The Judge Who Stole Christmas (20 page)

Jasmine made the second phone call she was dreading on the way to the law school library. This time, she talked to one secretary, one receptionist, one paralegal, and eventually ended up in Pearson Payne's voice mail. Ten minutes later he called back.

He was not happy to learn that she would be back in the case. “That French lawyer working for that televangelist is not doing you any favors,” Pearson said. “He's filling up the airwaves with all kinds of bigoted nonsense. You wouldn't believe how many of my partners have said how grateful they are that you're off the case. What am I supposed to tell them now?”

How about telling them the truth?
Jasmine wanted to say. But she found 115,000 reasons to swallow those words. “I don't know, Mr. Payne. I'm sorry, but I need to do this.”

“Think about the future, Jazz. This case might seem big now, but it's nothing compared to the cases you'll be handling if you come to Gold, Franks.”

Jasmine hesitated. She didn't want to argue with Pearson Payne. “It's not the size of the case, Mr. Payne—”

“Pearson.”

“Right. Pearson. It's just that I feel strongly about this. It's something I really need to do.”

Pearson let silence be his answer. After he had made his point, he spoke softly, accenting his disappointment. “I'll do what I can, Jazz. But I can't promise you that we won't revoke our offer. A lot of our clients see this differently than you. And my partners don't like our recruits to create problems with the clients.”

“I know,” Jasmine said. “I wish there were some other way.”

When she hung up, she realized how much she liked Pearson Payne. He was the kind of lawyer she hoped to become. And the last thing in the world she wanted to do was upset him. Well, maybe the second-to-last thing. The last thing would be to bail on a deserving client.

Quitters never win.
To be able to look at herself in the mirror, she
had
to do this, even if it cost her the best job she would ever be offered. How dumb was that? Sometimes she wished her dad had been anything but a basketball coach.

When Theresa called the breeder, the man acted like he worked for the CIA. “Your puppy is the runt of the litter,” he told Theresa. Traditionally, the owner of the sire got to pick one puppy from the litter for himself or herself. That person had been very clear that he or she didn't want his or her name divulged to anybody who called with a question. According to the breeder, the owner of the sire swore him to secrecy, saying the puppy would be a special and mysterious Christmas gift for somebody.

“Are the dogs good with little kids?” Theresa asked.

“The best,” the breeder said. “Especially if they're around children while the dogs are still puppies.”

“How big will he get?” Theresa asked.

“Thirty pounds max—a great inside dog.” The breeder went into a long spiel about how playful and even-tempered cocker spaniels are. “What did you name him?”

“I'm waiting till the older kids get home.” When Theresa hung up the phone, she felt a little guilty for pretending she might keep him. And the puppy didn't make things any easier when he looked at her with those droopy little eyes and wagged his tail so hard that his entire backside shook.

The kids were pretty quiet as Theresa drove them home from school. She parked the minivan next to the trailer, and the kids got out without a word, helping her drag “the babies” out of their car seats and carry them inside.

“Let's put the babies in the living room and put up the gate,” Theresa told Tiger and Hannah. “Then I want you guys to wait in the kitchen and cover your eyes.”

A surprise! This perked the kids up a little. After taking care of the toddlers, they stood with their hands over their eyes, still wearing their winter coats, as Theresa went to the bedroom to get the puppy out of his crate. “No peeking,” she called out.

She quietly placed the puppy on the kitchen floor. “You can look now,” she said, thinking it was a miracle that Tiger had not already done so.

Hannah dropped her hands, spotted the cocker spaniel, then jumped and squealed in delight. She covered her mouth and stifled another scream. Tiger darted around her and cornered the puppy so the mauling could begin. The kids loved all over the hyper little guy while Theresa tried valiantly to explain that they couldn't keep him. The puppy got a little scared and tucked his tail between his legs as the kids passed him back and forth. He was looking at Theresa, practically begging her to bail him out. When he realized it wasn't going to happen, he resorted to Plan B. The kids dropped him on the floor immediately.

“He does that when he gets excited,” Theresa said.

“Gross,” Tiger said.

“He's so cute,” Hannah said. “Can't we keep him, Momma? Pleeeeease!”

Within seconds, the begging started in earnest. They both promised to feed and water the puppy every day, take him for walks, train him in the most sophisticated tricks, and clean their rooms every day for the rest of their lives. Without hesitation, both offered to forgo any other Christmas gift if they could just keep the puppy. Hannah even offered to throw in next year's birthday as well, though Tiger was conspicuously silent on that point.

