The Judge Who Stole Christmas

by Randy Singer

  “It’s beautiful,” Hannah said.

  “It looks like a haunted mansion to me,” Tiger said.

  “Tiger.”

  “It does,” he said defensively.

  Fortunately, the driveway circled right in front of the house. Though there were a few cars parked on each side, Theresa was pretty sure she could squeeze her minivan through, drop the cookies on the porch, and make a clean getaway. She thought for a moment about turning off her headlights so they wouldn’t shine in one of the front windows and give her presence away. But then she thought about how lame that would look if she got caught.

  She stopped right in front of the house and handed the plate of cookies, all wrapped up in aluminum foil, to Hannah. “It’s kinda late,” Theresa said. “And it looks like the judge has company. So why don’t you just drop these on the front porch and then hop back in the van?”

  “Should I ring the doorbell?” Hannah asked.

  Theresa thought about this for a moment. Ringing the doorbell might bring somebody to the door right away. Then they would invite Theresa and the kids in. How awkward would that be?

  “No,” Theresa said. “No sense interrupting. She’ll find them as soon as her company leaves.”

  “Okay,” Hannah said. She grabbed the plate, climbed out of the van, placed the cookies carefully next to the doormat, then looked over her shoulder at Theresa. After Theresa nodded, Hannah tiptoed back to the van and gently closed her door.

  “Go, Mom!” Tiger yelled. “Let’s get outta here!” But he could have saved his breath. Theresa already had the minivan rolling down the driveway.

  She checked the rearview mirror just before the driveway curved and the house went out of sight. Theresa thought she saw someone standing in the big front window, and then she saw the inside light go off.

  Cynthia Baker-Kline started this Christmas Eve tradition about five years ago. When you’re an only child, recently divorced, and you’ve just put your mom in a nursing home, you’ve got to do something different. Her dad had passed away four years before that, leaving behind the house and enough money to take care of the premises and her mom. To avoid confronting her loneliness, the judge invited four lawyer friends—all divorcées with grown children—to an elaborate Christmas Eve dinner. It was bring your own bottle of wine, and over the years, the competition for the most exotic and expensive wine had become fierce. Judge Baker-Kline had no chance of winning the competition on her government salary, so in year three, the hostess was granted an exemption from providing wine and was instead made a permanent wine-tasting judge.

  She was in the kitchen, fetching another set of wineglasses for the next vintage bottle, when Ollie heard something outside and headed for the front door. The judge followed close behind.

  She reached the foyer and peered out the glass panel next to the front door. She saw the minivan heading quickly down the drive. She stepped into the formal room and turned off the light so she could get a better look. The vehicle disappeared into the night. But the fates were with her. The right taillight was out.

  She immediately dialed the federal marshals assigned to give her protection. Despite some recent death threats, she had refused a twenty-four-hour watch. Now she wondered if she had done the right thing.

  The marshal on call said that the judge and her dinner guests should sit tight. A local patrol car would be dispatched to search the premises. A description of the vehicle—a minivan with a missing taillight—would be provided to Virginia Beach’s finest. If he heard anything, he’d call her back immediately.

  After making a clean getaway from the judge’s house, Theresa put in the kids’ favorite Christmas cassette. Before long they were singing at the top of their lungs to “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”—all but Elizabeth, who sucked hard on her pacifier and kicked excitedly. The minivan rocked gently along, its driver oblivious to the police cruiser pulling up behind her until she saw the lights flash in her rearview mirror! Theresa immediately hit the power button on the cassette player. Only Tiger’s squeaky little voice continued. “‘He’ll go down in . . .’ Uh-oh!”

  Theresa checked the speedometer—forty-seven. Just a few miles per hour over the posted speed limit. And it was almost Christmas for goodness’ sakes! She slowed gradually, found a parking lot, and pulled over.

  “What’s wrong, Mommy?” Hannah fretted.

  “Are we going to jail?” Tiger asked.

  “No. Everything’s fine,” Theresa assured them.

  “I’m scared,” Hannah said.

  “There’s nothing to be scared of. The police are our friends,” Theresa replied.

