The Judge Who Stole Christmas

by Randy Singer

  But not Thomas. Stubborn, silent Thomas. He could sleep through Armageddon.

  Theresa flipped on the kitchen light, emptied yesterday’s coffee grinds from the filter, and started a new pot. She warmed Elizabeth’s bottle just in case. She started cooking the oatmeal and dropped two slices of bread in the toaster. She heard the alarm go off in the bedroom and Thomas roll out of bed. Within minutes he had dressed and joined her in the kitchen.

  During the spring, summer, and fall, Thomas had a steady lawn-care business taking care of the rich folks in Virginia Beach and Chesapeake. During the winter, Thomas morphed into a lumberjack, paying farmers for the right to cut trees on their property, then selling the firewood to convenience stores for resale to customers. He would be gone before the sun came up, spending his first few hours splitting and wrapping the logs he had hauled out to the road the prior day. Thomas could never understand why anybody would pay so much for a half-dozen fireplace logs. Based on the proven willingness of city folk to pay for bottled water and bundled wood, Thomas kept threatening to figure out a way to distribute clean country air as well. “I’ll put it in aerosol cans and sell it in New York City,” he said. “Before you know it, I’ll be a billionaire.”

  Theresa spent the days cooped up in the trailer, taking care of Elizabeth and two other toddlers who belonged to a single working mom. The Hammonds weren’t rich, but they got the bills paid. Their savings account, however, had been wiped out by medical bills and the funeral expenses for little Joshie, not quite a year and a half ago.

  “Mornin’,” Thomas said as he came over and kissed Theresa.

  “Mornin’.”

  He ate in silence for a few minutes while Theresa put away the dishes that had been drying in the drainer overnight.

  “Comin’ to court this afternoon?” he asked.

  “Don’t think so.”

  Thomas paused as he took a sip of coffee and a bite of oatmeal. “’Cause?”

  Theresa placed the final few glasses in the cupboard and hesitated. She wanted to support him so badly—but why did it always have to be them? Why couldn’t somebody else fight this battle? It couldn’t come at a worse time.

  She sighed, lacking the emotional energy for a fight. She grabbed the peanut butter out of the cabinet, the jelly from the refrigerator, and started making sandwiches. “Elizabeth can’t stay still that long. Plus I promised the other kids we’d go Christmas shopping after school.”

  “Already spent a lot of money on the plywood,” Thomas said as if Theresa didn’t know. “Don’t get carried away.”

  “Forty-eight dollars for the plywood,” Theresa said. “And another eighteen-fifty for the paint.”

  More silence followed, which drove Theresa crazy. “That’s sixty-six dollars we don’t have, Thomas.”

  He grunted and ate a few more bites of oatmeal. “I’ll make it up this week. Firewood sales are always good around the holidays.”

  You gonna sell firewood from jail? she wanted to ask. But what good would that do? She should be supportive, not nagging. But sixty-six bucks was a lot of money. And that federal judge scared her. She fixed lunch in silence and thought about everything that could go wrong. She waited until he had finished his breakfast to bring it up again.

  “What did Jasmine say?” Theresa asked. She put two PB&J sandwiches in small sandwich bags and then placed them in a larger white plastic bag. She threw in a PowerBar, the remainder of an opened bag of chips, an apple, and a napkin.

  Thomas had been watching her pack his lunch from the breakfast table. He stood and placed his dishes in the sink. “What am I gonna eat for dessert?” he asked.

  Theresa shook her head and placed a brownie in his lunch bag too. “Now, what did Jasmine say?”

  “She thinks we’ve got a good case. Says the worst I’ll get is a good chewing out.”

  “And then?”

  “Then, in a worst-case scenario, the judge will tell me not to do it again.”

  “Then?”

  Thomas picked up his lunch from the counter, added another brownie, and grabbed the drink cooler from the refrigerator. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  Theresa came over and wrapped her arms around him. He put his lunch on the counter and gave her a quick hug, the same kind of out-the-door hug he gave her every morning. But this time she didn’t let go. She had to say something, though she couldn’t look at him when she did. “I can’t go through this again, Thomas.” Her voice became thick. “Promise me you won’t go to jail again.”

