The Judge Who Stole Christmas (2 page)

Within an hour the rain stopped and traffic picked up. Since Possum was a small town, Theresa recognized most of the folks, though there were always visitors she'd never seen before. She loved the children most. They would tentatively reach out to touch the dirty wool of the sheep, then jump back if the animals moved. Theresa would kneel down with the baby Jesus and watch the eyes of the kids light up as they took in the wonder of the Christ child. There were no lines for the live manger scene, never had been. But there would be a steady trickle—a family here, a couple there, a mom dragging along her kids and some friends a few minutes later.

This night Theresa was especially moved by a single mom who hauled three children, all under the age of five, to the manger. Though Theresa didn't recognize her, the woman confided in Theresa while Thomas occupied the kids with his mini herd of sheep and goats. The woman's husband left her not quite a year ago, just two days after Christmas, she told Theresa. She felt overwhelmed, trying to make it as a single mom, totally inadequate. Theresa reminded her that the Virgin Mary might have been a single mom when she raised the Son of God. We never hear from Joseph after that episode where they left Jesus at the temple as a very young boy, Theresa reasoned. God probably trusted the most important job in the world to a single mom. When they knelt and prayed, the woman couldn't hold back the tears.

A few minutes before ten, an earnest-looking man approached from the edge of the square.

Theresa guessed the stranger was in his early forties and probably had a fair amount of money. For one thing, he pulled up in a silver Mercedes-Benz, one of those diesel-engine cars that always sounded like it needed a tune-up. He had an impressive long, brown overcoat, a shiny gold watch, and a full head of slick black hair that probably required a stylist. He was a pretty boy as far as Theresa was concerned, medium height and thin, with a face you might find at a news anchor's desk, accessorized by a pair of round wire-rim glasses and a small stud earring in his left ear.

“You come out here every night?” the stranger asked. Theresa noticed the official-looking papers in his right hand.

Thomas looked him over before answering. “Not every night. We take turns with some others. We're out here Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

The man nodded. “Even when it rains, huh?”

“Yep.”

“You must believe pretty strongly in this.”

“We do.”

“You ever get a chance to minister to people spiritually?”

Though the man didn't raise his voice, Theresa could sense that Thomas resented the questions. Her husband, a big man with an enormous heart and a proven stubborn streak, planted his feet shoulder-width apart. His left hand held a shepherd's crook; his right hand was on his hip.

“Occasionally.”

“I would guess you try to tell them about how the Christ child of Christmas can help meet their needs today.”

“We try.”

Theresa studied the differences between the two. Thomas, a beefy six-foot-two-inch former wrestler, made the stranger seem small. And Thomas certainly looked the part of a first-century craftsman with big, strong hands and a face leathered by outdoor work, his large frame wrapped in the robes of a biblical Israelite. But the stranger had a certain composure, even a haughtiness, that was making Theresa nervous. She suspected this would not end well.

“How do you think that makes others feel who are not Christians?” the man asked. “Jews, Muslims, atheists?”

Thomas looked a little incredulous at the question. “In Possum?” he asked.

“You don't think people like that ought to be welcome in Possum?” This time there was an edge to the man's voice.

“Welcome, sure,” Thomas said. He glanced at Theresa and Bebo, then back at the stranger. “I wouldn't want them to be treated like Jesus was when He came to earth.”

“Mmph,” the man said. “Good.” He, too, glanced at Theresa, then returned a hardened gaze to Thomas. “Then maybe you'll understand what I've got to do.” He handed a sheaf of documents to Thomas. “This is a lawsuit and subpoena for a court appearance on Monday in Norfolk federal court. I'm a lawyer for the ACLU, and what you're doing out here violates the separation of church and state.”

Theresa saw the veins in Thomas's neck pulse.
Don't do anything stupid.
She took a few steps toward him to put a reassuring hand on his arm.

“The town asked us to do this.” Thomas's eyes had the steely edge that Theresa had seen before. “See that tree over there?” The stranger didn't turn. “The town attorney said we'd be okay as long as we have that Christmas tree and Santa's sleigh over there.” Thomas pointed to another corner of the square that hosted a replica of the jolly elf's transportation, though Santa himself never bothered to show up until the weekend before Christmas.

The ACLU lawyer didn't seem impressed. “The town attorney is wrong,” he said. “Under the First Amendment, an empty sleigh and a pine tree with a few Christmas ornaments doesn't justify what you're doing.”

“Well,” Thomas replied, “I don't know about all that, but I ain't leavin' . . .”

Theresa tugged on his arm a little. “Thomas, it's okay—”

“
No
, it's
not
okay, Theresa.” Thomas stood to his full height. “We're not going to let some ACLU lawyer waltz in here and just shut us down. Not on my watch.”

“Why don't we let the courts decide that, shall we?” The lawyer's condescending tone made even Theresa a little angry, but her main focus right now was keeping Thomas calm. “You understand you've been served with a court document?” the lawyer asked, as if Thomas were a two-year-old. “It requires you to appear Monday along with representatives from the town that I'll also subpoena. I'll be calling you to testify.”

Thomas didn't answer, but Theresa felt the muscles tighten on his forearm.

“You read that okay?” the lawyer asked, tilting his head a little to the side. “You understand the importance of that?”

