The Judge Who Stole Christmas

by Randy Singer

  “Congratulations,” Barker said to Ginger at one point in the scrimmage. “You get the least production out of six feet in height of any player in women’s basketball.”

  “Sorry,” Ginger said.

  The only African American on the team other than Ajori, a little water bug named Tamarika, took care of the ball-handling responsibilities. In one particularly nice sequence, Ginger grabbed a rebound and threw an outlet pass to Tamarika. The quick little guard scooted around a few of Jasmine’s helpless teammates and drove right at Jasmine. At the last possible second, just as Jasmine went up to block Tamarika’s shot, the kid dished a no-look pass to Ajori, who banked in a nice jump shot. Barker immediately blew his whistle, stopping the scrimmage so he could yell at a few of Jasmine’s teammates. He never complimented the starters on their nice play.

  Jasmine took advantage of the coach’s rantings to bend over, hands on her knees, and suck in a few deep breaths. Law school and basketball don’t mix, she thought. But she also wondered how this team could look so pitiful in the game and have such brilliant moments in practice.

  “You ladies better give Woodfaulk some help defensively,” Barker screamed at Jasmine’s teammates. “You can’t expect her to do it all! She’s got two bad knees and she’s out of shape.” Jasmine jerked her head up and gave Barker the eye, which he ignored. “Plus, she’s carrying around a few more pounds than she did in college.”

  Jasmine dominated the next several minutes. She drove the lane, crashed the boards, and blocked one of Ajori’s shots back to half-court. Barker’s shrill whistle brought her out of the zone. This time he turned his ire on the starters.

  “This is what happens every game,” he complained. “The other team starts running on us and we lose control . . .” He stared at Ajori and Tamarika. “We start playing hip-hop basketball, totally undisciplined.”

  What’s that supposed to mean—“hip-hop” basketball? Jasmine was liking Barker less by the second.

  “This isn’t the WNBA,” Barker continued. “I want three passes before you shoot or I’ll tie up the nets for the rest of practice like I did last week!”

  Ajori rolled her eyes. Tamarika stared at a spot on the floor, shifting from one leg to the other. “My bad,” Ginger said.

  The next time down the floor a fired-up Ajori blocked Jasmine’s shot and passed to Tamarika. Several passes later, after working the ball around like a Princeton basketball team from the 1950s, Ajori scored over the outstretched arms of Jasmine.

  When Jasmine posted up in the lane at the other end of the floor, Ajori gave her sister a sharp elbow in the ribs. “Quit trying to make me look good,” Ajori sneered. “I don’t need your charity.”

  Sheesh, Jasmine thought, are we having fun yet?

  An hour later, as the girls were running their suicide drills, Jasmine walked over and stood next to Coach Barker. “Thanks for scrimmaging, Woodfaulk,” he said. “It helped our kids see their weak spots.”

  “Sure.”

  He blew the whistle and Jasmine felt like it had pierced her eardrum. “Two more!” he shouted. The girls groaned.

  Jasmine thought about the American flag proudly displayed in the back window of Barker’s truck. In her trial-practice class, she had learned to communicate in a language the jury understood. She’d try it out on Barker.

  “Know what makes this country great?” Jasmine asked as she and Barker watched the girls jog up and down the court on their next suicide. Ajori was near the back of the pack.

  “What?”

  “Hard work and freedom,” Jasmine said. “If you don’t have freedom, you’re like Communist Russia used to be. If you don’t have hard work, you’re France.”

  Barker coughed, the phlegmy variety common to smokers, never taking his eyes off the court. “Your point is?”

  “Basketball teams are the same way. Right now, this feels like Communist Russia, Coach.” Another piercing whistle and the girls started on their last suicide. “You’ve got to give them some freedom to play.”

  “Is that so?”

  The two stood there in silence until the girls limped across the baseline at the conclusion of their last suicide. “Gather round,” Barker said.

  The girls hobbled over huffing and puffing. Most of them bent over, hands on knees.

