The Judge Who Stole Christmas

by Randy Singer

She passed the curve in front of the paper mill and accelerated her little Neon, anxious to leave the pain behind. “I love you, Daddy,” she whispered.

  A few minutes later Jasmine pulled into the packed gravel parking lot of Freewill Baptist and smiled at the small marquee sign out front that announced tonight’s meeting along with a thinly disguised message for Ichabod: Your heart is an inn—do you have room for Jesus? Freewill was an ultraconservative congregation, a flock of true believers who had not yet embraced the contemporary worship styles and casual dress of their less-serious Christian brethren. Jasmine’s family had always attended church on the other side of town, at the only African American church within ten miles, a small group of rowdy adherents who believed in marathon services and multiple offerings taken up by stern women wearing white gloves. But Jasmine’s parents had shown her how to cross cultural barriers with ease—no small feat for a six-two African American woman who didn’t exactly blend in with the crowd.

  Jasmine found a parking spot, pulled on her long brown overcoat, and hustled toward the small box-shaped building with white siding where the faithful had gathered. She dodged the kids darting around the foyer and slipped into the small sanctuary with its stained-glass windows, dim lighting, and rows of wooden pews with cushions covered in red velvet. She didn’t see any empty seats in the last few pews, so she found a spot against the back wall. Mayor Frumpkin was standing in front of the stage, pacing back and forth, talking excitedly. He waved around a copy of yesterday’s Virginian-Pilot, with a headline that read “Possum Manger Scene Must Go—Town to Appeal.”

  “Arnold Ottmeyer says an appeal could take a year to get resolved,” His Honor said.

  This elicited a few groans from the audience. Jasmine heard someone toward the back mutter, “Lawyers” as if it were a curse word.

  “If we rely on an appeal, we might as well kiss this Christmas good-bye and maybe the next one as well.”

  Though it didn’t appear to Jasmine that the mayor was open to questions, a hand shot up anyway. He couldn’t really ignore the man, so the mayor nodded in his direction. “Pete?”

  A tall balding man in the second pew stood and turned so he could face the audience. Jasmine recognized the guy as a rabid fan from her high school basketball days. His face would turn beet red as he yelled at the refs, telling them they were missing a good game.

  “Judicial tyranny,” he said. “That’s what this is.”

  Jasmine grinned to herself.

  “You betcha,” somebody said.

  “Amen,” said a little blue-haired lady sitting on the last pew, just in front of Jasmine.

  “The only way to combat this is to get these tyrants removed from the bench . . . the same way our forefathers like Washington, Jefferson, and Patrick Henry got rid of the tyranny of King James.” A few heads nodded.

  A grandfatherly man standing next to Jasmine leaned toward her and whispered: “Pete Winkle. Fertilizer salesman. Teaches the adult Sunday school class here.”

  Jasmine nodded but thought to herself, King James?

  “So I’ve got an impeachment petition that I took the liberty of drafting. I’d like to get a thousand signatures and send it to our congressman. I think that might get his attention.” Jasmine noticed the little lady in the back pew go fishing in her pocketbook for a pen. “We’ve let these liberal judges rule our country long enough!” At this, Pete thrust his petition in the air, undoubtedly expecting a mob riot to break out. Instead, there was a smattering of applause—a few clapped, but most just nodded.

  “Well.” The mayor fidgeted around up front as Pete settled in his seat again. “That’s a good plan. Let’s pass that petition around.” Being a law student, Jasmine was half tempted to raise her hand and tell the mayor that the plan had the chance of Frosty in a Virginia summer, but she knew better. Based on her skin color, those who didn’t know her would probably assume she was a liberal. No sense defending Ichabod and removing all doubt.

  “But at the same time we’re pursuing the impeachment option, I’ve got another plan that our town attorney tells me just might work.” The mayor now had the rapt attention of the crowd and played to the spotlight. He twirled his mustache for a moment and then, to Jasmine’s amazement, walked over to the front pew and pulled out a laptop. Within minutes a few helpers had erected a screen in front of the pulpit, and the mayor had hooked up his computer to an LCD projector. He punched a button on his remote and the first slide of his presentation—Operation Christmas Spirit—flashed brightly on the screen. PowerPoint in Possum, Jasmine thought. What’s the world coming to?

