“If I had my way, we would never do written reviews,” Lauren said. “The good ADAs know they’re good, and the bad ones are even more self-aware of their shortcomings. All reviews do is upset the good ones because they obsess about the one area of constructive criticism you provide and disregard all the positive things that are said. The bad ones inevitably respond by giving up altogether. I have never, and I mean never, seen anyone turn around a bad review.”

We had twenty-seven to do.

I suggested that the process would be aided by some alcohol. Lauren agreed quickly, and fifteen minutes later we were off campus at some hole-in-the-wall Mexican place around the corner from our office with a pitcher of margaritas in front of us and a stack of performance reviews in a Redweld folder.

“Is this what you dreamed it would be like when you decided to be a lawyer?” I said in jest after we’d gotten through the first five.

“I actually wanted to be a nun,” Lauren said in a much more serious tone. “Really. And not just when I was eight. I thought about it in college, even. Do you know what Richard says about it?”

“No, what?”

“He says it’s because I was searching for the perfect man even then, and nothing less than God would do for me.” She smiled, but not without effort. “Did I ever fall short of that,” she added with a chuckle. Then she downed the rest of her margarita—her second.

I followed suit, throwing back my own drink. Then I reached for the pitcher and refilled both of our glasses.

“I sometimes wonder what the world would be like if marriages weren’t forever,” I said. “If your marriage license was kind of like a driver’s license. You have to renew it every few years. If you don’t, no big deal. You take the bus for a while.”

“That’s brilliant,” she said. She raised her glass in a toast. “To taking the bus for a while.”

We clicked together our margaritas and then both took healthy slugs. This time she refilled the glasses, even though they were only half-empty.

“I think we’d better do some more work while we’re both still semisober,” she said.

We plowed through the rest of the reviews, checking boxes, making jokes, and drinking our margaritas. Ninety minutes later, we were left with an empty pitcher and one sheet of paper still to complete.

“This one is yours,” Lauren said. “I suppose I should fill it out in private—and when I’m not drunk.”

“What fun would that be?” I replied. “I’m a big girl, I can take it. How am I doing?”

If I’d been any less inebriated, I wouldn’t have said that. Not only because I was putting her on the spot, but because I wasn’t sure I could take it.