  “What are the rules for when your parents whine about your playing time?” Barker asked.

  “You don’t play the next game,” Ginger said between hard breaths.

  “That’s right,” Barker said. “And, Tamarika, what happens when your parents complain to me about my coaching?”

  Tamarika mumbled something that Jasmine couldn’t hear.

  “That’s right,” Barker said. “Double suicides.” He turned to Ajori. “You think that rule applies to big sisters?”

  Ajori groaned.

  “On the baseline, ladies,” Barker announced. “You’re about to find out.”

  “This is stupid,” Jasmine said as she walked toward the baseline with them. If she had been the cause of their running, she could at least share in their pain.

  The girls lined up on the baseline and Barker walked in front of them. “Any more suggestions before we start running?” he asked Jasmine.

  The other girls looked at Jasmine like they might tar and feather her if she said a word.

  “No, sir,” Jasmine shot back. “Stalin would be proud.”

  SATURDAY EVENING, DECEMBER 9

  Thomas Hammond had never seen so much junk in the Possum town square in his life. It felt to him more like the flea market than a celebration of Christmas. For starters, he didn’t like the big sign at the front: “The History and Traditions of Xmas.” As if you couldn’t even say the name of Christ anymore.

  What’s America coming to?

  As one of Theresa’s cousins watched the kids, Thomas and Theresa manned their live manger scene in a back corner of the square, though tonight it seemed more like a petting zoo. There were crowds of children waiting in line—waiting in line!—to pet the animals. And hardly anyone paid attention to the doll baby cradled in Theresa’s arms. Even if they did, Thomas and Theresa were under strict instructions not to say anything that might be construed as proselytizing. Same for the carolers, who were under orders not to sing any serious Christmas carols, just stick with the “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” stuff. No telling who might be spying for the ACLU.

  To make matters worse, the manger scene stood right next to the Twelve Days of Christmas display. The twelve drummers drumming were putting the animals on edge, not to mention Thomas. But he would gladly suffer through another hundred drummers drumming if he could just get rid of the ten lords a-leaping—ten grown men wearing tights who periodically put on a little leaping and dancing display with the nine ladies dancing. After watching the first performance, Thomas was pretty sure that there ought to be a law against men with beer guts wearing tights. Meanwhile, the eight maids a-milking, which Thomas thought was one of the calmer parts of the display, drew a constant chorus of “yuck” and “gross” from the schoolchildren who dropped by. Hadn’t those kids ever seen a cow udder before?

  The mayor scurried over, and Thomas stepped away from the animals to talk with him.

  “We’ve got a problem,” Frumpkin confided.

  Since when does the mayor discuss town problems with me? Thomas wondered.

  “It’s Santa Claus.” The mayor motioned with his head toward the St. Nick line—easily the longest on the square. At the moment there was nobody in Santa’s chair. “Bo Barton’s sick. But he didn’t bother telling anyone ’cause he wanted to do this so bad. He’s been coughin’ and wheezin’ all over the kids. ’Bout had a revolt from the parents.”

  The mayor glanced around and inched a half step closer. “Then Bo flipped his beets.”

  Thomas made a face. “Was a kid sittin’ on his lap?”

  “Of course,” the mayor said. “But at least Bo had the good sense to turn his head to the side. Said he didn’t get a lick of stuff
on the kid, but the parents weren’t so sure. I know this much, that Santa Claus suit will need a good washin’ later.”

  “That is a problem,” Thomas offered.

  “Bo’s a big man,” the mayor continued. “Didn’t need no paddin’ or anything. And I need somebody who can take his place right away.”

  Whoa, Thomas thought as it dawned on him where this was headed. He started shaking his head. “No way,” he said. “Get one of those dancing lords to do it.”

  “They’re too skinny, Thomas.”

  Thomas tilted his head a little and gave the mayor a skeptical look.

  “Okay, they’re not exactly skinny. But they’ve got these soft little guts and skinny legs. But you—you’ve got real bulk. You’re the only guy around here right now who can fill out that suit.”