  He held on to her and stroked the back of her hair. “I’m not going to jail, Theresa. Jasmine said we’ve got a good case.”

  “Promise me you’ll back off if you have to.”

  He hesitated.

  “Promise me, Thomas.”

  He kissed the top of her head and gave her a squeeze—a subtle signal that it was time to let go. “You know I can’t do that, Theresa. A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”

  She hated that expression. Hated it! What’s that even supposed to mean? That a man’s got to go on some crusade for Christmas and ignore the needs of his own family?

  She unwrapped her arms and pursed her lips. She had stood silently by her man so many times in the past. Thomas and his crusades. Thomas and his convictions. It had already cost them a son. Couldn’t he see that? “Sometimes,” she said, “a man’s got to do what’s right for his family.”

  Thomas just looked at her, sadness and resolve filling his eyes. Then he grabbed his lunch and headed for the door.

  Tiger loved the Dollar Store! He squeezed the five-dollar bill in his right hand and elbowed his way from aisle to aisle, breathlessly checking out all the stuff. There were so many people in the store, he could barely move around. But fortunately Tiger was small and could squeeze past people and . . . whoops! He knocked over a bunch of Christmas tree decorations and some Christmas curly swirl. He bent over to pick up a box of the ornaments and took a quick look around—nobody watching. He gently kicked the stuff over to the side and took off. His mom always said if you broke something in a store, they made you pay for it. No way was he gonna use his money on Christmas curly swirl.

  Halfway down the next aisle he found some stuff his mommy would love! Bubble bath, necklaces, girlie junk everywhere! Stinky, Tiger’s big sister, was hanging out in this aisle. Her real name was Hannah, a name she now wanted everyone to use, but Tiger liked the nickname his dad had given her when she was still in diapers. When Stinky saw Tiger, she put her hand over her little shopping basket, as if she had already picked out his present. Then she hurried off to another aisle.

  Something caught his eye that he knew his mommy would like. “Excuse me,” he said, pulling on the leg of a kind-looking lady. “Can you reach that for me?” He pointed to the necklace, and the lady smiled and handed it to him.

  It looked even better up close. It was a big necklace with a flashing light on a little thing that hung down. If you twisted the top of that hangy-down thing, right where it attached to the necklace, the necklace would flash—like a police car. How cool!

  Mom was done.

  Dad was next, and Dad was hard. Tiger covered a few more rows and decided to be practical. White underwear. His dad could always use some more underwear. Tiger grabbed a pack and threw them into his little basket. Not the most exciting gift, but Dad already had everything he wanted. Dad’s gift was history. Now for Lizzy. But what did you get for a baby?

  Searching for the perfect gift, Tiger made his way down the toy aisle. This was unbelievable, so many things to choose from! His eyes bugged out as he surveyed the mountains of cool stuff. A plastic snake. Action figures and little race cars. Dinosaurs and lizards. Hey, that would be a good idea—a lizard for Lizzie. But then . . . oh, my goodness!

  Tiger grabbed a package of two Wild West cowboy guns with rubber-tipped darts and everything. He thought about how much fun it would be, racing around the trailer, sneaking up on his dad. Bam! His dad would groan and st
umble around and then fall down dead.

  He raced around the store hunting for Stinky. “C’mere a minute,” he said breathlessly.

  He dragged her back to the toy aisle and pointed out the guns. “Those are really cool,” he said.

  She turned up her nose. “I don’t like guns.”

  “Not for you, Stinky. I’m dus’ saying, if you were wondering what to get for me . . .”

  Stinky, who had been using her body to protect her basket from Tiger’s efforts to peek, did not seem impressed. “Hannah, not Stinky,” she scolded. “And I already got yours.”

  “But what if I don’t like it?”

  “I already showed Mom. She said you’ll like it.”

