Past the secretary’s desk, a look of sympathy from the harried woman, through the translucent inner glass door, gilt lettering, Hon. Victor Ras. Zora could see the hazy shape of her Socratic tormentor. A blur of fear passed through her as she swung the door.The haze resolved into the Judge in a blue silk shirt, the tie a darker shade of blue, not as catching, cobalt-fiery as the eyes, seated at an arboreal work of art, the most gorgeous desk she’d ever seen, huge, varnished zebrawood with an enormous burl right in the middle. The ivory gavel was nowhere in sight. “Ah, Ms. Bright, so glad you could come. Do sit down.” Two matching zebrawood chairs. She chose the one on the right but first moved it to the left. A clouded look passed over the Judge’s face but he gave it no voice. Carefully, sputtering almost perceptibly, conscious of the gulf that lay before her, between them: “Jack Carson told me you wanted to see me. About the LORD Project.”“Of course, of course. I have your resume right here in front of me.”
