The Judge Who Stole Christmas (12 page)

“On what basis?”

Frumpkin looked at Ottmeyer as if they had practiced this answer many times. “First of all, I had a concern about disorderly conduct. Second, it seemed that the sponsor—meaning you—probably intended to serve alcohol and didn't have an alcohol permit. And third, I don't know of any town residents who worship Saturn, so I didn't think it would serve the citizens.”

“Those are some interesting factors,” Harrod said. “Are those types of guidelines written down someplace so that folks like me can make sure we comply with them in our requests?”

This brought another look from Frumpkin to Ottmeyer as if the attorney was supposed to have thought of this question as well. “Not that I'm aware of.”

“So then, it's just totally up to you as the mayor, and you base that decision in part on how many adherents to that religion you believe live in Possum?”

The mayor swallowed and twitched.
Just answer the question!
Jasmine wanted to say.
It only makes it worse when you squirm around.

“I guess that's about right,” he finally said.

Harrod was smart enough to let the silence hang out there for a moment. He made a note on his legal pad. Ichabod made a note on her pad. And Jasmine made one on her pad:
Talk Mom into running for mayor
.

“Mr. Harrod?” Ichabod prompted.

“Sorry, Your Honor. Now did you consider a second permit request from me today as well?”

Frumpkin answered tentatively, “Yes.”

“On behalf of?”

“Well, the written application you filed said it was on behalf of the Gay and Lesbian Alliance of Hampton Roads . . . or something to that effect.”

“You've got a good memory,” Harrod said. “What kind of event was this group requesting?”

Frumpkin shook his head in disgust. “They called it a ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas Fashion Show.'”

“And the purpose of the event?”

“Well, again, according to what you wrote, it was to show the straight folk in Possum what the song means when it says, ‘Don we now our gay apparel.'”

“Did you grant the permit?”

To this, Frumpkin just snorted.

“I take it that means no.”

“Yes, that means no.”

“Why not?”

Frumpkin didn't bother looking at his attorney this time, apparently confident that he could handle this on his own. “Well, first, that's a total misunderstanding of the song. That line means ‘happy' apparel, not ‘gay' apparel as we think of it today. But second, and more important, I've seen the way gays dress at these things—Speedos, leather necklaces, body piercings—all that junk. Your permit even came with a picture of a gay man in a Speedo and a Santa Claus hat. No way I'm permitting that on the town square.”

“Because?”

“Well, first of all, it's a public health hazard—these gay guys will all catch pneumonia . . .”

Ichabod snickered loud enough to be heard over her mike.

“And second, it's just indecent. Can't have our Possum kids exposed to that nonsense.”

Harrod flipped his pen a few times. “So you not only determine which religious groups can display based in part on how many adherents they have, but you also determine whether or not other groups can display based on how decent or indecent you think their message is?”

“Yes.”

“And the Ku Klux Klan, Mr. Frumpkin—is their message decent or indecent?”

“Indecent.”

“So if they applied for a permit for the Possum town square, you wouldn't give them one?”

“Absolutely not.”

Next to Jasmine, Ottmeyer placed his left hand on his forehead and wrote a quick note with his right. He passed it to Jasmine.
Any ideas?

He's your witness,
Jasmine wrote back.

Forty-five minutes later Ichabod issued her ruling.

“Based on the testimony, it is painfully clear to this court that the permit process in Possum is a far cry from the type of fair and nondiscriminatory procedure that was employed in the
Pinette
case. In Possum, the mayor basically decides which displays he likes and which displays he doesn't like based on his personal and subjective opinion. This hardly creates the kind of open public forum where it would violate the free-speech rights of Mr. Hammond if he were not allowed to display his crèche.”

At this, Ichabod took off her reading glasses and glared at the defense table. “Mr. Hammond and Mr. Frumpkin, you've now had your fun at this court's expense. Because you had at least some hope of justifying your conduct based on the
Pinette
case cited by Ms. Woodfaulk, I'm not going to hold you in contempt today. But let me make one thing perfectly clear. Mr. Hammond, if you display any more manger scenes on the town square, or, Mr. Frumpkin, if you authorize, permit, or sanction any such scenes erected by Mr. Hammond or any other person . . . then I will hold you gentlemen in contempt of court and you could be spending the holidays in jail. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Frumpkin said.

Jasmine could just about feel the heat coming from Thomas.

“Mr. Hammond?” Ichabod said.

“Crystal clear, Your Honor.”

At that, Ichabod banged her gavel. “Court adjourned.”

It took Thomas less than three hours to make it home, load up Bebo and the wooden Mary, the shepherd, and the animals, and set up his manger scene in the Possum town square.

This time, as the crowd gathered and the apple cider flowed, Joseph was not smiling.

Jasmine felt the vibration and checked her phone.
Thomas Hammond (home).
She ignored it. Whatever he needed could wait. Jasmine was in the law school library, studying furiously for her UCC exam, trying to make up for the time she had lost that morning.

You didn't bluff your way through the Uniform Commercial Code.

