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said.
    â€œGreat,” Jeremy said. “I’ll start thinking about what I want to eat. Other than James.”

6
    Monday morning. It was only five minutes to nine, and I had already cursed Jeremy Silverstein ten times.
    We had met early on Sunday night, as planned. After tasty and affordable Mexican food at El Cholo on Colorado Boulevard, we saw a documentary, The Queen of Versailles , at the Laemmle Playhouse down the street. After the movie, Jeremy convinced me to grab a “quick drink” at Bodega Wine Bar (which, despite having the word “bodega” in its name, is quite upscale). That “quick drink,” singular, turned into several rounds, plural, since we had so much catching up to do. We polished off a round of cocktails and a bottle of a strong Petite Sirah from McManis, a California vineyard. I didn’t get home until one in the morning, and I didn’t get to bed until two—much, much later than I had planned. Jeremy had been kind enough to pay for the drinks (which made me feel less guilty for having to pay for a cab home). But I was paying the price now, with a brutal hangover.
    I folded my arms in front of me on my desk, rested my head on my arms, and closed my eyes. I just wanted my little windowless office to stop spinning.
    â€œClerkadees!” Brenda sang out from the short hallway connecting the four clerks’ offices. “It’s Monday morning meeting time!”
    â€œClerkadees,” Brenda’s preferred nickname for the four of us, was sweet and endearing, just like Brenda. But at that moment, I wanted to herd Brenda and my co-Clerkadees into my office, lock the door, flee thecourthouse, and go home to sleep.
    I lifted my head up from my desk. Ugh. Still spinning.
    â€œGood morning,” James said, leaning lankly in the doorway to my office.
    â€œHi,” I said feebly.
    â€œDon’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not looking so hot today, Coyne.”
    â€œThanks. I’m not feeling so hot right now either.”
    â€œDid you and Jeremy have a late night?”
    â€œYou could say that.”
    Brenda appeared next to James and poked her head into my office.
    â€œClap clap, Clerkadees,” she said. “The judge doesn’t like being kept waiting.”
    I dragged myself to my feet and immediately tottered in my three-inch heels. I had chosen them because I wanted to look good for my first Monday meeting with the judge, but I now regretted the decision. I followed Brenda and my co-clerks across the chambers, stepping gingerly, as if walking through a minefield.
    We entered the judge’s private office, as elegant as ever, and took our seats around a marble-topped table in the conference area. An antique mantel clock on a side table showed it was exactly 9 o’clock.
    The judge was sitting at her desk in the center of the room, reading a brief. She read for what seemed like forever, while the rest of us sat in awkward silence. Finally, she set aside the brief, walked over, and seated herself at the head of the table.
    â€œGood morning,” she said with a smile, looking around at everyone. “Audrey, welcome to chambers.”
    I wasn’t sure if I was expected to say anything, so I just smiled and nodded. I wanted to keep my mouth shut as much as possible—fearing that if I opened it, I might vomit.
    â€œSo how were your weekends?” the judge asked. She turned to Amit, who had taken the seat directly to her right (of course).
    â€œI spent most of the weekend working,” Amit said. “I made excellentprogress on my bench memos for the upcoming sitting. I think I’ll be ready to discuss my cases ahead of schedule, Judge.”
    Even though this was true—Amit and James and I all saw each other in chambers on both Saturday and Sunday—Amit said it so sycophantically. I could see him waiting for a pat on the head from the judge. But that wasn’t what he got.
    â€œAmit,