The Judge Who Stole Christmas

by Randy Singer

  “And where might you attend church, Mr. Frumpkin?” Ichabod leaned into the question, and the mayor’s eyes went wide.

  “Can she do that?” Thomas whispered to Jasmine. Jasmine just nodded.

  A few seconds of silence followed as if the Munchkin Mayor had just been exposed in some mortal sin.

  “Do you understand the question?” Ichabod scowled.

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Well?”

  “I attend Freewill Baptist Church of Possum.”

  Ichabod made a check mark on her legal pad. She turned to Harrod. “The town council resolution authorizing a manger scene in the Possum town square for the holiday season—what exhibit number was that?”

  “Exhibit 9, Your Honor.”

  “Please look at Exhibit 9,” Ichabod instructed Mayor Frumpkin, “and tell me what that resolution says about who will maintain this manger scene on behalf of the city.”

  Bert Frumpkin pulled the exhibit out of the stack of papers in front of him, handling it carefully like the snake it had become. He took his time reading it, licking his lips a couple of times in the process.

  “It doesn’t say anything?” he finally responded.

  To Jasmine, the mayor’s answer sounded like a question, the way kids guess at an answer in class when they don’t know, hoping the teacher might accept their humble offering.

  “Then whose idea was it to delegate this responsibility to the good folks at Freewill Baptist Church?”

  Frumpkin hesitated. “I’m not 100 percent sure.”

  This brought a glare from Ichabod that lowered the temperature in the courtroom five degrees.

  “But it might’ve been mine,” Frumpkin added.

  “What a coincidence,” Ichabod mumbled, which brought a smattering of chuckles from the reporters present.

  She looked over the top of her glasses at the poor Possum mayor. “Did you ever consider asking Muslims to hold an Iftar on the Possum town square to celebrate the ending of their Ramadan fast or a Jewish rabbi to erect a menorah during Hanukkah?”

  Frumpkin squirmed a little in his seat, and Jasmine could see the confusion in his eyes. Even she didn’t know what an Iftar was—so there was no chance the mayor would.

  “No,” Frumpkin said, “but they’re not national holidays either.”

  “That’s right,” Thomas whispered.

  “Harrumph,” Ichabod said.

  She stared at the back wall for a second, then turned again to the witness. “Speaking of national holidays, Mr. Frumpkin, what did you do in your town square to celebrate Martin Luther King Day?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” Thomas wondered, loud enough so Jasmine could hear.

  “Nothin’ in particular this year,” Frumpkin said.

  “And in past years?”

  “Actually, not much then either.”

  Jasmine winced at the implications. This case would not be good publicity for her hometown. The press would characterize Possum as Redneck City, USA.

  “That’s all the questions I have for this witness,” Ichabod said, making one final check mark on her pad.

  “For its next witness, the plaintiff calls Mr. Thomas Hammond,” Harrod said.

  Jasmine watched helplessly as Vince Harrod fired questions at Thomas Hammond for thirty minutes. In all the trials she had watched as a law firm clerk, she had never seen a witness look so ill at ease. The big man reminded her of Shrek—squeezing into the witness chair with the wide-eyed wonderment of an innocent ogre about to be swindled by a crafty foe. Even his worn white shirt and blue blazer seemed two sizes too small. He left the top button of his shirt unbuttoned, relying on his tie to pull the collar somewhat together. Jazz decided that Walmart shirts were not designed for necks as thick as Thomas’s.

  Jasmine couldn’t object to the questions because Thomas was not a party, just a witness, and therefore she wasn’t an attorney of record in the case. The objections, such as they were, were being interposed by the Possum town attorney, Arnold Ottmeyer, a stooped and aging man who didn’t appear to have much enthusiasm for protecting the witness. When he did object, rising slowly to his feet and raising his arm partway toward the judge like an orchestra conductor with an imaginary baton, it was too late to help the beleaguered witness.

