With each stroke, more color left Matthew’s face, leaving him pasty and pale. Kate stood in the corner like leftover salmon. The judge caught a glimpse of her and noted: “Oh yeah. That’s Ja-Ja-Sylvia. She’s from Cornell. But from forever ago.” Then as an afterthought, she added: “My chambers are like the United Nations. I have one black,” she said, pointing to Evan with a smile (which he returned), and then she touched my back, “one Pakistani,” moving onto Kate, “here’s my Jew,” then back to Matthew, “and the White.”

“That’s nice, Helga,” the male judge muttered.

“Law clerks—this is Judge Stevens,” she said. Then, quickly spinning around to the female judge, “and this is Judge Adams.” Her bun twitched and she turned green, exposing pure envy. I wanted to hug Judge Adams, tell her that I loved her.

Judge Friedman was talking like a windup doll on crystal meth, about this and that and then this and that again. We all just stood there until—thankfully—Judge Stevens whimpered: “Helga, Linda, we ought to get going.”

Before proceeding through the special judge door, Friedman directed us to another, lesser passageway: “Law clerks, through there.” Our United Nations delegation passed through the secret clerk entrance to the courtroom, which was packed.

“Um, Sheila, um, I’m not, um, Jewish,” Kate whispered.

“I’m not Pakistani. Just play along. You are Jewish for the year.” She looked puzzled. She’d learn. Judge Stevens’s and Adams’s clerks had already taken their positions along the side of the room. The clerk of the court directed us to place Judge Friedman’s materials in front of her empty chair, which we did in no particular order. That wasn’t good. In a place steeped in methodical process, our arbitrary preparations didn’t bode well. But to my knowledge, none of us was a mind reader and there was no training; we weren’t allowed to talk to the judge unless addressed by her, Medieval Roy had about as much information as a tongueless cat, and Anna Wintour was more approachable than Janet. We were alone.

The four of us took our seats, next to Judge Adams’s clerks. I sandwiched myself between Matthew and Kevin, who grimaced at me after a careful once-over. I couldn’t blame him. I was clearly the front-runner for worst-dressed in a courtroom full of pleats and polyester. There was one bald guy standing in the back who was wearing tight black slacks that were too short, revealing thick, hairy ankles, and an oversized red-and-black-striped shirt that was barely tucked in, revealing a brown braided belt. He was my only real competition. And I was pretty sure I had him beat.