“As of about ninety seconds ago, she was fine. She just wants to get out,” Matthew explained.

“DAMN IT, I’M IN A HOLE!” The judge had managed to roll down her window from twenty feet under.

“That seems clear. Wow, she’s got a voice on her,” the cop noted, wincing.

“You have no idea,” Matthew said, chuckling.

“She’s also going to be arrested, your boss.” The thought of the judge in handcuffs, while alluring, was absurd. “Seems that your boss didn’t feel like obeying the road sign.” He pointed to a quadrangular orange sign that read, DANGER: MEN AT WORK. “This manhole was surrounded by orange cones and your boss just plowed through and I guess her car went in. At least that’s what a couple of witnesses said.” He shook his head slowly from side to side, just like the cops did on TV. “If she’s OK, then I’m sure her car is totally wrecked. And she’s damn lucky all the construction workers had headed home about twenty minutes earlier. If anyone had been hurt, she’d be looking at a misdemeanor at least. Felony maybe.”

The reality was sinking in much like the judge’s car. Judge Friedman was in a hole on Market Street. The lady hadn’t lied.

“I don’t know what possessed me to return to this.” Matthew shook his head.

“Well I, for one, am thrilled you did. Can you please promise not to ditch again?” I begged.

Matthew smiled: “Deal, Sheera.”

It took a little more than an hour for a tow truck to come and yank the judge’s red BMW out of the gaping hole. The car was unscathed, without a single scratch. The cops and remaining bystanders looked amazed. I wasn’t. I knew she’d get out of it. It’d take a hell of a lot more than a twenty-foot manhole to hurt her or anything she owned. What was incredible was that the judge appeared to be furious—much like she did after awakening from her nap on the bench that morning. She surfaced from the hole, thrusting her minifist in the air like Louis Farrakhan. Matthew and I walked over to the driver’s side to help her out.

“NO! NO! NO!” She swatted us like flies, practically falling out of her car in the process. She was still wearing her robe and the chicken salad—making the whole scenario unquestionably the weirdest one I’d witnessed to date.

“Are you OK, Judge?” I asked.

“Where are they? Where is the moron who did this?” she demanded angrily. I considered shoving a mirror in her disheveled face. Three cops slowly walked over. They had reason to be apprehensive. Rabies wasn’t out of the question.

“Ma’am, we’re going to have to talk to you.” One reached for her shoulder.

“You will not talk to me. I want to know who’s responsible. I AM A FEDERAL JUDGE!” she yelled, yanking her arm away. These guys couldn’t have cared if she were Playboy’s Playmate of the Year. They’d just spent the past two hours redirecting traffic from Market, the main artery of Philly, during rush hour. I smiled on the inside while maintaining a stern poker face. She was aghast.