  “Mr. Hammond has already answered the question,” Ichabod would say. “Objection overruled.”

  Thomas testified that he saw his role in the live Nativity scene as a ministry. He and Theresa would take every opportunity to pray with those who came to visit or talk to them about “the true meaning of Christmas.”

  “Did the town attorney or anyone else associated with the town ever tell you what you could or could not say to visitors?” Harrod asked.

  “No.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that you were acting as a representative of the Town of Possum, and it would be inappropriate for you to proselytize people who came to visit the live manger scene?”

  Ottmeyer stood and pointed his imaginary wand forward. “Objection. Assumes that the witness is a representative of the town.”

  Ichabod shot Ottmeyer an impatient glance. “Overruled.”

  A few questions later Harrod reviewed his legal pad and seemed satisfied that he had done enough damage with the witness. “No further questions,” he announced.

  “Nothing from me,” Ottmeyer said with a big sigh.

  Jasmine watched the tight lines on Thomas’s face loosen just a little as he stood and stepped down from the witness stand.

  “Where’re you going?” Ichabod asked.

  Thomas froze. “I, um . . . thought I was done.”

  Ichabod leaned forward. “I have a few questions as well,” she said.

  Resolutely, as if he were a gladiator being led to the floor of the Roman Coliseum, Thomas returned to his seat. He inhaled, then looked at the judge.

  “So . . . I take it that you attend Freewill Baptist Church along with the mayor?” The way Ichabod phrased the question, it sounded like she was accusing Thomas of belonging to a cult.

  He stiffened. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Is it a big church?”

  “Pretty big. ’Bout 150 members or so.”

  “I’ll bet that you and the mayor probably know each other pretty well—probably bump into each other at church quite often?”

  “We’re in the same Sunday school class—” Thomas looked down at his hands for a moment—“but we don’t really run in the same circles.”

  Ichabod studied her notes before peering at the witness again. “In that Sunday school class, do you ever discuss the live manger scene in the Possum town square and your efforts to proselytize people out there?”

  Thomas furrowed his brow in confusion.

  Ichabod shook her head at the density of the witness. “Do you ever talk in Sunday school about the manger scene?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Tell me about the last time you did so.”

  “Well, just last week, I might’ve mentioned a couple things.” Thomas frowned and looked Ichabod squarely in the eye. “We prayed for a family I talked to at the manger last week . . . prayed that they might come to church and find out more about Christ.” He swallowed. “And we prayed for you . . . that you would make the right ruling.”

  “You did?” A smirk pulled at the corner of Ichabod’s mouth. “And what might that ruling be?”

  Thomas shrugged. “Let us keep the manger scene up. Let us keep ministering to people.”

  “Did it ever occur to you,” Ichabod snapped, “that trying to convert people to your Baptist faith on town property using a Christian manger scene sponsored by the town might violate the wall of separation between church and state?”

  Jasmine had heard enough. This was so unfair! How could Thomas, with no legal training, answer such a question? She glanced at Ottmeyer to make sure he wasn’t objecting—nope, he didn’t even twitch—then she jumped to her feet.

  “Objection!” she blurted out.
>
  Ichabod turned her stare from Thomas to Jasmine. The judge took off her reading glasses and studied Jasmine as if figuring out the best way to torture the nervous young law student. “And who might you be?”

  “Jasmine Woodfaulk. I represent Mr. Hammond.”

  “I see.” Ichabod tented her fingers in front of her. “How long have you been practicing law?”

  “I’m a third-year law student, and Mr. Ottmeyer is my supervising attorney today.” Out of the corner of her eye, Jasmine noticed Ottmeyer turn partway around in his seat, shaking his head from side to side in quick, vigorous little motions.

  “I see.” The judge paused and Jasmine shifted from one foot to the other. “Then you probably haven’t learned yet that you have to be a lawyer of record in the case to make an objection . . .”

