Chambermaid Page 2

  Inside, I followed the cardboard signs that read, “New Clerks” in uneven black marker. I was careful to smile at all the security guards. There were dozens of them. But of course. This was a really important place where really important business went down. This was tax money being well spent.

  The signs directed me through three or four different corridors—all brown and poorly lit—to a windowless room where other nervous Nellies loitered about in suits. Before I could open my mouth to introduce myself to a smallish, balding guy with a big mole on his nose, Martha Stewart’s doppelgänger flew through the door, came to a screeching halt, and started grinning like a horny frat guy.

  “Welcome, clerks! We are just soooooo happy you’re here. Just a few things before you can get crackin’!”

  For some reason, I’ve always felt embarrassed when people drop the gs off the end of conjugated verbs. So, I quickly turned my head to avoid eye contact with Ms. Martha. What I found was more troubling—many clerks had already broken off into little cliques. Why had nobody invited me? I was wearing a cute outfit and had great hair. What was the matter?

  Thankfully, we got ushered out before I could totally freak about the lost popularity contest. Unceremoniously shoved out the door, I got pushed against the man with the mole, who had just turned to talk to a tall skinny girl.

  “Where did you go to law school?” he asked her without saying hello.

  “Northeastern.”

  Apparently that wasn’t the right answer, and with nary a pause, he turned his back to her and walked away. Basically, Northeastern wasn’t a top-twenty law school, so the girl wasn’t worth his time.

  Grades distinguished you in law school, making all of us future law clerks the kings of the hill while we were there. Since we were no longer in law school, grades were now defunct, and a new system of marginalization had emerged—where you went to law school. I had hovered above such pettiness in law school, though, and couldn’t be bothered now. This year’s focus was becoming Judge Friedman’s best friend. On the way to the elevator, I smiled just thinking about it.

  “Hey, Sheila, can you join me at the club for a game of squash?” the judge would ask one random Tuesday afternoon.

  “Sure thing, Judge. Funny, that reminds me of Wasp v. Wasp, 360 F.2d 1, where the second circuit found Wasp I to be liable for Wasp II’s eye injuries during a game of squash.”

  “Bravo, Sheila, bravo!” The judge would clap as the interns kissed my grits.

  Or, better yet, the whole gang sitting poolside with cocktails. One of my coclerks would note: “This reminds me of the time the dreadfully pinko liberal ninth circuit found martini-sipping poolside to be tortious activity.”

  “Ah yes, but you forget there’s a circuit split on the issue, thanks to the fourth circuit,” I’d insightfully advise.

  Round of applause. Sheila takes a bow.

  DING! Thirteenth floor, going up. Forget Mr. Smith and Washington, Judge Friedman’s Special Friend had come to Philadelphia! It was curious that there were no “Welcome, Sheila” signs, but instead a tiny black plaque with an arrow pointing to “The honorable Hel Friedman.” Ring. Buzz. Turn the knob.

  Smack! I’d opened the door directly into the judge. Her Honor was standing right before my virgin eyes. About four feet ten inches tall, her crooked feet, polyester pantsuit, sunglasses the size of Fat Albert’s behind, and a massive bun atop her tiny head.

  “Hello, Judge Friedman.” I smiled, extending my hand down. Even at five foot two (and a quarter), I towered over the lady.

  She curled her lips upward. It wasn’t a smile. Her eyebrows slanted inward. It was a frown.

  “Hello. You must be Shayla,” she said unenthusiastically. But I couldn’t blame her for being indifferent—and mispronouncing my name. Judge Helga Friedman was a busy woman.

  “Yes, I’m SHE-LA. It’s nice to see you.” “Nice” wasn’t exactly right, but “It’s to see you” seemed totally wrong.

  “Well, I cannot ever remember you people. You just come and go. Half the time I don’t even know whom I’ve hired.” I laughed. She didn’t. It wasn’t a joke. I’d just packed up my life to come work for this woman and she didn’t even know who I was. I could’ve been an eighty-year-old Korean man and she wouldn’t have known the difference.

  “Come come, we have LOTS of work to do,” she ordered, turning and marching off. I stumbled in her trail, racking my brain for something clever to say.

  “Philly is just such a cool town,” I blurted. The minute I said it, I realized that I was not at all cool.

  “First of all, it’s PhilaDELPHIA, and second of all, what is cool about it?” She didn’t turn to address me. Seeing as I’d been there for all of forty-eight hours, I was slightly stumped, and I had a feeling “cheesesteaks” wouldn’t have gone over well with this crowd. But it didn’t matter, because the judge didn’t seem to want a response and instead just led me through a door into a room that looked vaguely familiar from my interview a year earlier.

  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.

  “You’re here,” he whispered and pointed to a small, shaky cubicle with carpeting on the sides. When I looked over, I noticed the grand finale: fanny pack perched atop pleated pants! I hadn’t seen a fanny pack in at least a decade. I recalled a few here and there during my clichéd backpacking trip through Europe after freshman year in college. But Roy wasn’t backpacking. He wasn’t a college freshman. And this place certainly wasn’t Rome.

