“Yes, Judge,” I carefully asked, shoving Nelson’s trial transcript under a brief.

“Hi, Sheila, please come to my office and bring Matthew and Evan.”

The weirdest part of her command was not the fact that she’d forgotten that Matthew had walked out but that she sounded nice, got all of our names right, and said please. Something smelled in Philadelphia and it wasn’t my underpants. When I went to collect Evan, he was sitting perfectly still with a pocket copy of the Constitution in one hand and a U.S. Reports—which contained Supreme Court cases—in the other. He had a creepy smile on his face.

“Hey, Evan,” I said, gingerly interrupting his mental masturbation.

“God, I love the takings clause. It is just amazing!” he quietly exclaimed to his computer. Jiminy crickets! Who loved the takings clause?—an utterly neutral clause that doesn’t let the government take your property without “just compensation.” Loving the First Amendment or the equal protection clause would be understandable. But the takings clause? It was like loving mops.

“Hey, Evan, I hate to rip you away from your little Constitution, but the judge wants to see us.” He almost started hyperventilating with excitement.

“She—she wants to see me?” He pointed dramatically to himself, as if he’d just landed the lead in Mamma Mia. He probably would have started doing his hair and makeup had I not grabbed him and dragged him out of his seat.

We entered the torture chamber to the happiest judge I’d ever seen. Nobody mentioned Matthew. I wondered how long Evan would pretend that he hadn’t heard all the commotion.

“Come around here and take a look and see,” the judge said, pointing to her computer, still flashing her sparkling fake pearls. Her screen was filled with electronic people standing in front of a big glass building with the words—in big bubble red, white, and blue—“NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE CENTER, JULY 4.”

“Isn’t it wonderful!” she crooned.

“Yes, it’s amazing!” Evan impulsively ass-kissed. It was unclear what the amazing part was. Computers? Yes, computers were amazing. Completely ignoring Evan, she turned to me.

“Sheila, what do you think?” Think? I didn’t think about anything except how stupid and unhappy I was.

“Ah, it’s great,” I lied. That’s all it took. Her curtain call.

“You see, law clerks, I’m on the board of the Independence Center. And tomorrow night we’re having a big awards ceremony for all the survivors from the internment.” The two of us nodded ferociously. “See this?” She clicked on something and all of a sudden we were inside Stephen Sondheim’s Pacific Overtures. Japanese graphics flew across the screen, with a TV commercial kind of male voice narrating how America had royally screwed over the Japanese during World War II. We watched and watched and watched.

At the end of the lengthy matinee, the judge swiveled around, tears in her eyes. Barely able to speak, she murmured: “Isn’t it just so moving?” Her chapped lips trembled. Pulling an All My Children move, Evan managed to tear up himself.