by Randy Singer
Jasmine stopped reading and looked into the puzzled eyes of her clients.
“What’s that mean?” Thomas asked.
“It’s the way appellate courts drop major hints,” Jasmine explained. “They’re basically saying that Judge Baker-Kline was right to hold you in contempt because she couldn’t allow someone to display a manger scene all by itself, especially if he hadn’t followed the right permitting procedures. But they’re also saying that when the town appeals, we can probably expect a different result, since the town’s displays had a variety of Christmas symbols in addition to the manger.”
“Can we appeal to the Supreme Court?” Theresa asked.
Jasmine hesitated. “Typically, you would appeal a decision of a three-judge panel to the Fourth Circuit sitting en banc—” Her clients looked confused. “That’s all eleven judges of the Fourth Circuit sitting together,” she explained. “But given the time constraints, Arginot wants to go directly to the Supreme Court. The problem is this: even if they decide to hear the case—and that’s no guarantee—I just don’t see any way we could get a ruling before Christmas.”
At this news Theresa teared up and Thomas put his hand on top of hers. “Do you think we’ll win if we appeal to them?” he asked.
“We might win. But the odds are against us. And if we lose, we establish a bad precedent for the whole country, not just the Fourth Circuit.”
“So what are you suggesting?” Theresa asked.
“I think we should appeal,” Jasmine said. “I just want you to know the downside.”
“But you think the town’s appeal, whenever that is heard, has a pretty good chance?” Thomas asked.
“Yes.”
“So they could establish some good law in this same court . . . in this same circuit or whatever.”
“Right.”
“And maybe go up to the Supreme Court and establish some good law for the whole country?”
“It’s possible,” Jasmine said. “But there’s never a guarantee that the Supreme Court will even take the case.”
Thomas thought about this for a moment. “It seems obvious to me,” he said. “We don’t appeal. I serve my time through Christmas, and then we let the town appeal instead. They’ve got the strongest case—right?”
“Yes,” Jasmine answered. “But they’ve . . .” She trailed off. How could she diplomatically explain that the town had the weakest attorney? “It’s not either/or, Thomas. I think we should both appeal. We’ll get two bites at the apple.”
“But you said yourself we might establish some bad law.”
“Yes, but—”
“I’m not interested in establishing any more bad law,” Thomas said, squaring up his jaw. “I’ve seen what the courts think about Christmas. And I think I’ve made my point. We aren’t going to appeal any further.”
Jasmine didn’t know what to say. Theresa stared at the table, and Thomas put on his stubborn mule face. “Okay,” Jasmine said. “Why don’t you sleep on it tonight? If you still feel that way in the morning, we won’t appeal.”
Thomas shook his head. “I don’t need to sleep on it, Jasmine. You’ve done your level best. And I, for one, appreciate it. But we ain’t gonna appeal.”
Jasmine turned to Theresa. “You agree?”
She squeezed her husband’s hand and nodded.
“Okay,” Jasmine said. “I’ll call Arginot and let him tell the world.”
“Good,” Thomas said. The three of them sat there in silence for a few moments, letting the finality of their loss hit home.
“It seems like such a shame,” Theresa said.
And they all nodded in silent agreement.
CHRISTMAS EVE
Theresa opened her eyes and knew she wouldn’t be going back to sleep. She awoke with that familiar sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, the loneliness of missing Thomas. Still, she couldn’t resist a small smile when she noticed the furry little ball curled up next to her in bed.
The first few nights King had slept in the crate, but he was a world-class whiner, and Theresa didn’t have the heart to ignore the puppy’s crying. On night three, Theresa allowed King to sleep in the bed with her, placing a rawhide bone by her feet, which King chewed on until he dozed off. Last night, she had done the same thing, but somehow the little bugger had migrated up to the top of the bed and made a comfy home on Thomas’s pillow.
Theresa reached over and scratched King behind his ears. “Don’t get too comfortable there. One more night and that pillow will be spoken for.”
As she took King outside to do his business, Theresa reflected on all that faced her the rest of the day. She and Thomas had talked last night and agreed on a plan. Thomas had insisted that they not come see him today. Theresa could bring the kids to the jail on Christmas, but Christmas Eve would go on as it always did. Following the Hammond family traditions would be important to the kids, especially now. Thomas said it would send a message: all the federal judges in the world couldn’t keep Christmas from coming or the Hammond family from celebrating it.
Theresa wasn’t interested in sending messages. She just wanted the kids to be happy. She just wanted to survive Christmas.
When the kids woke up, they would eat breakfast, dress warmly, go to church, and then go with Theresa to pick out their Charlie Brown Christmas tree. This tradition started two years ago, on Christmas Eve, when the family walked by the rejected trees in the Food Lion parking lot. Softhearted Hannah started feeling sorry for the trees and wondered what would happen to them if nobody picked them. Though they already had one tree, she talked her daddy into rescuing another one—the sorriest-looking tree on the lot. They put it in their already-cramped living room next to the first tree and decorated it with a few candy canes. You had to turn sideways to walk through the room.