  I carefully placed my first case on my new desk.

  “I just got back from vacation,” Roy said in a hush. “I’m a medievalist—Felemid McDowell’s the name—and I was at the BIG MEDIEVAL festival in southern Jersey.” His eyes went
wild. As for me, I concentrated on not gawking.

  “I’m a twelfth-century Irish bard. My wife is the daughter of a sixteenth-century Jewish merchant.” No gawk.

  “We’re way more into Markland than the Society for Creative Anachronisms.” Maybe slight gawk.

  He then pivoted, turned, and skulked back to his room.

  I sat down; my head was spinning. Medieval what? Irish beard? Twelfth-century McDonald’s? Jewish merchant from what century? Creative macramé?

  As I turned to grab my case materials, out of the corner of my eye I caught a little person, big bun, even bigger sunglasses, peering over a newspaper. There was the judge staring at me. Oh no!! Though the clerks’ room was separated from the judge’s office by the secretaries’ den, all doors were open. The result: judge facing my cubicle. Staring (or was she glaring?) at me.

  I waved. She didn’t wave back.

  “Pssst. Back here.”

  I turned and about ten feet behind me was a portly brunette sitting at another cubicle. I got up, the judge watching my every move, and slowly walked toward the brunette.

  “You must be Sheila,” the woman stated in a manner that was almost accusatory. She didn’t even stand to shake my hand. I was beginning to feel like everyone hated me. Or maybe I was being paranoid? Mental note: Find shrink in Philly.

  “Yes, and you are Laura, I take it?” I whispered, kneeling so we could see eye to eye.

  “Yeah, I got here a little early. You know, to beat the crowds,” she said, pointing to her computer screen, already displaying the minutiae of a Westlaw case. “And I’m working on a really interesting case involving an unreasonable search,” she explained.

  What happened to “How are you?”

  Without an appropriate response to the Fourth Amendment comment, I simply nodded, smiling.

  “So, you went to Columbia. I went to Chicago. I was editor of the Law Review and finished Order of the Coif. Did you Coif it?” Order of the Coif is the highest honor bestowed upon graduating law students. It means you’re a pocket genius who’s managed to get straight As for three years straight.

  While I’d done well in law school, I certainly hadn’t “Coifed it.” I had, however, managed to maintain a social life and regularly visited my parents in northern Virginia, unlike the Coifers I knew, who had maintained a studying life and regularly visited only the library. I had a feeling Laura didn’t really want to hear about my friends and family.

  “Um, it’s nice to meet you,” I managed, backing away in the hopes of a stealth escape.

  “Well, you’re in for such a treat. I can already tell the work here’s going to be beyond stimulating. This is a constitutional claim.” Her eyes ballooned. “To think, my first case and I am going to decide whether this guy gets a second chance or not and it involves”—she lowered her voice and looked around—“an African American defendant and a white police officer. Just like law school exams!” She smiled with an open mouth, bringing her hands together in a silent clap.

  “Laura, that’s great, really great for you,” I whispered. “I hope I’m half as, er, lucky as you with my case. Speaking of which, I should probably get started.” I raced back to my cubicle.

  I glanced left—staring judge. A quick turn right—carpeted wall. Even the cubicles were carpeted. The plus side was the utter lack of distractions. I opened my packet of materials, which consisted of red, white, and blue legal briefs. The blue one contained the plaintiff’s argument. I dug in. And had a minor stroke. I didn’t understand any of it. From what I could tell, it was a complicated labor dispute, and I had never taken labor law.

  The first brief alone was sixty pages and there were half a dozen other briefs. How on earth was I going to read the next three briefs, the zillion cases cited, and write a coherent bench memorandum that the judge would not only read but also rely on during oral arguments?

  Oral arguments take place in blocks known as “sittings.” Sittings are the staple of all courts of appeals. Prior to clerking, sitting was something I did when I wasn’t standing or sleeping. While a clerk, sittings are things that ensure you never sleep well. Every active judge on the third circuit had seven sittings per year. Each sitting consisted of a panel of three judges—all randomly assembled by the clerk of the court, the court manager. Judges were given their sitting schedules not months but years in advance. They knew when they were sitting, whom they were sitting with, and where they were sitting—which was almost always one floor up from Judge Friedman’s chambers. This was to ensure that there would never, ever, be any surprises. In the legal profession, the only thing more loathsome than mediocrity is surprise.

  It was the law clerks’ job to dissect the cases for their respective judges. In short, we read the legal briefs and case law before churning out mammoth bench memorandums, which were essentially book reports with a suggested solution at the end.

