mere existence of Roy was depressing enough to make a chicken want to cut its own head off, there was something particularly sad about him watering the judge’s plants. It was inexplicably extraspecial demeaning.

“Good morning, Roy.” I couldn’t mask my pity. He turned skittishly, knocking over an entire stack of briefs from decades ago. Janet jumped out of her seat, nearly decapitating one of the three Pound Puppies on top of her computer and cutting off whatever Eddie was saying to her midstream.

“Roy! Roy! Can’t you do anything right?!”

Roy started stuttering. The great medievalist. A few days earlier, Roy had proudly presided over a fifteenth-century feast, after which he had presumably had his way with thirteenth-century wenches from Jersey. Today, he stood over a pile of antiquated briefs, holding a pink water jug, madly batting his lashes at an angry, born-again Christian secretary. But, I couldn’t blame him. Janet scared the bejesus out of me, too.

“Pick all of that up RIGHT now, Roy,” Janet said. “I will not be blamed for your stupidity!” Eddie and I just stood. I felt partially responsible. It was me, after all, who had said good morning. “Now, about your daughter”—Janet casually returned to her conversation with Eddie—“I will definitely pray for her this weekend,” she promised, smiling. I just stood.

“Um, good morning, Eddie. Janet,” I said finally. Eddie smiled at me.

“Hitheresheilahow’reyoui’mOKhoney.” That was the best part about Eddie. He anticipated your question and answered it before you could even ask. The whole string of words—incomprehensible. Janet? I’m not sure there was a best part about her.