Last year, their first Christmas in Possum, the family decided to wait and get its one and only tree on Christmas Eve, picking out the motliest little tree still remaining in the town. Thomas used it as a teaching lesson: This is what Christ does for us when nobody else thinks we’re worth anything. Theresa liked it because the tree was in the trailer for only a week and didn’t shed nearly as many needles.
This year they would be picking the Charlie Brown tree without Thomas.
The rest of the morning would be spent decorating the tree and making Christmas cookies. Later the kids would help her deliver the cookies to a select list that included, for the first time this year, at Thomas’s insistence, Judge Cynthia Baker-Kline.
Finally, tonight, the most important Christmas tradition of all: the reading of the Christmas story from the book of Luke. Theresa already knew this would be an emotional time. Watching in past years as the kids crawled into Thomas’s lap and sat absolutely still while he read the familiar story of the Virgin Birth always made the rest of the hectic day seem worthwhile. This year, she just wanted to finish the story without crying.
It was a busy day, but she had carefully choreographed every minute of it and felt she had a reasonable chance of getting everything done. Like a good soldier, Theresa checked her list of logistics and supplies. She flicked on the television to catch a weather report and walked back into the kitchen to fix a pot of coffee, her only moment of relaxation before she jumped into this superhectic day.
And that’s when she stepped in it. A small pool of yellow liquid in the middle of the linoleum floor.
“King!” she barked.
The little puppy peeked around the corner, slimy rubber ball in mouth, tail wagging, ready to play.
At least he’s learning his name, Theresa thought.
After a warm lunch, Santana Kringle, badly in need of a nap, headed back to his cell. Though it was technically the inmates’ recreation time, when they could hang out in the common area of the cell block to smoke cigarettes and watch television, Santana needed some rest. Of all the luck, he had drawn Thomas Hammond—the Thomas Hammond—as a cellmate. Santana had no issue sharing a cell with someone as notorious as Thoma
s. Thomas was a lot better than some of the crackheads who populated this joint. But there was one major problem.
The man snored like a freight train.
Santana thought he could sleep anywhere and through anything. Park benches, sewer grates, alcoves of buildings—they all worked fine as beds. Car horns, loud music, sirens—none of it kept Santana from getting his shut-eye.
But this! This was different. Hammond’s snoring was not just loud, but sporadic. And it came from deep in the man’s sinus cavity, like an underground explosion that would rattle to the surface and erupt in a snort of enormous proportions, shaking the cell-block walls and echoing back again.
About 4:00 a.m., Santana had become so desperate that he thought about climbing down from the top bunk, sneaking up next to Thomas, and kissing him gently on the cheek. He might get himself punched, but at least it would stop the snoring. Thomas would have one eye open the rest of the night, staying on guard against another kiss.
A few minutes after Santana hatched the plan, just moments before he crawled from his bunk to give Thomas the kiss, Santana fell asleep. But he knew he couldn’t possibly go through that routine again tonight.
So now, as Santana rested on the top bunk and heard Thomas flipping the pages of his Bible, Santana decided on a new approach.
“How’s it goin’?” he asked.
“Huh? Uh, good, I reckon. How ’bout you?”
“A little tired,” Santana said.
Thomas grunted. “I didn’t keep you awake with my snorin’ last night, did I?”
“Nah. It’s just hard to sleep when you’re spending Christmas in jail away from your family.”
“I hear that.”
For the next several minutes, Santana dangled the bait. He got Thomas to talk about Theresa and Hannah and Tiger and Elizabeth, their Christmas traditions, and the looks on the kids’ faces when they unwrapped their Christmas gifts. After an appropriate stroll down memory lane, Santana veered the conversation around to the matter at hand.
“Rumor has it you could be home with your kids tonight if you wanted to be.”
Thomas hesitated. “Not without signin’ a piece of paper that violates my conscience.”
Santana sat up, legs hanging over the side of the bed. “What’s the paper say?”
Thomas sighed and began explaining the saga of the manger scene. Santana grunted here and there to show he was listening, though he already knew exactly why Thomas was in jail. Living on the street, you had plenty of time to read the newspapers.
“Let me ask you a question,” Santana said, after Thomas completed his version of events. “If you got out tonight, would you go set up a manger scene on the town square or spend tonight with your family?”
“Probably just spend it with Theresa and the kids.”
“Exactly. So why not just sign the paper promising you won’t set up the manger scene and go home? I mean, you probably wouldn’t set up the manger scene even if you could.”
“It’s a matter of principle. I won’t let that judge take away my constitutional rights.”
Santana snorted as if constitutional rights were highly overrated. Then a new thought hit him—something that wasn’t in the original script but just might work. “What’s Christmas all about?” he asked.
“Huh?”
“What’s Christmas all about?”
“Well, to a lot of people it’s about shoppin’ or family. But to me, it’s about the Virgin Birth, Jesus coming to earth as a baby.”
“Comin’ from where?”
“Heaven, ’course—the right hand of God,” Thomas answered.
I couldn’t have planned this any better, Santana thought. “And you don’t think He gave up any of His rights?” he asked. “That’s the whole message of the Christmas season. Sometimes ya gotta give up a few rights to bring peace on earth.”