  “I’m Joseph,” Thomas protested.

  “I can be Joseph,” the mayor said.

  Thomas crossed his arms and shook his head. “Mayor, I want to help ya, but I don’t even let my own kids believe in Santa. Christmas is about Jesus, not Santa.”

  The mayor sighed in frustration. Thomas felt sorry for the little man, but this was a matter of principle. You didn’t ruin a good manger scene just to get a fat Santa.

  At that moment, with both men at a loss for what to do next, destiny intervened. They noticed him at the same time—the perfect solution. He was a large man with a wonderfully round belly and, as if he had been preparing for this role his whole life, a long and straggly gray beard!

  They spotted him as he wandered toward the Frosty the Snowman display. Thomas raised his eyebrow at the man, and the mayor smiled. “Do you know his name?” Frumpkin asked.

  “Nah,” Thomas said. Like most other residents of Possum, he had periodically seen the man roaming the streets in the same tattered clothes; then he would disappear for long periods of time, presumably to roam the streets in the big city of Norfolk. Thomas and his kids had bought the man a sub on a couple of different occasions. Everyone around town called him the Possum bum.

  The mayor shrugged and walked toward the guy. “Hey, buddy, you got a second?”

  Jasmine had studied all afternoon. By evening she needed a break. Besides, she wanted to see this spectacle for herself. She bumped into the principal of Possum High School next to the fruitcake stand. “Can I ask you a question?” Jasmine asked.

  “Sure, Jazz.”

  Jasmine looked around. “It’s kind of private. Can we step over here for a minute?”

  Jasmine pulled the man away from the card tables loaded with an assortment of fruitcakes, destroying the theory that there was really only one fruitcake in the world that just got passed around from one person to the next.

  “It’s about Coach Barker,” Jasmine began. She shuffled her feet a little, trying to think of an acceptable way to say this.

  Jasmine had always liked her high school principal. Her fondest memory of Mr. Greenway was the time he caught Jasmine skipping class. He jettisoned his normally sunny disposition for about fifteen minutes as he raked her over the coals. She had never seen such fire in Greenway’s droopy eyes before. When he was done with his lecture, he considered his options out loud. “I could suspend you for tonight’s game,” he said. Jasmine remembered how her stomach sank to her knees. “Or I could just call your father and let him know.” Her stomach flipped. “Or I could tell you that you’d better go out and win tonight’s game by thirty to make it up to me.”

  They won by thirty-five.

  “I don’t know how to say this diplomatically,” Jasmine continued. “So I won’t. Barker’s destroying the girls’ basketball program.” She watched Greenway’s face for a reaction but saw none. Every good principal knows how to keep a poker face. “He humiliates the girls every chance he gets and tries to get them to play this slow-down game. I mean, it’s just not good Possum basketball.”

  “What do you suggest?” Greenway asked.

  “Talk to him.” Since she’d gone this far, Jasmine might as well say what she thought. “If he doesn’t change, fire him in midseason. Ajori only gets one senior year, and he’s ruining it.”

  Greenway pursed his lips. He waited long enough for Jasmine to get uncomfortable—another principal trick. “Who would I get to coach them?” he asked.

  The question caught Jasmine a little off guard. She was ready to make a case for Barker’s firing, not suggest a new coach. She mentally ran down a list of teachers she still knew at Possum High. Then she thought about the townspeople. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “What about Rebecca Arlington?”

  Greenway frowned at the suggestion of the assistant coach taking over. “Rebecca didn’t even play ball in high school. She’s just there so the girls have somebody to talk to. And our JV coach doesn’t want to move up.” Greenway hesitated. “I already asked her.”

  The implication threw Jasmine further off stride. “You did?”

  “Yeah. Barker already tried to quit once.”

  What a loser! The guy’s not even halfway through his first season as head coach.

  “Well, it seems to me that anybody would be better than Barker,” Jasmine offered.

