Inside was the most desperate-looking duo I’d ever seen. Desperation Sally Struthers–style. Only, it’d take way more than fifty cents a day to save either of them. It seemed like they might cry at any moment, which would have been a little awkward for everyone. The judge pointed to the desperate man without so much as a look in his direction. “That’s Roy.” Little arm swung around to the desperate female: “And that’s Janet. They’re my secretaries.” Nobody moved except the judge, who sauntered over to a box in front of Janet’s desk and started flipping through what appeared to be mail.

Taking it all in, I barely noticed that neither Janet nor Roy had bothered to return my hello. To the left of the box was a heap of multicolored booklets and to the right, stacks of humongous white books. It didn’t seem like this office would go paperless anytime in the next, say, three to four centuries. The paper trail went in all directions. I looked east, west, north, and finally south, where I spotted an unsightly wall-to-wall red carpet.

Visually trapped, I considered closing my eyes but ruled against it, quite certain that sleepwalking on day one wouldn’t have been well received. Then again, judging from Roy and Janet, sleep-sitting didn’t seem to be much of a problem.

“That’s for you,” the judge barked, motioning toward one pile of paper. “It’s your first case.” And with that, she dragged her leg—my initial thoughts were confirmed, her right one was markedly longer than the left—and proceeded into her office.

“Um . . . should I go somewhere?” I asked the air, the paper, the red carpet, and anyone but Roy and Janet, both of whom refused to acknowledge me.

Roy groaned and nodded his head toward an adjacent room. Then he stood . . . and I was mesmerized. Hypnotized. The guy was an icon of something. Of what, I wasn’t sure, but it was something. This was truly the rarest of specimens. He was five foot ten. His skin was whiter than his teeth (which weren’t even in the category of white). Even better, he had the most wondrous of mullets. The best way to describe it would be “careful.” Meticulously groomed. Wisped—but ever so gently with nary a superfluous strand. And perfectly colored. Like a horse’s tail. Not brown. Not blond. Not even blondish brown. The color and care almost made the mullet so nondescript that you got duped into thinking it wasn’t a mullet at all but a cashmere ascot or some such thing. I wanted to pet it.