The federal courthouse smelled of polished marble, old wood, and quiet authority.
By 2:15 p.m. the following day, I was sitting in a private conference room on the fifth floor of the Court of Appeals, surrounded by case files and the faint scent of leather-bound law books. My thesis notes were spread across the table like a battlefield.
Judge Robert Warren entered exactly on time.
Young for a federal appellate judge — early thirties, sharp features, dark hair neatly styled, and an intellect that radiated quiet confidence. He carried himself with the kind of effortless authority that didn’t need to announce itself. His eyes — deep brown, perceptive — found mine immediately and held.
“Ms. Agreste,” he said, voice smooth and warm. “I’ve been looking forward to this mentorship session. You
