To me, “ineffective” seemed like a nice way of describing Tip Evans’s services. A compliment almost. Horrific, god-awful, disgraceful would have been more accurate. The Pennsylvania Supreme Court didn’t agree, finding that, while “not great,” Evans’s performance nonetheless fell within the “permissible range of competency” after reviewing the Tipper’s explanations for not questioning Kyle Cooper and failing to call mitigation witnesses (i.e., “those sisters of his were trampy and would have made a bad impression.”) The federal district court agreed. As far as I was concerned, Nelson deserved relief even under AEDPA’s strict standards.

BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ. It was the judge.

“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.