The Judge Who Stole Christmas

by Randy Singer

  “You’ll be joining Reverend Hester, who’s flying in from Orlando for a crusade in Madison Square Garden. Part of the problem with the way your case has been handled—and I don’t want to sound critical of your lawyer; she’s doing a good job for a law student—but part of the challenge is that we’re losing the publicity war. We’ve got to get your story out there. And Reverend Hester is making tentative arrangements, even as we speak, for some joint appearances for you, the kids, and him on some Saturday morning wake-up shows.”

  Television? Theresa broke into a cold sweat just thinking about it. “But I don’t really want to go on—”

  “Excuse me,” Arginot interrupted as he reached for a vibrating blue doohickey clipped to his belt. To Theresa it looked like a minicomputer. But to her surprise, Arginot spoke into it. She took advantage of the distraction to chase down one of her charges who was crawling across the kitchen floor toward the bedrooms.

  “Yes, sir,” she heard Arginot say. “We were just going over those details now. That’d be great. . . . Let me just check with Mrs. Hammond. . . .”

  Arginot put his hand over the little device. “Reverend Hester would love to have you as his guest at his crusade Saturday night. We would put you up in New York City at our expense.”

  “Um . . . I don’t know. I guess so,” Theresa said, carrying the little boy back into the living room, where she squeaked a few toys to get his attention.

  “Great.” Arginot turned back to the phone. “She’s in. Oh yeah, that would be great. How long do you need it to be?” He whispered to Theresa, “A short testimony in church.” Then back into the phone, “I’ll let her know.” He paused and listened while Theresa fretted about the testimony. “I’ll be going out to the square with Thomas tonight. You can let the show’s producer know that this thing is far from over.”

  Though she was almost too nervous and intimidated to speak, Theresa knew she had to say something. She didn’t want to appear ungrateful—but a testimony? And Thomas going back to the square?

  “I’m not very good at testimonies,” she confessed as Arginot hung up and clipped the device back on his belt. “And I really don’t want Thomas going back out to the square with his manger scene. I’m dead set against that.”

  Arginot reached over and patted her hand. “Don’t worry about the testimony,” he cooed. “We have professionals that will help you put it together and memorize it. You’ll just look over the heads of the audience and pretend there’s nobody there. Our best testimonies come from folks just like you who are scared to death. God works best in our weaknesses.”

  Theresa knew that last part was true, but it still wasn’t helping her roiling stomach.

  “As for Thomas’s going back out to the square, you’ve got to trust our judgment on that, Theresa. Technically, Thomas will be my client, not you. Therefore, I’ve got to give him my best legal advice and let him make that decision. I’m just saying that if he does go out there, I’ll go with him. And even if he doesn’t, we’re appealing his sentence to the Fourth Circuit Court of Appeals, so this thing isn’t over.” Arginot leaned forward a little and looked very sincere. “Do you believe God sent me here to help you?”

  Though Theresa was having some doubts, she thought about the timing of his visit. He had knocked on the door in the middle of her chaotic prayer! How much more plain could God make it? Did she believe God sent him? “Yes.”

  “Then you’ve got to trust that He will help me make the right calls for you and Thomas.”

  It still didn’t feel right. Things were happening way too fast. But Mr. Arginot was right in pointing out that Thomas had to make this call. Theresa knew her husband—nobody told him what to do.

  “Will you at least try to talk Thomas out of going to the square?” she asked.

  “I’ll give him my best legal advice,” Arginot replied. “I’ll tell him we can appeal without violating the court order again. But, Theresa, if he insists on going to the square, I’ll be there with him.”

  Something about the way he said all this left her unsettled. But she wrote it off to her own insecurities. What more could she ask him to do? “Okay,” she said, reminding herself again that he had arrived during prayer.

  “Good. Now you’ve got some packing to do for you and the kids. And keep in mind, it’s cold in New York this time of year.”