The phone vibrated again. Same number. This time she hit the Power button and turned it off. She focused on the types of disclaimers needed to negate an implied warranty of merchantability. She memorized the magic words needed. She took note of the font size. But her mind wandered to the words of Professor Arnold from the first day of the legal aid clinic:
“By signing up for this course, you are making a commitment to treat your legal aid clients with the same respect and dignity you will give your most important clients when you begin practicing law. Being a professional means your commitment to the client doesn't change based on the client's wealth or status.”

Jasmine sighed and slipped out of the library to return the call. Theresa answered on the first ring.

“Thank God,” she said when Jasmine identified herself. “Jasmine, I know you're in the middle of exams and I hated to even call. But honestly . . .” The words seemed to catch in Theresa's throat and the phone went silent.

“What is it?” Jasmine asked.

“I just didn't know what else to do.” The words came pouring out. “Thomas is back on the town square with his manger scene. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn't listen. Jasmine, could you . . . could you possibly talk to him?”

Jasmine hesitated, calculating how much she still had to cover and how little time she had to do it. Without any breaks at all, she might be able to get three or four hours' sleep tonight. But if she drove to Possum?

“Does anybody you know have a cell phone at the square?”

Silence. “I'm sure somebody does, Jasmine. But you've got to know Thomas. I don't think a phone call would work.”

“How long has he been out there?”

“Maybe half an hour.”

Jasmine blew out a hard breath to signal her frustration. But then she thought about the fury of Ichabod and the little Hammond children. Somebody had to get Thomas away from the square. “Okay, Theresa. I'll go talk to him.”

“Thank you
so
much!” Theresa sounded on the verge of tears, and Jasmine didn't waste any time getting off the phone.

Forty-five minutes later Jasmine parallel parked on Main Street, Possum, in the closest place she could find to the square. She still had to walk nearly a block. As she approached, she heard the voices and saw the crowd singing by candlelight. Instead of the boisterous activity that Jasmine had experienced on Saturday, she felt a reverence here, the words of “Silent Night” drifting upward.

Someone handed Jasmine a candle with a slip of cardboard around the bottom to protect her hand from wax drippings. A candle was held toward hers to light it. Straining her neck, Jasmine looked over heads toward the manger scene, where Thomas stood still as a rock. Jasmine lingered there at the back of the crowd for a moment and hummed along, the words from the second and third verses of “Silent Night” eluding her as surely as sections of the UCC would tomorrow. Someone with a steaming cup of something leaned next to her. “If you want some hot apple cider, it's over there,” he whispered. “They aren't charging for it tonight.”

“Thanks. I'm good.”

She stayed for “O Little Town of Bethlehem” and the first verse of “Joy to the World.” Then she blew out her candle, joined a few others who were slipping away from the crowd, and headed back into the darkness.

Jasmine started to dial Theresa's number three or four times on the way back to the law school but each time talked herself out of it. What would she tell her anyway?
Hey, Theresa, it's Jasmine. I just drove out to the town square and sang along with a few Christmas carols. Thomas is fine, though he'll probably be in jail tomorrow.

But what could Jasmine have done? tell the crowd to stop celebrating Christmas? scold Thomas like a schoolchild in front of the whole village? Even if she did, she knew Thomas wouldn't listen. She wasn't sure what she had expected to accomplish when she got to the town square, but she definitely hadn't been expecting the kind of worship experience she found. There were some things you just didn't interrupt—like standing up in the middle of a prayer meeting at church and asking if anyone knows where the bathroom is. This had been that type of occasion.

As she wound through the swamps that separated the countryside surrounding Possum from the city of Virginia Beach, Jasmine thought about the challenges swirling around her. A UCC exam she wasn't prepared for. A client about to get hammered by a federal court judge. Her little sister's basketball team being coached by a Bobby Knight wannabe. At least she had her offer with Gold, Franks. A bright note among the discordant din that had become her life.

Her cell phone rang with the song she had just programmed in last weekend—“We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” How ironic was that? She looked down, expecting to see the cell number of one of her law school buddies or maybe Theresa Hammond calling, but it was a number she didn't recognize.

“Hello?”

“Does your client have a death wish?”

It was a familiar male voice—strident, angry. “Who's this?”

“Vince Harrod. Have you heard what that lunatic is doing tonight?”

“Let me guess. Standing on the town square dressed like Joseph while Possumites hold candles and sing Christmas carols?”

“You've been out there?”

“A lucky guess.”

“Listen, Jasmine, this is serious. I can't just sit back while he thumbs his nose at the judge's order.”

“Why not? You've already made your point. He's not hurting anybody.”

“Are you serious? He's violating the Constitution! He's ignoring a federal court judge! He thinks he's above the law!”

Jasmine really wanted to tell this guy off, but Harrod held all the cards. Still, it wouldn't hurt to yank his chain a little. “So serve him with another subpoena. You know where he is.”

“I'm not going out there. People in Possum have guns, and they're getting sick of me. Besides, I don't have to serve him again since he's now a party to a pending lawsuit. I just have to notify you as his attorney that I'm going to call the clerk's office first thing in the morning and ask for a ten o'clock hearing.”