“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.

“Yes, it’s really beautiful,” he whimpered. Evan was the greatest jackass ever to have lived. It was a small wonder that some beefcake hadn’t pummeled him to death in college. As for the judge, she was most definitely insane. I couldn’t be more sympathetic to the victims of the internment, but her sheer audacity! She’d spent her day eviscerating two of her law clerks and now she was crying for Japanese victims from five decades ago? She again ignored Evan and turned to me.

“What did you think, Sheila?” she sniveled. While I had no clue what the Independence Center was, I did know that I was about to spontaneously combust.

“I think it’s wonderful you are recognizing the survivors. They deserve it.” I had her at you.

“Very well, you all have worked so hard today. Why don’t you go home,” she said, as if releasing us twenty-three minutes early atoned for her sins of the day.

I was out of there lickety-split. Evan stayed behind. As I collected my belongings, I overheard him ask the judge, “Do you think I could go to the awards ceremony tomorrow?” Had he absolutely no shame? And why on earth would anyone want to spend an evening—let alone a Friday night—with the judge? It was for persons like Evan that the word dickweed was invented. Friedman thought so, too.

“No.” Plain and simple.

As I was about to make a break for it, the judge yelled over Evan’s defeated shoulder, “Sheila, Sheila, you live in Center City, right?” She’d asked me that no less than a dozen times.

“Yes, Judge.”

“I’ll drive you home.” It was an order. And just like that, the judge stripped me of my cherished walk home.

“I live in Center City, in Rittenhouse,” Evan piped in. The judge also lived in Rittenhouse Square. She wouldn’t be able to get out of that one.

“Well, get your things together, Esther. We’re leaving in two minutes.”