  “Then how come they put Daddy in jail?” Tiger asked.

  There was no time to explain. The cop was walking toward her car, shining a flashlight as bright as the sun in the windows. Theresa squinted as he pointed it in her face.

  “License and registration, please.”

  She fished around in the glove compartment, whispered, “It’s okay” to Hannah, and handed over the paperwork. The officer checked it for a moment, then flashed the light around the inside of the van again.

  “Everything all right, Officer?” Theresa asked.

  “Did you know you’ve got a taillight out?” the officer asked gruffly.

  Theresa breathed a big sigh. So that’s what this was all about. “No, sir, I didn’t.”

  “You and the kids just drivin’ around?”

  Theresa tensed again. “No, sir. We were delivering some Christmas cookies.”

  “Christmas cookies, huh?”

  Theresa nodded.

  “Any place in particular?” the officer wanted to know.

  “No, sir. Just some friends.”

  “Any judges’ houses?”

  Theresa stiffened. This must be the way criminals felt when they got busted. But what had she done? Why should she act so ashamed?

  “Yes, sir. We just delivered a batch to Judge Cynthia Baker-Kline.”

  “Christmas cookies.” He said it with an arrogance that made Theresa want to scream.

  “Yes, sir. The kids and I iced them ourselves.” Theresa turned and looked at Tiger, who was nodding his affirmation like a little madman in the backseat. Even Elizabeth’s eyes seemed wide with fear.

  “Wait here,” the officer said. Then he walked back to his car, taking her license and registration with him.

  Elizabeth started fussing, and Theresa reached back to calm her while the officer wrote on a clipboard in the front seat of his car and talked on his car radio. Several minutes later he came back to Theresa’s window.

  “This is a ticket for improper equipment,” he said. “You need to sign right here. If you get it fixed before your court date, the judge will probably drop the charge.”

  Theresa signed the ticket and resisted the urge to say a sarcastic “Merry Christmas.”

  “One other thing,” the officer said. “You need to follow me back to the judge’s place.”

  When Theresa pulled up in front of Judge Baker-Kline’s, the judge was waiting on her front porch. She had on a long winter coat, pulled up at the collar, and her hands were jammed deep in the pockets. She walked over to the driver’s door of the minivan, and Theresa rolled down her window.

  “Hi,” Judge Baker-Kline said.

  “Hello, Your Honor,” Theresa replied. It sounded dumb, but she didn’t know what else to call her.

  “It’s Cynthia, please.”

  Theresa tried to smile. “Sorry.”

  “Thanks for coming back,” the judge said. “I just wanted to apologize for getting you pulled over—”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” Theresa interrupted.

  “No, it is. And it’s incredibly thoughtful of you all to bring the cookies.” She bent down and peeked at the kids. She smiled a little—the first time Theresa had seen that. “Hey, guys. Thanks for the cookies.”

  Tiger waved.

  “You’re welcome,” Hannah said.

  Theresa felt so uncomfortable. What did yo
u say to the woman who put your husband in jail? Merry Christmas?

  Judge Baker-Kline apparently felt uncomfortable too. She glanced at the ground. “I can’t believe you brought the cookies . . . after everything you’ve been through. And then to get pulled over . . .” She paused, searching for words. “It’s just that I’ve gotten a few threats lately, so security’s pretty tight.”

  Threats? It had never occurred to Theresa that the judge might be having a tough time too. She thought about some of the things people said about her, even at church, and suddenly felt ashamed.

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor.”

  “Oh . . . it’s not your fault.”

  Another awkward silence fell between them as conflicting thoughts bombarded Theresa. How many times had she thought about giving this woman a piece of her mind? Why do you have to be so mean-spirited? so haughty? so disrespectful of Christians? But here Theresa was—in a perfect setting to do it—and all she could feel was . . . sympathy?

  “Well, good night,” Judge Baker-Kline said. “And thanks again.”

  “You’re welcome,” Theresa said.

  “You’re welcome,” the kids echoed.

  As the judge turned toward the house, the front door opened and another woman appeared with a phone in her hand. “Telephone, Cynthia,” she said.