  I hadn’t written a book report in two decades and summarizing Judy Blume was markedly less daunting than dissecting the so-called “work preservation doctrine,” a nearly extinct aspect of labor law. After three solid hours, I’d barely made a dent in the first brief, which seemed like a bit of a misnomer, considering it was close to 120 pages long.

  I needed lunch.

  “Hey Laura, want to head to the cafeteria with me?”

  “No, I brought my lunch. Thanks. Must be nice to have the time to step out. I mean, this case is really tough.” She smirked.

  “Wow, great. Good for you. I mean, good that you brought your lunch. Not good that the case is tough. OK, well then.”

  She smirked again. I lost my appetite.

  The cafeteria was on the second floor, and as soon as I set foot inside, I wished I hadn’t.

  Inside was a Twin Peaks revival. Yet, even the show’s biggest fans wouldn’t have wanted to be on this set. To my left was a gaggle of Janet clones, each looking more unhappy than the next. One quick right turn later and yet another group of unapproachable middle-aged women masking their anger with apathy. I headed straight toward the food. My middle school cafeteria was better than this. Before me was a delectable smorgasbord of everything you’d never want: gristly pork chops, bony chicken-fried steak, limp broccoli soaked in a greenish oil, and poached Krab. With a K. I felt myself becoming fat and frail just looking at it all.

  I forced myself to request the unimaginable. “Hi. I’ll take the Krab and some broccoli.” A wide-eyed man with a hairnet silently stared at me. “Um, hi, I’d like the Krab and broccoli, please,” I said. Stare.

  “Could you please show me where that is, ma’am?” he earnestly requested. I wondered if, in addition to a clean record, one needed a staring problem to land a job at the federal courthouse.

  “It’s right in front of you. You know, that fake Krab stuff,” I said, pointing.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, it’s just that I can’t see. I’m blind.”

  Was this some sort of joke? From the horrified looks of everyone around me, I surmised not. Great, I was going to hell now.

  “Oh my God! I’m so sorry,” I squeaked. But it was too late. Judging from the looks I was getting from the others, the damage was done. It didn’t help that the man then killed me with kindness.

  “Don’t worry about it, miss. I’m Ernie.” He grinned. I couldn’t speak and even if I could, I didn’t want to disclose my name. About ten people there wanted to rip my eyes out. So, I simply waited as Ernie scooped up a pork chop and a chicken-fried steak. I handed the cashier a ten. She looked at me. Me at her.

  The lady behind me couldn’t control herself. “What’s wrong with you?!” Her eyes burned. “You have to tell her what you gave her. She’s blind.” I’d apparently missed the sign alerting the masses to all the blind folks.

  “Oh, uh, it’s a ten. Um, keep the change. Um, see you later.” Did I just say that to the blind lady? She wouldn’t be seeing me later. She wouldn’t be seeing anything ever. And there I was, rubbing it in. I was a terrible person. I returned to the main dining area, chick
en-fried animal in tow.

  Secretary gangs engaged in silent turf wars. Clerks in pleats hovered in various corners. I wondered how they’d become so chummy already. This was worse than finding a friend to sit with in middle school. At least then there was chocolate milk.

  For a split second, I considered taking my food upstairs and eating it there, but the thought of eating a chicken-fried steak was distressing enough, and I couldn’t endure the judge’s stare fest on top of it all. Instead, I squeezed into an unassuming nonclerks corner. Peace and quiet. Just me and my deep-fried meat. What was a chicken-fried steak? A bird? A cow? A little of both? Whilst pondering, I heard some disconcerting ramblings.

  “Did you hear about Judge Jones? He’s, like, six months behind on his opinions,” an emboldened pleat loudly whispered from the west. Gasps all around. Everyone was entranced.

  From the southeast, a clerk, donning what looked like a fedora, soapboxed to a group of mesmerized fans: “And then Judge Fleck said, ‘Well, what do you expect, Scalia penned that one.’” Cackles. Impossible. Even the lunchtime gossip was a snooze fest.

  Scalia jokes are the all time worst. I’m not talking about the lawyer joke genre, mind you, a wretched one for sure. Example: What’s the difference between a lawyer and a vampire?Punch line: A vampire only sucks blood at night. Scalia jokes constitute more of a jurisprudential subgenre. In the knee-slapping corridors of every law school, one learns how Justice Thomas never speaks and Justice Scalia doesn’t believe in considering legislative history when considering the constitutionality of a law. Based on those two truths that are self-evident of nothing in particular, a whole assembly line of law jokes has emerged. There’s a reason Jerry Seinfeld never told any of them.

  “Sheila?” The fedora had approached my bench, and upon closer inspection, I realized he’d been in my Fed Courts class. “Hey, Sheila. It’s Brian. You know, from Columbia.” He parked himself right in front of me so I was forced to stare at his puny crotch. Suddenly my bird didn’t look so bad. “I didn’t know you were clerking here,” he continued. And I didn’t know that it was possible that Scalia’s distaste for congressional activity could still keep you in stitches after all these years.