  Greenway took a half step closer. “You ever think about coaching, Jazz? You’d be great.”

  “You’re kidding, I hope.”

  “I’m dead serious. The girls would respect you. The town would rally around. Rebecca could stay on as your assistant.”

  Jasmine immediately thought of a million reasons it could never work. “I’m in my third year of law school, I’ve got—”

  “Take a semester off,” Greenway suggested.

  “It’s not that easy. I’ve got a big offer from a New York law firm, contingent on graduating in May. Besides, I’m not looking for a job. This is about Ajori and her teammates, not me.”

  “That’s the problem,” Greenway said. “We’ve just started the season and everybody already thinks Barker ought to go, but nobody has a better solution. Listen, Jazz, your dad put this program on the map. How great would it be if his daughter came back and rebuilt it?”

  “Barker just needs someone to hold him accountable,” Jasmine retorted. She wanted to help her little sister, but she had no desire to step back in time and return to Possum as a girls’ basketball coach. She was going to be a lawyer now. A good one. Why couldn’t people understand that?

  “I hear you,” Mr. Greenway said. “But at least you can understand some of the challenges I’m facing. It’s hard to hold a guy accountable when he doesn’t even want the job in the first place.”

  “That’s why you get paid the big bucks,” Jasmine said, thinking about how much more she would make in her first year than Mr. Greenway was making after thirty or forty years of experience. Certainly much more than she would ever make as a basketball coach.

  But it wasn’t about the money, she assured herself. It was about breaking out and becoming successful in the real world. It was about facing the challenges of New York City. And besides, she wasn’t sure Ajori would listen to her even if Jasmine did coach. She had a great relationship with her little sister. Why jeopardize that?

  “Think about it,” Greenway said. “But keep this conversation confidential.”

  “I will.”

  “You can’t share it with anyone—not even Ajori.”

  “I know.”

  Six-year-old John Paul Hammond, nicknamed “Tiger” by his parents for obvious reasons, had slipped away from the loose babysitting of his mom’s cousin and raced around the Possum town square on a candy-cane sugar high. He eventually snuck his way into the Santa line, stealing nervous glances in the direction of his parents to make sure they weren’t looking.

  Though the line took forever, Tiger hung in there and waited his turn. When he finally got to the front of the line, he took one final glance at the manger scene and a quick look around for his babysitter. The coast was still clear. The little baby who had been in line ahead of Tiger was now sitting on Santa’s lap, refusing to look at the mom try
ing to take a picture. Suddenly the baby began to howl as if Santa had tortured her, and Santa immediately handed the kid back to her mom.

  Tiger scurried up and jumped on Santa’s lap. “Are you real?” Tiger whispered. Santa sure smelled real, at least as real as the manger animals after a good rain.

  “Ho, ho, ho,” Santa mumbled as if he were tired of hearing his own voice.

  Tiger decided to give the beard a little tug as a quick test.

  “Ouch,” Santa said, this time with a little more energy. “You better watch it, young man, or I’ll put you on the naughty list.”

  Whew. That must mean I’m on the nice list for now. “Sorry,” Tiger said.

  “Just don’t let it happen again,” Santa warned. “Now what’s your name, little man?”

  “Tiger.”

  “I should have known,” Santa said. “You been good, Tiger?”

  This was a tricky question. Tiger didn’t want to fib, but the truth could mean coal in his stocking. “Kinda.”

  “Well,” Santa said, and Tiger found himself turning his head a little to the side, so Santa’s bad breath didn’t blow right into Tiger’s nose, “you give any money or food to homeless people this year?”

  Tiger scrunched his little brow, trying to remember. “I think so, Santa.”

  “Good, then you’re on my good-boy list. Now whadya want for Christmas?”

  That was easy. Tiger leaned forward so he could whisper in Santa’s ear. He knew that this would be the ultimate test of whether Santa was real. Tiger’s mommy and daddy, who claimed to be the ones who bought all the presents, would never get him this.