“Oh yeah,” Thomas said, looking down at the document as if the devil himself had subpoenaed him to appear in hell. “I guarantee ya, I'll treat it with all the respect it's due.”

“As you should,” the attorney said.

Without another word, Thomas turned and walked behind the partition, returning with a black garbage bag in his left hand. While the lawyer watched, Thomas walked over to his little entourage of sheep, used the subpoena to scoop up the sheep droppings, then threw the papers and the pellets in the trash.

He walked back to face the lawyer. “Thanks for coming by,” Thomas said.

“I'll see you in court,” the lawyer said.

“You sure will,” Thomas replied.

The lawyer stared for a moment, then turned and walked away.

Theresa, now standing a few feet away, looked down at the baby in her arms.
Please, Jesus,
she prayed,
not again.

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 1

“Jazz Woodfaulk!”

Jasmine cringed. She had been trying to get rid of that nickname since her glory days on the hardwood. Good lawyers didn't need cool nicknames. But Pearson Payne—First Amendment legend and partner in Gold, Franks & Mearns, one of New York City's most-storied law firms—could call her anything he wanted. He made no effort to hide his enthusiasm as he rose from behind his polished mahogany desk and bounded halfway across his huge corner office. He pumped Jasmine's hand and nodded dismissively at Andre, the young associate who had escorted Jasmine from one partner's office to another all morning.

“Old Dominion versus Tennessee, 2001 finals.” Payne smiled as he recalled the moment. “Who was that point guard of yours—missed that baseline jumper with just a few seconds left?”

“Maya,” Jasmine answered.

“Yeah, Maya.” Payne let go of the hand but stayed uncomfortably close, his light blue eyes dancing. “I'll never forget that put-back of yours at the buzzer.”

Jasmine gave the man a quizzical look. “We still lost by five,” she said.

“Yeah, but the spread in Vegas was six,” Payne shot back. “Your shot put ten thousand bucks into my grandkids' college fund.”

Jasmine resisted a smile. She immediately liked this guy, though he seemed more like an old gym rat than a distinguished partner in a big New York firm.

“Six points,” Payne continued, shaking his head at the absurdity of it. “Tennessee might have had Pat Summitt stalking the sidelines, but ODU had Jazz Woodfaulk on the court!”

He patted the outside of her arm, and Jasmine was starting to get a little embarrassed by this stroll down memory lane. The 2001 NCAA Finals, though her team had lost, was still the pinnacle of an up-and-down basketball career that ended a year later with her third knee injury—a torn ACL. Jasmine was now in her third year of law school, and basketball seemed like a whole other life. Though she loved Pearson Payne's enthusiasm, she wanted to be taken seriously as a prospective lawyer, not as a former hoops star.

“Have a seat,” Payne said.

“Thanks.” Jasmine settled her six-two frame into one of the brown leather chairs in front of Payne's desk. She smoothed her black pin-striped skirt and crossed her legs. Payne slid onto the front of the desk, one leg on the floor, the other dangling off the desk. He was every bit as tall as Jasmine—maybe an inch or two taller—rail-thin and full of explosive energy. He wore suspenders and a red bow tie, accentuating his reputation as a free spirit in a place that valued conformity. Though Jasmine knew Payne was fifty-five years old, she would never have guessed it. He had a perfect head of gray hair, an impressive tan for the first week of December, and the sharp facial lines of a much younger man.
Do senior partners in New York law firms get face-lifts?
Jasmine wondered.

“How's the knee?” he asked.

“It feels great,” Jasmine said. She wanted to turn the conversation away from old basketball injuries to the issue at hand—a job offer. “Once those old cadaver ligaments got used to hauling my frame around, I started feeling great.”

Payne glanced at the knee and smiled. “The bionic woman.”

“Not hardly,” Jasmine replied. The knee had kept her from going pro, and they both knew it.

Payne grabbed Jasmine's résumé from his desk—finally—and perused it while Jasmine felt her palms start to sweat. She was sitting in front of the chief outside legal counsel for the
New York Times
. He had argued in front of the U.S. Supreme Court—what?—fifteen, twenty times. It seemed like half the First Amendment cases in Jasmine's con-law book had Pearson Payne listed as attorney of record.

“Tell me a little about Regent,” Payne said, looking up at her. Jasmine thought she could detect the slightest hint of skepticism in his voice. She knew that in this firm, filled with Jewish lawyers and outspoken agnostics like Payne, all representing a bevy of liberal New York media clients, she should downplay the Christian and conservative aspects of her Virginia Beach law school.

“It's the Yale of the South,” she replied, bringing a smirk to Payne's face. She had checked out his alma mater before she flew north for this interview. “In fact, we finished ahead of Yale in this year's moot court tournament.” It was a not-so-veiled reference to the second-place finish in the national competition that Jasmine had featured prominently on her résumé.

“I see that,” Payne said. “Congratulations.” Jasmine nodded. “Looks like you've got a knack for second place,” he quipped.

“Bad judging in the finals,” Jasmine countered. She recrossed her legs. “Kind of like
New York v. Clarke
.”

Payne didn't blink at the reference to his latest Supreme Court case—one he had lost by a five-four vote. “Touché,” he said. “Sometimes those judges don't recognize brilliance when it's standing in front of them.”