This brought a prolonged silence from Thomas. “That’s different.”
“How?”
“I dunno. It just is.”
This temporary setback was followed by another period of silence. Santana used it to think up a new approach. It wasn’t easy thinking so hard without his daily dose of booze.
“Got a cigarette?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“Didn’t think so.”
He thought for another moment and then real inspiration hit. “Who’d you say that judge was again?”
“Baker-Kline.”
“Huh. I’d have never thought it.”
“What?”
“You sure it was Baker-Kline?”
“Yeah. I’m sure.”
Santana snorted his disbelief. “I thought she was one of the good guys.”
“Whadya mean?”
“You know, that Bible case a couple years ago.”
“Bible case?”
“You don’t know about that?” Santana asked. He said it as if maybe Thomas had been living on Mars or something.
“I don’t think so.”
Santana climbed down from the top bunk and leaned against the bed. He wanted to look Thomas in the eye when he told him about the Bibles.
“Couple years ago, I was servin’ some time on a bogus charge and got involved in a Bible study in here. Well, needless to say, I soon came to Jesus or found religion or whatever you want to call it. What I know is—something changed.” He thumped his chest. “In here.
“Anyway, the Bible study was goin’ gangbusters, and for some reason the guards shut it down. Well, one of my buddies files some kind of habeas petition and it gets assigned to Baker-Kline. Not only did she order the guards to let us have our Bible study, but she also bought Bibles herself for any inmate who didn’t have one.”
A dumbfounded Thomas stared at Santana in disbelief. It was clear that Santana was describing a different judge than the one Thomas knew. The old man swallowed hard and managed to choke back a tear or two. He looked away from Thomas toward the wall. “I’ll never forget that,” he continued, his voice thick. “And you wouldn’t believe how much grief she took. All the liberals had a hissy fit. Tried to get her impeached.”
“For real?” Thomas asked.
“Darndest thing about it,” Santana continued as if he hadn’t heard, “is that not one big-shot Christian came to her defense. They made her take all that heat alone.” He shook his head, saddened by the memory.
“How ironic that now she’s gettin’ blasted by all these Christians—I don’t mean you, but the leaders out there, sayin’ terrible things in the press. Well, anyway, darned if you do and darned if you don’t.” Santana took a glance at Thomas and then slowly headed out to the common area to give the big guy some time alone to think. “Guess I’ll go see if I can find a cigarette.”
Thomas grunted something, and Santana walked away smiling to himself. The thought of Baker-Kline giving out Bibles tickled him. Some kids needed to believe in Santa, and some adults needed to believe in benevolent judges. Santana was more than willing to indulge their fantasies. Whatever it took for a good night’s sleep.
The temperature hovered around thirty-five degrees, dashing hopes for a white Christmas. The rain ended midafternoon, but the damp wind kept blowing, creating a windchill in the twenties. It would have been a good night to stay home, but Theresa and the kids were delivering the Christmas cookies they had decorated earlier. They’d done this for years, and some of their best friends now expected them—waiting with a cup of hot chocolate or some Christmas cookies of their own. All told, they had visited eight homes and now were just a few minutes away from their last stop, a Virginia Beach address.
Tiger had made sure all the broken cookies and the ones with sloppy icing ended up in this batch for Judge Cynthia Baker-Kline, the woman who had put his daddy in jail. He thought he did it without his mom noticing, but Theresa knew exactly what Tiger was up to. Not that she was going to change it, of course, but still, it didn’t go unnoticed.
Theresa checked her handwritten directions again and took a left. It was nearly seven
o’clock, the clouds were blocking the stars, and Theresa had never been down this road before. She wished now that she had come here first and delivered these cookies while it was still daylight.
“Are we almost there?” Tiger asked from the backseat. “I gotta tinkle.”
“You shoulda tinkled at the Pattersons’ house,” Hannah said, reading Theresa’s mind.
“I didn’t have to go then,” Tiger said.
“Do you want me to pull over?” Theresa asked. She glanced over her shoulder—Elizabeth was sleeping in her car seat, and Tiger had his nose to the window.
“I’ll hold it,” he said.
Theresa slowed down and did her best to read mailbox numbers. This was the judge’s road all right—a dark road that wound in front of large houses near the Lynnhaven River. The judge had some serious bucks. Each house had a set of stone or brick pillars bordering its driveway, guarding the estate like sentinels. The houses themselves were set back from the road a few hundred yards or more, the massive front lawns separating the privileged landowners from the masses who drove by. Though most of the lawns had tasteful Christmas lights twinkling in the trees and outlining the houses, they still seemed to scream Keep Out! to Theresa.
She read the number on a mailbox. “That’s it,” she said as cheerfully as possible. She turned in to the long driveway that curved for about a quarter of a mile through some pine and maple trees. When the driveway straightened out, she could see the stately brick home immediately in front of them. A dozen or more maple trees in the front yard were adorned with white lights on virtually every branch, the trunks trimmed in green. Two large elms, by contrast, had red lights on their trunks. White icicle lights traced the entire roofline of the house, and a large Christmas tree could be seen through the front picture window.