  To get to Possum High on Friday night for Ajori’s game, Jasmine had to drive down Main Street, right past the Possum town square. The varsity girls’ game started at seven, and as usual, Jasmine was running a few minutes late. She felt the frustration rise when she saw the line of red taillights in front of her—bumper-to-bumper about two blocks from the square. A traffic jam in Possum? She’d never heard of such a thing.

  Traffic came to a dead stop about a block from the square, so several drivers pulled their cars next to the curb and started walking. Pedestrians were streaming down the sidewalks dressed in heavy overcoats and wool hats, heading to the square. She noticed the temperature on the sign in front of the town bank. Forty-two degrees.

  After five minutes that seemed like fifty-five, traffic started crawling again. As she approached the square on her right, she could see the floodlights. Television trucks jammed around the square had reduced the Main Street traffic to one lane—the opposite lanes taking turns under the direction of one of Possum’s finest. Jasmine had never seen this many people congregate in one place in Possum, not even during her senior basketball season. There were families and senior citizens, teens and children. When Jasmine rolled down her passenger-side window, she could hear the Christmas carols being played by a band.

  A band! It would have to be the high school marching band, which probably hadn’t played a tune since the football season. There were vendors selling coffee and hot chocolate and even sweatshirts. The sweatshirt vendor had a sample raised high on a pole above his table for everyone to see. He was charging twenty bucks for a “No Room in the Square?” sweatshirt, and his line stretched for half a block.

  Jasmine craned her neck to see if the main attraction for the night had staked out his turf. She yelled at a passerby on the sidewalk. “Is he out there?”

  A teenager shrugged her shoulders. “We heard he was coming out around eight or so,” she said. “But we wanted to get a good spot.”

  Though Jasmine had been wrestling with the issue all day, she still hadn’t decided whether or not to withdraw from representing Thomas. All this excitement was making her think twice about backing out of the case. But what defense did he have? Especially if he were dumb enough to flaunt Ichabod’s order one more time and set up his manger scene tonight.

  Resisting the urge to pull over and join the crowd, Jasmine continued toward her alma mater. She had a sister to support. And based on what she had just seen, Ajori and her teammates could probably use every fan they could get.

  By the time Jasmine arrived at the gym and joined her mom in the bleachers, Possum was already down by eight. There were so few spectators that the gym seemed deathly quiet—you could hear the squeak of shoes as the players made their cuts.

  “Where’re the cheerleaders?” Jasmine asked.

  “Probably at the town square with everyone else,” her mom said.

  Franklin High hit a three. “Wish I could be at the square,” one of the other moms said. Jasmine’s mom shot her a look that could melt steel. “But then I’d miss the exciting comeback we’re gonna make,” the woman added.

  Barker was prowling the sidelines, burying his head in his hands. “Patience, ladies, patience!” he’d scream whenever the Possum girls would dare to shoot. “Work it around for a better shot!”

  Ajori clanged a three-pointer off the back rim. “You call that patience?” Barker yelled.

  “Keep firing! They’ll fall!” Jasmine’s mom yelled.

  “Is she wearing her hair different?” one of the ladies asked.

  “Hands up!” another screamed.

  Jasmine just shook her head. They were still in
the first quarter, and Possum was now down twelve.

  By the second quarter, Barker had turned his ire from his impatient team to the referees. He began complaining about every call, drawing his first technical for a childish display of foot stomping and pouting. A few minutes later Rebecca Arlington had to restrain him or he would have drawn his second.

  “You tell ’em, Coach!” yelled Jasmine’s mom, always the instigator. Barker turned and shot her a look.

  The game’s that way, Jasmine wanted to say, pointing at the court. Instead, she bit her tongue.

  But Barker did not bite his. A few minutes before halftime, Barker detonated again. It happened at the end of a Franklin High fast break, after their star player, a girl nicknamed Train, came barreling down the lane and mowed down Tamarika, who had established herself in perfect position to draw the charge.

  Tamarika collected herself from the floor, checking to make sure all her parts were still intact, while the ref blew his whistle. “Blocking foul—” he motioned—“on number four.” And Barker went into orbit.

  He jumped from the bench and started screaming at the ref. “You’re pathetic—you know that?” Then came a stream of curse words. “You’re a disgrace to the game.”