  “I know that, Your Honor, but—”

  “Ms. Woodfaulk!”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “I wasn’t finished.”

  “Sorry.”

  “In addition, even if you were counsel of record, it’s typically not real smart to object to the questions of a judge who will ultimately decide the case. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Good. Now would you like to withdraw your objection?”

  “I can’t do that in good conscience, Your Honor.”

  “You ‘can’t do that in good conscience,’” Ichabod repeated. “And would you mind telling me why?”

  Jasmine took a deep breath and tried to focus on the issue. Just like stepping up to the foul line . . . shut out the jeering fans, the trash-talking opponents . . .

  “First, Mr. Hammond is not a lawyer and shouldn’t have to answer legal questions about what is or isn’t proper under the establishment clause. Second, if he were a lawyer, he’d probably point out that the phrase ‘separation of church and state’ is not found in the Constitution and is a poor metaphor for what the Founders actually intended to prevent—an officially sanctioned state religious denomination.” Ichabod scowled at Jasmine, but it was too late for Jasmine to turn back now. “Third, and most important, Your Honor’s question appears to ignore the fact that the U.S. Supreme Court previously ruled, in Lynch v. Donnelly, that the display of a crèche on a public square is constitutionally permissible.”

  When Jasmine stopped, she didn’t like the fire she saw in Ichabod’s eyes. “That’s quite an objection, Counsel.” The judge sneered. “Some might even call that a closing argument. But it’s overruled for a few fundamental reasons.”

  Ichabod waved a document in her right hand. “This is the case of Lynch v. Donnelly. In that case a crèche was displayed on the town square with a number of other items, including a Santa Claus house, reindeer pulling Santa’s sleigh, candy-striped poles, a Christmas tree, carolers, cutout figures representing a clown, an elephant, and a teddy bear, as well as a large banner that read, ‘Season’s Greetings.’ Notice any differences so far?”

  Before Jasmine could answer, Ichabod turned toward Thomas and continued her monologue. “Plus, the city in that case had a secular purpose for the decorations—depicting the historical origins of a national holiday. Now, Mr. Hammond, is the purpose of this live manger scene—of which you are a part—a secular purpose or does this live manger scene have a very religious purpose . . . insofar as you are concerned?”

  “Objection!”

  “Overruled.”

  “There’s nothin’ secular about the manger scene,” Thomas stated. “The whole Christmas season ought to be spiritual, but this part certainly is.”

  Ichabod turned with glee back to Jasmine. “That, Ms. Woodfaulk, is one more reason your objection is overruled. I don’t know what they teach in ethics classes these days, but back when I went to law school, they taught that you should never make a legal argument inconsistent with the testimony of your client.”

  “Mr. Hammond is not an official of the town,” Jasmine shot back. The nerves had been replaced by competitive fire. “He doesn’t speak for the town.”

  “And neither do you,” Ichabod said. “So why don’t you sit down and let the attorney for the town make his own objections. He’s been practicing law long enough to know when they are proper.”

  Instead of sitting, Jasmine stood in defiance, staring at Ichabod for a few seconds—long enough to show she could not be intimidated, short enough so she could not be held in contempt. After she made her point, she took her seat.

  “Thank you,” Ichabod said. “Mr. Hammond, you may step down.”

  Following four full hours of testimony and the uninspired closing arguments of Harrod and Ottmeyer, Ichabod announced that she was ready to rule from the bench.

  “The court is mindful that its ruling today will probably be misinterpreted and vilified by those on the religious Right—” Jasmine could swear that Ichabod looked right at Thomas and her—“but a judge has to do what’s right, not what’s popular. And this case is not even a close call.