  Theresa placed the minivan in drive and started rolling up her window as the little guy burst through the judge’s front door. A beautiful light brown and white cocker spaniel! He ran toward the judge, tail wagging, then darted away just before he got to her feet.

  “Ollie!” she yelled. But he was already circling around the yard. The judge glanced at the van. “Gol-ly!” she said quickly, but she was not fooling Theresa. “That dog is impossible to catch!” It looked like she was blushing. “I’ll have to go get a treat to bribe him back in the house.”

  “I’m sorry,” the judge’s visitor called from the front doorway. “I forgot about Ollie.”

  Hannah was up on her knees, watching wide-eyed as the dog stopped running and started sniffing around the front yard. “He looks just like King!” she said. She looked out Theresa’s window at the judge. “What’s his name?” Hannah asked.

  Judge Baker-Kline hesitated a second too long. “His name is Spot,” she said. “C’mere, Spot,” she called. But the little cocker spaniel ignored her.

  “Who wants a treat?” the judge yelled.

  This time the dog lifted his head and sniffed in the general direction of the house. “Let’s go get a treat!” she suggested, and the cocker spaniel started jogging toward her.

  Theresa had been too stunned to move as she watched the scene unfold. But as dog and owner headed up the front steps, she felt like she had to say something.

  “Merry Christmas!” Theresa yelled.

  The judge turned and looked over her shoulder. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Hammond.” Then she headed inside to get Oliver Wendell Holmes the treat he so richly deserved.

  It was a Woodfaulk family tradition—opening one gift on Christmas Eve—though Jasmine’s dad used to put up token resistance, saying that opening the gift early showed a lack of discipline. But the kids would beg, Bernice would argue, and eventually they would all wear him down. Now it didn’t seem quite the same; half the fun for Jasmine had been beating her dad into submission.

  The three Woodfaulk women huddled on the couch next to the Christmas tree. Ajori began by lifting and shaking all the gifts with her name on them. “I’m going to open this one,” she announced, holding up a box just big enough to hold a pair of jeans and a cute blouse she had been dropping major hints about. The gift was marked from Santa, a code word for her mom.

  “No, you’re not,” Jasmine said. “I want you to open this one.” She thrust a much smaller box at Ajori and watched her little sister try to disguise her disappointment. “This one’s from me,” Jasmine announced proudly.

  “That’s why I want to save it for tomorrow. You know, save the best for last.”

  “Nice try. But I really want you to open it tonight.”

  Ajori reluctantly set down the present she was holding and took Jasmine’s, as if opening the gift from her sister was a major chore.

  “Don’t act so excited,” Jasmine said.

  “It’s not that. It’s just that I like saving the surprises until Christmas—I already know what’s in this other box from mom.”

  The girls talked their way through it and soon had a plan. Bernice would go first, opening a present from the girls. Then Jasmine would open her present from Ajori. Last, Ajori would open Jasmine’s present.

  Bernice tore into the wrapping paper, then oohed and aahed over the cross necklace that matched the one Jasmine had worn to the Fourth Circuit argument. Bernice had been forbidden from attending—“I’m nervous enough as it is,” Jasmine had said—but nearly burst with pride when she heard about her daughter’s stunt.

  “It’s beautiful,” Bernice gushed, and she put it on immediately.

  Jasmine was up next, but Ajori made her sister try to guess before she could unwrap the odd-shaped package.

  “Jeans?”

  “Nope.”

  “A new coat?”

  “Nope.”

  “Workout sweats?”

  “You’re not even warm. Think legal.”

  “Keys to a brand-new Porsche Carrera so I can ride in style while I look for a new job?”

  Ajori scowled. “Don’t you think it’s a little big for car keys?”

  “Sometimes you wrap them inside bigger stuff just to fool me.”

  Ajori shook her head.

  Jasmine took her time, taking special care not to rip the paper, in an effort to drive her little sister nuts.

  “Hurry up, grandma,” Ajori said.

  This slowed Jasmine down even more, but eventually she peeled the paper back. “A new backpack!” she exclaimed.