  The title slide dissolved and another took its place. “This,” the mayor said, “is a diagram of the town square. . . .”

  Partway through Mayor Frumpkin’s explanation of his battle plan, Theresa Hammond, a plain woman with straight black hair, a prominent nose, and pale skin, moved her baby girl from one shoulder to the other. The infant opened her eyes for a moment, sucked hard on a pacifier, then laid her head back down on her mom’s shoulder.

  Her contentment lasted until the mayor hit a high point in his presentation, drawing a smattering of applause that woke the little girl. This time she started fussing loud enough that Theresa had to slip out of the pew and head to the back of the church, shushing and patting her child the entire way. The movement seemed to calm the infant, and Theresa settled into a spot next to Jasmine, bouncing the child gently on her shoulder to keep the baby satisfied.

  “She’s a cutie,” Jasmine said, hoping that Theresa wouldn’t ask if Jasmine wanted to hold her.

  “Thanks.” Theresa glanced around and then edged a little closer to Jasmine. “I’m worried about Thomas,” she said, her voice so low that Jasmine could hardly hear.

  Jasmine raised an eyebrow.

  “Did Professor Arnold tell you how he met us?” Theresa asked.

  “Yes,” Jasmine hesitated, missing the connection. She knew that her professor had defended Thomas and Theresa Hammond against negligent homicide charges in Virginia Beach when they failed to obtain timely medical help for their critically ill two-year-old son. Their belief in faith healing kept them from going to the hospital until it was too late. That was a year and a half ago. The Hammonds had since moved to Possum, changed churches, and added this newest family member. “But what’s that got to do with . . .”

  “It’s the same look,” Theresa said. “When we were in court the other day . . . it was the same stubborn look that Thomas had when Joshie was sick—” Theresa stopped midsentence as Thomas slid out of his seat and started toward the women. She stopped patting her child for a moment and touched Jasmine’s elbow. “Please don’t let him do anything stupid.”

  “Okay,” Jasmine said politely. “I’ll do what I can.”

  Thomas joined the women and shook Jasmine’s hand. “Is this gonna work?” he asked, nodding toward the mayor.

  “I’m not sure,” Jasmine whispered.

  “I don’t like it,” Thomas said. His voice was low but tended to carry, eliciting a “shh” from the back row. “Too much hoorah. I like simple things at Christmastime, not so much sparkle and glitter.”

  Jasmine nodded and noticed Pete’s hand shoot up.

  “How do we know the NAACP won’t file suit again?” Pete asked.

  “It wasn’t the NAACP that filed suit the first time,” Jasmine blurted out before she could catch herself. Heads turned toward her and most of the crowd seemed to recognize her, prompting a few friendly smiles. The ones who didn’t registered a fair amount of surprise, as if somebody had opened the belly of the Trojan horse and Jasmine had just crawled out. “The NAACP is the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. They help protect the civil rights of African Americans,” she explained. “It was the American Civil Liberties Union that filed suit, not the NAACP.”

  “Hard to keep all those liberal groups straight,” somebody said.

  “Folks, you remember Jazz Woodfaulk,” the mayor said, seizing the moment. “She’s g
one from starring on the basketball court to starring in a court of law. She’s just finishing up at Regent Law School, and we’ve been blessed to have her help defend the Town of Possum in this case.”

  Before Jasmine could correct the mayor and explain that she actually represented Thomas Hammond rather than the town, a few people said, “Amen,” and several others started clapping. It wasn’t much of an ovation, but it was better than Pete Winkle had managed with his Impeach the Judge petition.

  “Do you think Operation Christmas Spirit will work?” somebody asked.

  Jasmine hesitated. She saw hope in dozens of eyes. The mayor smiled expectantly.

  “It’s the best plan I’ve heard so far,” Jasmine said.

  “Praise the Lord!” said the little blue-haired lady in the back row.

  FRIDAY EVENING, DECEMBER 8

  The first sign of trouble was the half-empty parking lot. Jasmine remembered her senior year, the team that finished second in the state, and how the parking lot filled up early, half an hour before the girls’ varsity game. If you got there late, like Jasmine had tonight, you might have to walk half a mile to the gym.

