“You know what, Judge, I am in a huge hurry so . . .” I fumbled, attempting to come up with an excuse. No need—the judge already had lost interest in me. The woman had created the biggest spectacle in Philadelphia since the signing of the Constitution and what did she do? She turned to Judge Fleck to bad-mouth the police officer.

I must have unconsciously broken into a jog because Matthew was out of breath when he caught up to me several blocks from the courthouse.

“Sheila,” he panted, “wait up. I just missed my train and the next one’s not for over an hour. So, I thought maybe you’d want to grab a drink or something?”

“Sorry about that—I just couldn’t be there another second,” I apologized. “I’d love to get a drink but I really need to get to Banana Republic before it closes to—well, you know,” I pointed to the shoulder pads.

“Well, I for one think your suit is very, um, well, very ah—retro? But, I’d be happy to go with you, I mean, if, if that’s OK by you?” He looked down sheepishly, fidgeting with his jacket button. People never ceased to amaze me—this was a guy who’d told his boss (a federal judge!) to fuck off but felt shy to ask a colleague about shopping.

“Sure, that’d be great,” I said and touched his shoulder, attempting to put him at ease. “My boyfriend, Sanjay, refuses to shop with me anywhere, ever.”

“Well,” Matthew said, blushing, “Heidi, I think I mentioned, really likes the mall, so I’m used to it. And I didn’t know you had a boyfriend. Is he a lawyer?” It started to rain and the two of us picked up the pace.

“He’s a radiology resident in Virginia, so definitely not a lawyer. In fact, he finds the law, lawyers, law students—the whole bit—incredibly boring.” I paused. “That’s not true. The expense of medical malpractice insurance captivates from time to time.” A block from the store, the sky opened up, drenching us.

“I can’t say I blame him. This clerkship has kind of soured my opinion on the legal profession,” Matthew said, holding the door to Banana Republic open for me. “I mean, can you believe what we just witnessed? I’m serious—can you even believe that . . . that shit she pulled?” he said rather loudly, shaking water from one of his sleeves.

Attempting to get out of harm’s way, an appalled thirty-something woman in Burberry capris did a 360 with her Bugaboo stroller, nearly popping a wheelie. Her sixth-month-old wailed—not from Matthew’s profanity—but from whiplash.

I grabbed a navy plaid suit without checking for size and maneuvered my way past the “classic chinos” to get a look in the mirror. A dressing room sounded too tiring at that point.

“Our judge is going to be on the news,” Matthew continued, following me, “not for an opinion she wrote—but for driving into a manhole. Who does that?”