Judge Fang had been raised on Cheerios, burgers, and jumbo burritos 
bulging with beans and meat. He was just a bit less than two meters in height. 
His beard was unusually thick, and he had been letting it grow out for a couple 
of years now, and his hair fell down past the tips of his shoulder blades. 
These elements, plus the hat and robe, and in combination with the power 
reposed in him by the state, gave him a certain presence of which he was well 
aware. He tried not to be overly satisfied with himself, as this would have 
gone against all Confucian precepts. On the other hand, Confucianism was all 
about hierarchy, and those who were in high positions were supposed to comport 
themselves with a certain dignity. Judge Fang could turn it on when he needed 
to. He used it now to get himself situated at the best table on the first 
floor, off in the corner with a nice view out the tiny old windows into the 
neighboring Ming-era garden. He was still in the Coastal Republic, in the 
middle of the twenty-first century. But he could have been in the Middle 
Kingdom of yore, and for all intents and purposes, he was.