The kids were relentless, and everyone involved knew that it would be only a matter of minutes before Theresa would crack. Secretly, Theresa was on the side of the kids—how could she not be when she looked into those sad brown puppy eyes? She knew Thomas wouldn't approve. If they ever did get a dog, he'd want some kind of huge outdoor mutt that he could take into the woods logging with him, not some prissy indoor puppy. But as far as Theresa was concerned, Thomas had forfeited his vote by getting himself thrown into jail. If he wanted to veto the puppy, he needed to be home to do it.

“If we did keep him,” Theresa said, “what would you name him?”

Because he came as a Christmas gift, Hannah suggested “Angel.”

“Mom said he's a boy,” Tiger responded. “Angel's a girl's name.”

Hannah pondered this for a moment. “Then how 'bout Gabriel,” she said, showing off her almost-encyclopedic biblical knowledge—it seemed the girl remembered everything she heard in Sunday school. “Gabriel is the name of an angel.”

Tiger studied the puppy. “He doesn't look like a Gabriel.”

Hannah grunted and threw her hands in the air. “Then you name him.”

“What about Spot?” Tiger suggested. “He's got a light brown spot right in the middle of his forehead.”

Hannah made a noise like this was the dumbest idea she had ever heard in her long and well-traveled little life. “Everybody names their dog Spot,” she complained. “See Spot run.” Then she had another idea. “What about King? There are kings in the Christmas story too.”

Tiger looked skeptical but didn't reject the name outright. His face brightened. “His nickname could be King Kong.”

So King it was, though Theresa didn't think this innocent little puppy looked anymore like a king than the Christ child must have in the manger.

“Does this mean we can keep him? I mean, keep King?” Hannah asked.

Theresa tried to act put out. “
If
you promise to take care of him, and
if
you keep your rooms clean every day, and
if
you continue to make good grades in school, we can probably keep him.”

This set off a chorus of squealing while King drizzled his enticement on the kitchen floor.

“Yippee!” Tiger shouted. “This is the best Christmas ever!”

“Except that Daddy's in jail,” Hannah reminded him.

“Oh yeah,” Tiger said. “I didn't mean that part.”

Jasmine had no time to second-guess her decision about the Hammond case. Late Monday afternoon the Fourth Circuit responded to the notice of appeal and request for an expedited schedule that David Arginot had filed early Monday morning. Arginot called Jasmine to break the news.

“They want both sides to file briefs by the close of business on Wednesday,” he said. “Oral argument will be Thursday at 2:00 p.m. They're obviously trying to have a decision out by Friday, before Christmas.”

Jasmine knew things would move fast—but two days to write the brief! She nearly had to pick herself up off the floor. “How much progress have you made on the brief?” she asked.

Arginot grunted. “I had my hands full this weekend responding to media requests. I was lucky to get the notice of appeal done today.”

“So nothing—you've done nothing on the brief?”

“I've done some research, Jasmine.” Defensiveness crept into Arginot's tone. “I've been a little busy.”

“What about the town? Do you know how they're coming?”

This brought a sarcastic laugh. “The town?” Arginot repeated. “As in Mr. Ottmeyer?” Another forced chuckle. “We couldn't even talk him into filing an expedited appeal.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Ottmeyer said the town didn't have any real immediacy associated with its case. No town officials are in jail, and even if they got a decision late this week, they've already missed the opportunity to display the manger scene in the final weeks before Christmas this year.”

“What if they got a reversal on Friday? Is he saying they wouldn't even try to set something up for Saturday night or Christmas Eve?”

“I think what he's really saying, Jasmine, is that he knows we're pushing for an expedited appeal, and he can just tag along with a lot less work than if he filed his own.”

“That's just stupid.”

“You want his cell phone number so you can tell him that?”

Jasmine sighed. “No. I've got too much work to do.”

They spoke for a few more minutes about the details of the appeal, with Jasmine expecting Arginot to offer his help in some way on the brief. But there were apparently too many media opportunities still to mine. When she hung up the phone, one thing was blatantly obvious—she might have to share the credit if they won, but there was nobody willing to share the work in the meantime.

Forty-eight hours to write, edit, and file the most important brief of her life.

She found a study carrel in the back of the library, booted up her laptop, and settled in for a long night.