  The population of Possum had hovered around four thousand people for the past several decades. During Jasmine’s senior year, most every game had been standing room only—nine hundred screaming lunatics—and three times they had set up an overflow site in the school’s auditorium. One of those nights, a village burglar, on the correct assumption that the entire Possum police force would be at the game, had vandalized more than a dozen homes and never been caught. It was a small price to pay, the locals said. The Lady Bulldogs had won.

  Jasmine wrapped her overcoat around her lanky frame and entered the double doors to the gym. The familiar-looking lady at the table took Jasmine’s five-dollar bill without looking up.

  “How much are the programs?” Jasmine asked.

  “One dol—” The lady’s eyes went buggy. “Oh, my goodness! Jazz Woodfaulk!”

  Jasmine blushed. This is what she hated about coming home.

  The lady fished into her cash register and thrust the five-dollar bill back at Jasmine. “You don’t pay to get into this gym, young lady.” She stood, smiling the entire time, then leaned forward and gave Jasmine a hug. “You and your dad used to own this place.”

  “Thanks,” Jasmine said, sheepishly trying to slip away.

  “Enjoy the game, dear,” the gatekeeper called out. “They could use you this year.”

  Jasmine stepped into the gymnasium and immediately sensed the apathy generated by a losing team. Pockets of fans were sitting in different spots on the bleachers, talking to each other, almost ignoring the game. Even the cheerleaders looked disinterested.

  Jasmine eased past the well-wishers and villagers interested in discussing the manger case. She spotted her mother sitting with a few other team moms a few rows behind the home team bench, the same place she used to sit for Jasmine’s games. Her mom was one of the few people in the gym leaning forward, hands on her knees, sputtering at the refs or the coach, intently following the game. Ajori was sitting on the bench, looking glum, talking to a teammate. Jasmine climbed into the bleachers next to her mom. “How’s Ajori doing?” Jasmine asked.

  “Two fouls. Both of ’em ticky-tack fouls.”

  “With just two fouls she oughta be in the game,” Jasmine said.

  The ref blew his whistle and Jasmine’s mom threw her arms in the air. “That’s ridiculous, Mr. Ref!” she yelled, rising to her feet. “You guys are pitiful!”

  Coach Barker, a squat man with a buzz cut, shook his head and sauntered to where Ajori was sitting on the bench.

  “No more reach fouls, Woodfaulk.”

  Ajori nodded.

  “Get Kelley.”

  Ajori sprinted to the scorer’s table and knelt in front of it. Just before she went in the game, Jasmine’s mom called her name. When Ajori turned and saw Jasmine, her eyes lit up. The ref called her into the game and she hustled onto the court.

  It took Ajori one minute, thirty-five seconds of playing time to get her shot blocked, followed by a three-second violation, and then to get called for going over the back on a defensive rebound.

  “Kelley!” Barker shouted. “Get Woodfaulk.”

  Jasmine’s stomach dropped as Ajori came slinking off the court and took a seat at the end of the bench. She stared at her shoes when Barker went to stand in front of her, yelling as he watched the game. “That’s just a dumb foul, Woodfaulk! Stupid. You’re a senior. I say, ‘No fouls, Woodfaulk. Don’t go over the back, Woodfaulk.’ And what do you do? Bam!” Barker slapped his hands together. It seemed to Jasmine like the whole gym was listening. “You go over the back and pick up your third foul! That’s just . . . that’s just . . . moronic. That’s what it is . . . moronic.”

  “He’s a jerk,” Jasmine whispered to her mom. Her mom’s round face was flushed with anger, but Jasmine knew that her mom, one of the most outspoken women in all of Possum, would be loath to criticize the coach. When your husband is a coach and you experience all the critical comments and backstabbing from the parents, you make a vow not to do the same when your kid’s playing.

  But Jasmine had no such restraints. This was Barker’s first year, and this was the first game Jasmine had seen him coach, but she had already heard about his antics. He had now turned his rantings from Ajori to some other poor kid on the floor who was apparently falling short in the hustle department.

  “How can you stand this?” Jasmine asked.

  “He’s a little intense,” Jasmine’s mom admitted. “But what’re you gonna do?”

  “I can’t believe he didn’t play you the whole second half,” Jasmine said to Ajori on the ride home after the game. Ajori was slumped in the passenger seat of Jasmine’s Neon. She had hardly spoken.

  “Can we not talk about it?”