  “The court finds that the live manger scene displayed by the Town of Possum violates the separation of church and state required by our Constitution. Though the Supreme Court has previously upheld the right of a city to display a manger scene in its town square—that case did not involve sponsorship of a live manger scene with characters who go to the same church as the town mayor and see it as their Christian duty to proselytize visitors. The manger scene in Lynch v. Donnelly was one small part of a larger secular display. Though the Town of Possum has a few token secular symbols on its town square, the manger scene at issue here, like the one held unconstitutional by the Supreme Court in Allegheny County v. ACLU, is essentially a stand-alone display. As such, it smacks of a religious purpose and sends the message to any objective observer that the town government endorses orthodox Christianity.”

  Ichabod surveyed the courtroom audience and released an enormous sigh. “For the record, I personally enjoy the holiday season and celebrate the season in my own house with all the traditional Christmas displays—including a manger scene comprised of glass figurines that sits on my fireplace mantel. So this is no ‘bah-humbug’ ruling. But when the town uses public property to do the same thing, it violates the First Amendment of our Constitution and cannot be permitted. Accordingly, the injunction is granted.”

  Ichabod banged her gavel, gathered her papers, and stood.

  “All rise,” the clerk cried out.

  “Unreal,” Thomas mumbled. Jasmine instinctively put a hand on his arm and then, to her horror, watched as Judge Baker-Kline stopped in her tracks and spun to face him.

  “Did you say something, Mr. Hammond?”

  The tension nearly crackled as Thomas hesitated.

  “No,” Jasmine whispered. But she noticed Thomas take a deep breath and thrust out his jaw.

  “I just can’t believe that in the United States of America we can’t even celebrate Christmas anymore.”

  The vein pulsed on Ichabod’s neck as she considered her response. It seemed the entire courtroom—with everyone still standing—had sucked in a breath and didn’t dare exhale. Jasmine thought her next step might be to contact a bail bondsman for her recalcitrant client.

  “Mr. Hammond, one of the things that makes our country great is our religious freedom—the fact that our government can’t tell you or me what god to worship. Now I realize that this ruling might disappoint you, and I believe that you’re a sincere man in your firmly held beliefs. But, Mr. Hammond, you are sincerely wrong about this case . . .”

  Jasmine could sense her client bristle next to her and half expected him to interrupt the judge.

  “And what I can’t believe,” Ichabod continued, “is that in the United States of America, a town and a church would so blatantly disregard our cherished constitutional principles. Happy holidays, Mr. Hammond.” Ichabod turned and left.

  Jasmine’s stomach rumbled. The look of determination on her client’s face warned her that she probably hadn’t seen the last of this showdown between the stubborn man who played
Joseph and the grinch in the black robe.

  WEDNESDAY EVENING, DECEMBER 6

  As Jasmine drove, her headlights barely pierced the fog. She had left her law school apartment thirty minutes earlier, headed south on Centerville, crossed the Intercoastal Waterway, then headed southwest on Mount Pleasant Road and ultimately Indian River Road. The road snaked through swampland with cypress trees and thick underbrush on both sides, crossing the North Landing River twice, and finally emerging into the cornfields and soybean farms just outside Possum.

  Jasmine took a deep breath as she approached the spot of the accident—the place where the entire school had erected an impromptu memorial for her dad three years ago. Students had placed flowers, pictures, and crosses on the side of the road. Virtually every player he ever coached placed an old pair of sneakers there. He had died instantly, according to the paramedics, crushed when he fell asleep and drifted over the center line, straight into the path of an 18-wheeler.

  How many times had she driven past this spot? Sometimes it would conjure up emotions so real she could almost touch him. Other times she could force herself not to think about it. But tonight, in the loneliness of the fog, she didn’t have a chance.

  When she was little, she believed she would marry him. As a teenager she played ball for him, the smartest coach she ever had. In college, she would call him and listen to that baritone voice assure her that everything would be all right. Two torn ACLs, but still he said it would all work out. The funny thing is—she believed him.

  And now he was gone, though his words stayed with her, motivating her still.

  Stand up for what you believe in. If something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.

  It was one of the reasons she found herself going to this meeting even though she had finals this week. Her dad would have been here if he were still alive.