Toby had hung his framed watercolor bridge on the wall of his new bedroom.

Three months later, the heavy black silk of my judicial robe lay cool on my shoulders as I zipped it up to my collar.

The bailiff, a retired state trooper named Arthur, knocked twice on the thick oak door of my chambers.

“The morning motion calendar is ready for you, Judge,” Arthur said, holding a blue cardboard folder in his left hand.

Arthur handed me a white ceramic mug of hot black coffee before opening the door to the courtroom.