  “Your old one looked a little ratty for court,” Ajori said.

  Jasmine didn’t have the heart to tell her that real lawyers used briefcases. “Thanks.” She gave Ajori a quick hug. “Now maybe I can win some cases.”

  “I don’t know,” Ajori said. “It’s not magic.”

  Jasmine punched her sister on the arm.

  “Mom!” Ajori whined.

  Bernice rolled her eyes.

  Ajori picked up her present, rattled it a little, then began guessing. “Socks? Victoria’s Secret? Bath & Body Works? Coal?”

  “Just open it,” Jasmine said. “You’ll never guess.”

  Ajori didn’t have to be told twice. She ripped into the paper, and her smile turned into a furrowed brow. “Ankle weights?”

  “You wear them around all the time except when you’re playing,” Jasmine explained. “They’ll increase your ups.”

  Ajori looked skeptical if not downright disappointed. “I know what to do with ’em, but they’re so old-school. Nobody uses these anymore. They’re bad for the knees.”

  “Well, you need to start using them,” Jasmine insisted.

  Ajori stiffened. Jasmine could tell her sister wanted to argue the point, but it was Christmas Eve, so she shrugged instead. “Hey, I’ll try anything. Thanks, Jazz.” She leaned over and gave her a quick hug.

  “You’ll do more than give them a try,” Jasmine said. “If I’m gonna coach this team, my little sister needs to work on her ups.”

  Ajori’s jaw dropped, and Jasmine’s mom put her hands over her mouth, speechless. “What did you say?” Ajori managed.

  “I said, if I’m going to coach this team—”

  “Hold up!” Ajori shouted. “Stop right there—rewind. Are . . . you . . . serious?”

  “Yep.”

  Ajori squealed and gave her sister another hug, this time with feeling.

  “What about law school?” Jasmine’s mom asked.

  “I’m going to take a semester off and finish this summer.” Jasmine searched her mom’s face, looking for signs of approval. “When I pass the bar, I’ll open up shop in Possum as a
lawyer-coach. If that guy on TV can be a lawyer and run a bowling alley, I can certainly be a lawyer and a coach.”

  “Awesome!” Ajori shouted. “You rock!” She jumped up and started pacing, then sat down and furiously laced on her ankle weights. “This is so cool! Wait till I call my friends. This is the best present ever! Has anyone seen my phone? I can’t even believe this!”

  While Ajori raved, Jasmine locked eyes briefly with her mom. Her mom was a little teary-eyed and wearing one of those tight-lipped smiles that moms get when their kids made them proud.

  “You knew, didn’t you, Mom?”

  Bernice nodded with her whole body.

  “How’d you know?”

  “Moms know everything,” she said.

  “Then where’s my phone?” Ajori asked.

  Bernice rolled her glistening eyes. “Okay, maybe not everything.”

  A few minutes later, while Ajori worked the phone lines, Bernice disappeared for a moment and then came back downstairs with a small box wrapped in shiny silver paper.

  “One more present tonight,” she said while Ajori was between calls. “I wrapped it earlier but left it in my bedroom. Just in case.”

  “Who’s it for?” Ajori asked.

  “Well, it’s got Jasmine’s name on it. But it’s really for both of you.”

  With Ajori on one side and her mom on the other, Jasmine unwrapped the small box. For some reason—maybe it was the seriousness of her mom’s tone of voice—Jasmine felt her hands shaking. She pulled the small top off the box and felt her body go limp. “Oh, my goodness!”

  She looked to her mom, then to Ajori, then back to the precious small item in the box. She carefully picked up the string and pulled it out.

  “Your dad’s whistle,” Bernice said as Jasmine gingerly placed the string around her neck. “I think he would want you to have it.”

  Jasmine held the chewed plastic whistle carefully between her thumb and forefinger as if someone had just placed the Hope diamond on her. She felt tears pooling in her eyes, but she didn’t care. She could hear him again, blowing the whistle and yelling at her in practice. She could see him again, winking at her during games. “Take that chump to the rack,” he’d say, patting her on the backside after a time-out. “She can’t stop you!”