  “I really like guns,” Tiger said, leaning forward a little so he could sneak a look at what Stinky had in that basket.

  “No peeking,” Stinky said, twisting so he couldn’t see. “’Sides, if I get you the guns, you’ll know what I got you. And that will take all the fun out of it.”

  Shucks. At least he had tried. But Stinky was a girl. What did she know about guns?

  Then another idea hit him. His dad weren’t no girl. And his daddy loved guns. His dad had as much fun as Tiger when they played with guns.

  After Stinky had disappeared around the end of the aisle, Tiger grabbed the guns and put them in his basket. Then he took out the underwear and, after checking for store clerks, placed them in the bin of plastic snakes.

  Boy, his dad would love these guns. And as Tiger knew better than most, you can make a few pair of used underwear go a long way.

  Even though Jasmine had another final less than one day away, she spent almost the entire morning and early afternoon on Wednesday preparing for the show-cause hearing. True to his threats, Vince Harrod had filed the paperwork necessary to drag both the Town of Possum and Thomas Hammond back into court to answer for their conduct the night before. Because Ichabod already had a full docket on Wednesday, the hearing was not scheduled to begin until four in the afternoon.

  This time Thomas was a party and Jasmine was an attorney of record, with Arnold Ottmeyer serving as her supervising attorney. She sat at the defendant’s table with Ottmeyer, Mayor Frumpkin, and Thomas. Harrod, representing himself as a citizen of the Commonwealth of Virginia, sat alone at the plaintiff’s table.

  The short notice for the hearing didn’t seem to detract from attendance. More than half the seats were full, mostly with representatives of the media. A half hour before the hearing, the media satellite trucks had rolled into position.

  Jasmine straightened the pile of papers in front of her. Final exams were one thing, Ichabod quite another. She knew that Ichabod would come out swinging, especially if she’d seen the morning paper. “Possum Resident Flaunts Court Order,” the headline read.

  But Jasmine did have one thing going for her—an opinion by the U.S. Supreme Court—Capital Square Review and Advisory Board v. Pinette. She had read the case four times already. It was probably the only thing standing between her client and contempt.

  “All rise! The Honorable Cynthia Baker-Kline presiding.”

  Ichabod began the proceedings by reminding everyone of the procedural posture of the case, probably for the benefit of the press. She reiterated her prior ruling, then explained that Harrod had filed a motion seeking sanctions against the Town of Possum, Mayor Frumpkin, and Thomas Hammond for violating her prior order. As a result, Ichabod had scheduled this show-cause hearing—an opportunity for the defendants to “show cause” why they shouldn’t be held in contempt.

  “I’ll hear from Mr. Hammond’s counsel first,” Ichabod announced, “since he seems to be the person who started this uproar.”

  Jasmine stood and walked to the lectern. “May it please the court, my name is Jasmine Woodfaulk and I represent—”

  “Yes, yes, I’m aware of all that,” Ichabod snapped. “Did your client erect a manger scene on the Possum town square last night in direct violation of this court’s order?”

  “Yes and no,” Jasmine replied. “Yes, my client erected a crèche on the town square. But no, he didn’t violate the court’s order.”

  “I understand the yes part,” Ichabod fired back. “But you’d better explain the no part . . . and you’d better make it good.”

  “This court’s order forbade the town, or any agents of the town, from erecting a crèche on the town square because it might be seen as an unconstitutional endorsement of religion. But as the court knows, the First Amendment’s establishment clause applies only to governmental bodies, not private individuals. Last night Thomas Hammond acted as a private individual. The only thing the town did was to grant him access to a traditional public forum—the town square. Accordingly, the controlling case is the Supreme Court case of Capitol Square Review v. Pinette . . .” Jasmine picked up some copies from her counsel table, handing one to the court clerk and one to Harrod. “Under Pinette, the town can’t keep someone like Thomas from erecting a manger scene on property traditionally open for speech and demonstrations, or it violates his free-speech rights.”