  The ref tried to calm things down, first seeming to ignore Barker, then motioning for him to sit back down. Rebecca Arlington, the petite blonde assistant who treated ball games like a modeling opportunity, tried to do her part. She stood and put a hand on Barker’s elbow. “Let it go, Coach.” But in her heels and knee-length skirt, she was no match for Barker.

  He shrugged her off and charged the ref like a bull.

  Before Jasmine could blink, Barker was nose-to-nose with the startled ref. Bobby Knight would’ve been proud. Barker made a few more nasty comments in a tone so menacing and low that Jasmine couldn’t hear what he said.

  But the ref did. And it surprised no one when he slapped a second technical on Barker and pointed to the locker room door. Barker made one more comment; the ref’s face registered one last look of surprise; then Barker stalked off the court.

  Most eyes followed Barker, but Jasmine watched Rebecca. Jasmine’s former classmate, whiter than normal, gathered the team around while the Franklin player took her foul shots. Rebecca seemed at a total loss for words but eventually mumbled something, and the players nodded. When play resumed, Rebecca returned to her seat on the bench, still faithfully keeping stats like an assistant coach, while her players charged around the floor, playing out of control like bumper cars at a theme park.

  By halftime Franklin’s lead had swelled to twenty-two.

  The Possum players slumped toward their locker room, but Rebecca looked too petrified to follow them. First, she checked the book at the scorer’s table; then she straightened up a few water bottles next to the bench, and finally, when she could apparently think of no other stalling tactics, she looked at Jasmine.

  Rebecca shrugged her shoulders and held up her palms. I’m clueless. Jasmine stood and walked down the bleachers to the gym floor.

  “What do I tell them?” Rebecca asked.

  Jasmine bent down a little—even in heels, Rebecca wasn’t five-eight—and explained a couple of adjustments that made Rebecca’s eyes cloud over.

  “Jasmine, you come tell them. They’ll listen to you.”

  Jasmine protested but knew that Rebecca had a point. Jasmine allowed herself to hold out for half a minute before agreeing to accompany Rebecca into the locker room. “But I’m not staying if Barker’s in there,” she said.

  “He won’t be there,” Rebecca responded. Before Jasmine could ask how Rebecca knew, she found herself following the assistant coach off the floor.

  When Jasmine entered the locker room, she saw nothing but the tops of heads—a ponytail here, a headband there, a scrunchie holding a pile of hair in place. Most of the girls sat with their elbows on their thighs, staring at the floor, ready to absorb another well-earned verbal bashing. Jasmine glanced around the silent room—there was no sign of Barker.

  “I’ve asked Jasmine to come in and talk to us,” Rebecca said as heads sheepishly glanced up. “She says there’re a few adjustments we need to make.”

  From the locker room to the bench was a natural transition. Sure, Rebecca was still the fill-in head coach, now sitting in the head coach’s seat at the end of the bench—but Jasmine did all the yelling. Plus Jasmine had a brilliant strategy. She noticed that the other team’s big girl was afraid to shoot from the outside. So Jasmine stuck her six-footer—Ginger—in the lane at the defensive end and told her not to worry about guarding anybody in particular. “Your only job,” Jasmine told her, clenching her teeth so Ginger could feel the intensity, “is to be a lean, mean shot-blocking machine. That’s your paint! Got it? Your paint! Anybody comes in there, you make ’em pay. Got it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Ma’am? I’m only twenty-four, Jasmine wanted to say. But there was no time for that.

  In the first three minutes, her strategy helped Franklin increase the lead from twenty-two to twenty-eight.

  She subbed for Ginger and made the gangly senior sit next to her on the bench. “I thought I told you to block shots,” Jasmine said.

  “Sorry, Coach. I tried.”

  “Don’t apologize.”

  “My bad.” Ginger squirted some water in her mouth and started putting on her warm-up jacket.

  “Take that off,” Jasmine snapped. “You’re going right back in.” Ginger looked disappointed at the news.

  “You like Coach Barker?” Jasmine asked.

