26
Galanter’s office gleams in the morning light, all sparkling surfaces with sharp edges. Glass glistens in front of the many photos of him with other judges; his collection of rare books rots behind locked glass doors. Even the furniture is shiny, covered with a polished cotton in navy stripes. It’s more the domain of a corporate CEO than a judge with a public-record income of $130,000. I always thought Galanter had family money; I never knew it was money from the Family.
The problem is, he isn’t hiring.
“I have my own clerks,” he says, looking down at me from behind his desk chair. His cigar sits in a Waterford ashtray on the desk. “They’re all full-time.”
“But you get a part-time assistant as chief judge. It’s in the budget already, for the administrative work.”
“My law clerks can handle it until I hire one. Judge Gregorian waited several months to hire you, as I recall.”
“The Judicial Conference meets soon. You’ll need to be briefed.”
“I can read.” He thrusts my memo at me, a heavy hint to scram. I rise from the stiff-backed chair.
“I’d recommend that they get to the misconduct complaints first, then. There are eight backed up, and Washington likes us to stay on top of them.”
“Washington?”
“They monitor the complaints, even keep a report on their disposition by all the chief judges. You don’t want to make that list, it’s a black mark. In Washington.” I turn to go, hoping he’ll call me back. I get as far as the door, ten feet farther than I predicted.
“You say there are eight, eh?”
“Last time I looked. We set them aside to do
“How long do they take?”
“The research, a while. Then we get the record and review it. That takes time too. At least a week per complaint.”
He puts his hands in his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels. “I don’t have the space for you. I’m gutting your office when I move. It needs redoing.”
Fuck you very much. “I can work in your law clerks’ office.”
“No.”
Good thing I have a strong ego. “I can work in the library on the first floor.”
He examines his nails. “Of course, I would hire my own assistant eventually.”
“I want to get back to practice anyway.”
“I’d have no time to supervise you.”
“I don’t need supervision, just a paycheck.” A sympathetic note, to make him feel like the regent he thinks he is.
“Miss Waxman?” he calls out the door. His oppressed secretary materializes at the other entrance to his office; she’s probably been hovering there, waiting for him to bark. A civil service retirement is the only reason this sweet-faced soul would stay with such a tyrant. “You two have met, haven’t you?” Galanter says.
“Sure. Hello, Miss Waxman.”
Built like a medium swirl of soft ice cream, she nods at me but says nothing.
“Give her the drafts as you finish them, then I’ll take it from there. If I need you, I’ll call.”
“Fine.” I start to go, then do Peter Falk as Columbo. “Where should I put the drafts so I don’t have to bother you? I used to put them in a box on our secretary’s desk.”
He looks at Miss Waxman. “Miss Waxman, make a place on your desk for a bin.”
She nods.
“I could show you what I mean, Miss Waxman,” I say to her.
She glances at Galanter for permission, and he dismisses us with a wave that says: Women, so concerned with the details! Then he picks up the phone. “Close the door,” he says.
I close the heavy door and meet Miss Waxman at her desk in front of the door to the law clerks’ office. Next to her computer keyboard is the phone log I need to see, with the standard four message slips to a page. Galanter couldn’t have gotten too many calls this morning, so the copy of the message McLean took should be on the top page.
“I thought it would help if I knew where to put the papers,” I say, moving closer to the open log book. “I don’t know how you do things here.”
She nods slightly. Her bangs are arranged in tiny spit curls around her face; an aging Betty Boop, down to the spidery eyelashes. “We do them the way the judge wants them,” she says in a soft voice.
I look at the log. The top four messages are: Judge Richter at 9:00, Judge Townsend at 9:15, Chief Judge Wasserman of the Second Circuit at 9:16, and one at 9:20 from Carter at the Union League. Damn; a busy morning. It’s not on the top page; it must be on the page underneath. I touch the spot next to the log. “Do you think it should go here? It just might fit.”
“If you think that’s okay, Miss Rossi.”
“Please, call me Grace.”
“I wouldn’t feel comfortable.”
“Please. We’ll be working together.”
She nods deferentially; the master-slave relationship, she understands it perfectly. This I can’t abide. “Where would
“I don’t know.” Her brow knits with worry, cracking her pancake makeup into tectonic plates. Sometimes free will is not freeing. “I just don’t know. Whatever you think, Miss Rossi. Grace.”
I pat the surface near the log again and spot a photograph of a wicker basket full of silver toy poodle puppies, with frizzy gray pompadours. “Maybe here?”
“No!” she blurts out. “But, I mean, if you want to.”
“No, that’s all right. Whatever you want.”
She touches her cheek. “It’s just that…my dogs are there. Their picture. I like to see them when I work.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to hide the picture.”
“But still, if you—”
“Please, I understand. I have a dog too.” And now I have an idea. A wonderful, nasty, awful idea. I feel like the Grinch. “It’s a big dog, though.”
“I like big dogs too,” she says. Interest flickers in her pale gray eyes.
“Actually, I adopted Judge Gregorian’s dog, Bernice.”
“You did? I heard she was given to the Girl Scouts.”
“No. She was at the Morris Animal Refuge.”
A horrified gasp escapes her lips. “Why, that’s a
“I know.”
She gazes at me with an awe better directed at Madame Curie. “Well, aren’t you kind!”
I look away guiltily and pick up the dog picture. Its frame is flimsy, from a card shop. The puppies look at me with abject trust, like their mistress. “They’re so cute, Miss Waxman.”
She beams with a mother’s pride. “They do all sorts of tricks. I taught them. They’re smart as whips.”
“They look it.” Coal-black eyes, little button noses.
“This one grew up to be a champion.” She points at the one in the center, but how she can tell them apart I’ll never know; each one looks as yappy as the next. “That’s Rosie, my baby. My champion.”
“A champ? Really?” I take an invisible deep breath and let the picture slip from my fingers. It hits the carpet and the frame self-destructs on impact. I feel like shit on toast, but it had to be done.
“Oh! Oh!” Miss Waxman exclaims, hands fluttering to her rouged cheeks. She bends over instantly to rescue