  The clerk handed Ichabod a copy of the case, but the judge set it aside. “I’m familiar with Pinette,” she said. “The Klan wanted to erect a cross on a state-owned plaza in Columbus, Ohio, that had been used for public speeches, gatherings, and festivals for more than a hundred years. But the Pinette case involved a political display. This display is purely religious, thereby implicating the establishment clause and requiring this court to be more circumspect about allowing it.”

  Jasmine felt a rush of adrenaline. The judge couldn’t have been more wrong. “With all due respect, Your Honor, that’s precisely the argument the Supreme Court rejected in Pinette. Listen to what Justice Scalia said, writing for the majority . . .” Jasmine picked up the case and went straight to her favorite quote. “The Klan’s ‘religious display in Capitol Square was private expression’ and, ‘far from being a First Amendment orphan, was as fully protected under the Free Speech Clause as secular private expression. Indeed, in Anglo American history, at least, government suppression of speech has been so commonly directed precisely at religious speech that a free-speech clause without religion would be Hamlet without the prince.’”

  Jasmine looked up from the case and measured the expression on Ichabod’s face. The judge did not look pleased, but she didn’t say anything either; she just scribbled some notes. “Not only that,” Jasmine said, “but Justice Scalia had a few words to say about the argument that religious speech should be entitled to less protection than other speech, much the same way that pornography is entitled to less protection.” She quickly found the other quote she had highlighted. “‘It will be a sad day when this court casts piety in with pornography and finds the First Amendment more hospitable to private expletives than to private prayers. This would be merely bizarre—’”

  “Enough,” Ichabod interrupted. “I get the point.” She turned to Harrod. “It seems to me that if the Klan can do it, Mr. Hammond is certainly entitled.”

  Harrod rose confidently to his feet. “Before Ms. Woodfaulk graduates from law school, I hope she will learn to read the concurring opinions as well as the majority opinions for critical Supreme Court cases.”

  Jasmine bristled. Why did Harrod always have to make it so personal?

  “As Justice O’Connor points out in her concurrence, Capitol Square had traditionally been open to a wide variety of displays, the Klan used the same permit process as everyone else, and the display was to include a sign indicating it was not sponsored by the city. We intend to prove that all of those factors cut the other way in this case.”

  “Just a moment,” Ichabod said. She picked up the Pinette case and read it carefully, page by page, as the lawyers and spectators watched in respectful silence. When she finished, she took off her reading glasses, closed her eyes, and pinched the bridge of her nose as if this whole affair was giving her a migraine. Then she slipped the glasses back on the end of her nose and glanced over them at Harrod. �
�Counsel, at this stage, I’m inclined to agree with Ms. Woodfaulk. So why don’t you call your first witness?”

  “Mayor Bert Frumpkin,” Harrod said without hesitation.

  Harrod raced through a few preliminary questions and then got right to the point.

  “At the time Mr. Hammond erected his manger scene on the town square last night, did he have a permit?”

  “Not when he erected it. But before the night was over—he did.”

  Harrod stepped out from behind the lectern and moved a little closer to the witness.

  “In my courtroom,” Ichabod boomed, “attorneys stay behind the lectern.”

  Jasmine wished she had a picture of the surprised look on Harrod’s face. It was a whose-side-are-you-on-anyway? look.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Harrod said, retreating. Then to the witness: “Who issued the permit?”

  “I did.”

  “Does the mayor normally issue permits for displays in the town of Possum?”

  Frumpkin rubbed his hands together and thought about this for a moment. “Not usually. Most of the time the entire town council votes on permits for things like parades and such. So no, I wouldn’t say I normally issue permits myself.”

  “When’s the last time you issued a permit by yourself, prior to last night?”

  More thinking by Frumpkin, this time accompanied by a mustache twirl. “Never.”

  “I see. And why didn’t the town council vote on Mr. Hammond’s display?”

  “Because we didn’t have time. Mr. Hammond had already set up his manger scene on the town square. We either had to give him a permit or declare him a trespasser and have him arrested.” Frumpkin looked at Thomas. “We weren’t going to arrest someone for celebrating Christmas.”