  “He’s okay,” Ginger said tentatively. “A little tough sometimes.”

  Ajori missed a jumper, and the Franklin girls were off and running to the other end. No wonder Barker’s always in a foul mood.

  “Barker ever call you any names?” Jasmine asked.

  Silence.

  “Did he?”

  “He called me an uncoordinated geek once.”

  “Anything else?”

  “A waste of six feet.”

  “What else?”

  More hesitation. “He called me soft. He called me a little old lady. He called me stupid. He called me—”

  “Enough.” Jasmine put an arm around Ginger’s shoulders and pointed to the court. “See those Franklin girls?” Ginger nodded. “Every one of ’em is Coach Barker. When they come into the lane, punish ’em for all those names they called you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Go in for Tamarika.”

  At the next dead ball, Ginger went lumbering into the game and the fiery little point guard came out huffing and puffing. “They’re fouling me every play, Coach.” Tamarika plopped down next to Jasmine. “You need to get on the refs.”

  “Barker already tried that,” Jasmine said matter-of-factly. While Tamarika fidgeted in her seat, Ginger flattened some poor Franklin girl who dared take the ball into Ginger’s paint. She started helping the Franklin player up while looking at her coach for approval.

  Jasmine motioned Ginger over to the bench while the Franklin girl took her foul shot.

  “Nice foul,” Jasmine said.

  “Thanks.”

  “But what are you doing helping her up?”

  “Huh?”

  “Barker ever help you up?” Jasmine asked.

  “No.”

  “Next time step over her and don’t help her up. You only get five fouls; make ’em count.”

  Ginger reached up to tighten her scrunchie. “Sorry,” she said. Jasmine gave her an evil eye. “I mean, forget you,” Ginger said.

  “Attagirl.” Jasmine slapped her on the butt and returned to Tamarika.

  “Barker never sits me out this long,” the point guard complained.

  “He must not realize how slow you are.”

  Tamarika furrowed her brow. “Whatchu talkin’ ’bout, Coach?”

  Jasmine just shrugged. “I don’t know who you think you’re fooling, but you’re slower than half the white girls out there. Plus
you play ball like a white girl—all deliberate and fundamental like some farm girl from Indiana. I thought you had jets.”

  Tamarika scowled. “You want speed?”

  “Yeah. I want speed and I want hip-hop.”

  Tamarika’s lips curled a little at the corners. “You want hip-hop?”

  “And street ball—total trash-talking, hip-hopping, not-in-my-house, smashmouth street ball.”

  Now Tamarika smiled broadly, displaying big white teeth. “You sure, Coach?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “It’s hard to do that from the bench,” Tamarika said.

  “I know. Check in for Ajori.”

  Ajori came off the floor and headed for the end of the bench. Jasmine walked down and sat next to her.

  “I think I had twenty-seven against Franklin my senior year,” Jasmine said.

  “So.”

  “You’ve only got six so far.”

  Ajori just watched the floor.

  “’Course, I shot about fifteen threes,” Jasmine said.

  “Coach doesn’t like the three-ball. Likes to pound it inside.”

  Jasmine made a show of surveying the gymnasium, then turned back to Ajori. “I don’t see Coach in here.”

  About that time Tamarika made a beautiful move to the hoop, culminated by a slick no-look pass to Ginger. The pass surprised everyone, most of all Ginger. The ball bounced off her hands and out-of-bounds.

  “Dad liked the three-ball,” Jasmine said. “Said the high school game was a three-point game. Guess he didn’t know what he was talking about.”

  Ajori snorted. “Don’t try that Dr. Phil psychobull on me. Who made you coach, anyway?”

  “Fine,” Jasmine said, and she headed to the other end of the bench.

  Two minutes later she heard a familiar voice behind her. “Put Ajori in!”

  Jasmine turned and stared at her mom, who in turn nodded toward Ajori’s end of the bench. I thought you didn’t yell at coaches, Jasmine wanted to say. Instead, she shuffled down and sat next to Ajori.

  “You ready?” Jasmine asked.

  “Guess so.”