  “That guy is such an idiot. I mean, how can he sit out his best player the whole second half?”

  Ajori turned on the radio while she riffled through Jasmine’s CDs. “You need some new tunes, Sis. This stuff is ancient.”

  Jasmine switched the radio off. “What’d he say at halftime?”

  Silence.

  “C’mon, Ajori. What’d he say?” Jasmine had been amazed when the team had stayed in the locker room for only a few minutes at halftime. Then she stewed during the second half as her sister sat on the bench. Barker didn’t make one substitution and hardly said a word, watching with his legs crossed and one arm resting on the back of the chair next to him as his team lost by thirty.

  “If I tell you, can we not talk about the game anymore?”

  “Okay.”

  Ajori took a deep breath. “He came in and ripped two sheets of paper from the stat sheets. Then he ripped that paper up into tiny slips and wrote everybody’s name on a slip. As he folded them up, he said that we had played like crap—not his exact words—and it didn’t really matter what he said or what he did since we didn’t listen anyway. Then he said, ‘As long as we’re going to all play like a bunch of little old ladies, we ought to at least be democratic about it.’ He put the folded papers in his hand and held his hand toward me. He told me to draw five and announce the names, which I did. Then he said, ‘Ladies, those are your starters for the second half. The rest of you might as well make yourself comfortable on the bench.’”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yep.”

  “I hate that man.”

  In response, Ajori turned on the radio again. “Me too,” she mumbled.

  “Dad never did anything like that.”

  Ajori responded with silence.

  A few minutes later a change in subject matter loosened up Ajori, and by the time they hit the driveway, she was talking nonstop about the boys in her class. As Jasmine and Ajori climbed from the car, Ajori returned to the topic of basketball.

  “Barker is making us practice at eight tomorrow morning,” she said, hefting her gym bag over her shoulder. “He saw you at the gym and wants
to know if you’ll come and scrimmage with us.”

  Jasmine walked next to Ajori as they headed into the house. She wanted to be careful here—this was Ajori’s team. She realized how hard it must be to be Jazz Woodfaulk’s little sister in a town like Possum, especially when you’re four inches shorter and born without the Woodfaulk basketball gene.

  “How do you feel about that?” Jasmine asked.

  “I don’t care,” Ajori shot back. “I won’t be there. I’m quitting.”

  SATURDAY MORNING, DECEMBER 9

  A few minutes before eight on Saturday morning, Jasmine found herself lacing on an old pair of sneakers in the cramped driver’s seat of her red Dodge Neon. She could barely squeeze herself into the seat to drive, much less bend around the steering wheel and put on her treads. Ajori was having less difficulty in the passenger seat, though she hadn’t muttered a word yet. Under ideal circumstances on a Saturday morning, Ajori would have slept in until noon and stayed in her pajamas until two.

  Jasmine and her mom had talked Ajori out of quitting the night before. It was the third time this season Ajori had announced she was going to quit, according to Jasmine’s mom. Jasmine at first decided not to come to practice but changed her mind late last night as she tossed and turned in bed, feeling sorry for her little sister. She would show Barker a thing or two during practice. Afterward she would take the opportunity to pull him aside and casually give him a few pointers about the game.

  Nobody should treat her little sister the way Barker did.

  It was 8:15 before Barker showed up in his Ford pickup, a gun rack and American flag covering the back windshield. He opened the gym, rolled out the balls for the girls to warm up, then disappeared into his office.

  “Where’s he going?” Jasmine asked Ajori.

  “Smoke break.”

  The scrimmage didn’t start until nine. Barker placed Jasmine with the second team and put eight minutes on the clock. “Call your own fouls,” he said.

  For the first few minutes, the starters actually showed sparks of potential. Ajori hit a couple smooth jump shots, and a tall, lanky white girl named Ginger pulled down a few rebounds when she wasn’t busy pulling her long blonde hair back into a tight ponytail. Ginger was probably six feet tall and might have been a good post player, except that she didn’t have a competitive bone in her body. She was quite possibly the nicest player Jasmine had ever played against. “Sorry,” Ginger would say if she touched Jasmine on a shot. “My bad” when a teammate’s pass would sail through her hands. And when Jasmine boxed her out, Ginger would simply move out of the way, as if physical contact with another player might result in some deadly communicable disease.