The Judge Who Stole Christmas (16 page)

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.”

Jasmine leaned toward her sister. “Look, I know you're having a tough game, a tough season. But this is your chance, Ajori. Coach isn't here. That excuse is gone. Show these fans what you can do if you're freed up to play.”

Jasmine moved her legs back as Tamarika came skidding toward the bench, face-first, diving after a loose ball. She hopped up and looked at Jasmine. “Get my wingman back in here,” she demanded, nodding toward Ajori. “We're comin' back, Coach.” The lead had been whittled down to twenty-two.

Jasmine met Ajori's eyes. “How many threes you want?” Ajori asked.

“One per minute.”

“Okay,
Coach
.”

As Ajori jogged to the scorer's table, Jasmine thought about how weird it felt to be called coach by her little sister.
Coach
was a title reserved for some pretty special people. Her dad. Her college coach. Who in her life had been more important than them?

Ajori's first three was an air ball, but Jasmine didn't care. By the fourth quarter her kid sister had found her range. And Tamarika was making some of the wildest, funkiest passes the Possum gym had seen in a long time. Too bad nobody could catch them.

When Ginger fouled out on a clean block swatting some girl's shot back toward half-court, the few hardy fans remaining actually stood and cheered. And Jasmine nearly fainted when Ginger stared the ref down before heading to the bench.

“Attagirl,” Jasmine said.

They lost by only twelve. And when Jasmine went into the locker room after the game, not a single head was hanging.

SATURDAY MORNING, DECEMBER 16

To Theresa it felt like ninety-eight degrees on the set of the
Morning Show
. She smiled nervously as a blonde-haired lady named Deborah introduced Theresa and her kids to the nation. Theresa felt like an idiot. They had insisted that she wear bright red lipstick and gobs of makeup. At least Thomas wouldn't be watching.

Tiger and Hannah were both sitting quietly with their hands in their laps. She noticed with embarrassment how fast they were growing. Tiger's pants were halfway up his shins, nearly showing off the tops of his cowboy boots. His skinny arms were keeping pace with his legs, and his suit-coat sleeves were also halfway up to his elbows. He and Hannah gawked openmouthed back and forth between the cameras and their host.

The only person who looked at ease, other than the host, was the Reverend Freddie Hester. The man had more makeup caked on than Theresa, though he passed on the lipstick. His hair stood up about four inches, then swept back over his head like the mane of a stallion. He was smiling as he looked straight into the camera as if he might kiss it at any moment.

“This was the scene at the Possum town square last night,” Deborah said. In the monitors in front of them, Theresa could see her husband setting up his manger scene to the wild applause of half the town of Possum and a few hundred other onlookers. Tiger nudged Hannah, pointing at the camera. “Shh,” Hannah said, though Tiger hadn't actually spoken.

“This morning, Thomas Hammond has been ordered to appear in court again to face further contempt charges.”

Suddenly Deborah turned to face Theresa, concern etched deeply on the host's pretty face. “Are you worried about your husband having to spend more time in jail, perhaps even Christmas?”

Theresa's mouth was dry and her tongue unwieldy. “Um . . . yes, we're very worried.”

“There are a lot of people who say your husband is well-intentioned but that he's going about this the wrong way. Even some respected church leaders believe that he shouldn't be defying a federal judge and the law. What would you say to them?”

Wow. Theresa didn't have the foggiest idea. In part, she agreed with these critics—but how could she say that? Before the show, Deborah had mentioned that she would ask a few easy questions about how this controversy made Theresa feel. Deborah said she wanted to put a personal face on the matter. But Deborah had never mentioned these accusations by respected church leaders.

“I guess that's their opinion,” Theresa managed. She was immediately struck by how dumb that sounded. Of course it was their opinion; hadn't the host already established that?

“But do you agree with it?”

Reverend Hester chuckled, and the cameras swung toward him. “Obviously she doesn't agree with it,” he said boldly. “That's why this family—” he made a sweeping gesture toward Theresa and the kids—“is taking this courageous stand. The worship of God trumps the laws of men. That's a principle as old as the ancient Jewish prophet Daniel.”

For the next minute or so, the reverend lectured the host on the story of Daniel and the lions' den while Deborah desperately tried to interrupt. Only the kids seemed the least bit interested. When Hester finished, Deborah turned a little more in her chair so she was looking right at Theresa, literally giving the reverend the cold shoulder.

“What would you say to a Muslim who wanted to erect a memorial to Muhammad on the Possum town square during the holiday season?”

Theresa didn't know. Suddenly she felt like she was the one on trial, not her husband. “I guess I'd tell him that in America he should be free to do it. But I don't know why he'd want to—since Christmas is a
Christian
holiday.”

Deborah shifted forward a little in her seat. “But wouldn't you agree that a manger scene in the town square can be potentially divisive? Some would say that at Christmas, of all times, we ought to put aside our differences and strive for peace. Why is your husband so insistent on pushing this now?”

Theresa looked down for a moment and thought about this. “For Thomas it's a matter of principle.”

“And an important one at that,” the reverend said. But Deborah cut him off before he could get rolling.

“We're almost out of time. Let's quickly hear from the Hammond children,” she said. “Hannah, what do you think about what your daddy is doing?”

“He's very brave,” Hannah said, staring wide-eyed into the camera.

This brought a big smile from Hester.

“Have you seen the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Plaza yet?” Deborah asked.