The Judge Who Stole Christmas (4 page)

Jasmine sighed, typed the case into her Outlook calendar, and clicked to open the blinking instant message from her sister.

Need a paralegal?

MONDAY, DECEMBER 4

As the mayor of Possum testified, Jasmine Woodfaulk sat next to Thomas Hammond in the front row of the cavernous federal courtroom and studied the reaction of Judge Cynthia Baker-Kline. Because this was a request for a preliminary injunction that hinged primarily on legal issues, as opposed to factual determinations, there would be no jury in the box. Her Honor would be the sole decision maker. And Her Honor was not giving off good vibes.

Jasmine had heard her law school professors say you could sell tickets to any trial involving Judge Baker-Kline. Feared by most, the judge that lawyers called “Ichabod” combined a hair-trigger temper with a razor-sharp tongue that could slice up even seasoned litigators. She had a face that was all angles and bones—sunken eyes and a jutting jaw. Her reading glasses had crawled down her Wicked-Witch-of-the-West nose as the hearing progressed and were now hovering at the very end of that precipice, defying the laws of physics as they balanced there, mesmerizing Jasmine, who found herself wondering how they stayed.

Jasmine split her attention between the glasses and the telltale vein on the right side of Ichabod's neck that pulsed visibly when she got upset, like a barometer of her anger and angst, a warning to smart lawyers that it was time to change the subject. As Ichabod listened to the mayor's testimony, the vein pulsed in and out, in and out. Quickly. Grotesquely.

And Ichabod was scowling.

The mayor survived nearly an hour of pointed questions by Vince Harrod, attorney for the ACLU, and then a feeble attempt by the town's attorney to rehabilitate his testimony. Just when it looked like he might escape, the judge herself started in. “Who owns the Possum town square?” she asked the witness.

“The town does,” the mayor responded in his high-pitched voice. “But Freewill Baptist Church maintains the manger scene.”

“Do you charge Freewill Baptist Church any rent for the portion of the square where the manger scene sits?”

“No, ma'am.” The mayor gave the town's lawyer a do-something look, but the lawyer appeared not to notice.

The mayor was a small man with a round face and a big handlebar mustache. Jasmine remembered the night he had handed out keys to the town at a banquet honoring Jasmine's state runner-up basketball team. Her teammates had dubbed him the “Munchkin Mayor,” based on his resemblance to the character in
The Wizard of Oz
.

“And where might you attend church, Mr. Frumpkin?” Ichabod leaned into the question, and the mayor's eyes went wide.

“Can she do that?” Thomas whispered to Jasmine. Jasmine just nodded.

A few seconds of silence followed as if the Munchkin Mayor had just been exposed in some mortal sin.

“Do you understand the question?” Ichabod scowled.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Well?”

“I attend Freewill Baptist Church of Possum.”

Ichabod made a check mark on her legal pad. She turned to Harrod. “The town council resolution authorizing a manger scene in the Possum town square for the holiday season—what exhibit number was that?”

“Exhibit 9, Your Honor.”

“Please look at Exhibit 9,” Ichabod instructed Mayor Frumpkin, “and tell me what that resolution says about who will maintain this manger scene on behalf of the city.”

Bert Frumpkin pulled the exhibit out of the stack of papers in front of him, handling it carefully like the snake it had become. He took his time reading it, licking his lips a couple of times in the process.

“It doesn't say anything?” he finally responded.

To Jasmine, the mayor's answer sounded like a question, the way kids guess at an answer in class when they don't know, hoping the teacher might accept their humble offering.

“Then whose idea was it to delegate this responsibility to the good folks at Freewill Baptist Church?”

Frumpkin hesitated. “I'm not 100 percent sure.”

This brought a glare from Ichabod that lowered the temperature in the courtroom five degrees.

“But it might've been mine,” Frumpkin added.

“What a coincidence,” Ichabod mumbled, which brought a smattering of chuckles from the reporters present.

She looked over the top of her glasses at the poor Possum mayor. “Did you ever consider asking Muslims to hold an Iftar on the Possum town square to celebrate the ending of their Ramadan fast or a Jewish rabbi to erect a menorah during Hanukkah?”

Frumpkin squirmed a little in his seat, and Jasmine could see the confusion in his eyes. Even she didn't know what an Iftar was—so there was no chance the mayor would.

“No,” Frumpkin said, “but they're not national holidays either.”

“That's right,” Thomas whispered.

“Harrumph,” Ichabod said.

She stared at the back wall for a second, then turned again to the witness. “Speaking of national holidays, Mr. Frumpkin, what did you do in your town square to celebrate Martin Luther King Day?”

“What's that got to do with anything?” Thomas wondered, loud enough so Jasmine could hear.

“Nothin' in particular this year,” Frumpkin said.

“And in past years?”

“Actually, not much then either.”

Jasmine winced at the implications. This case would not be good publicity for her hometown. The press would characterize Possum as Redneck City, USA.

“That's all the questions I have for this witness,” Ichabod said, making one final check mark on her pad.

“For its next witness, the plaintiff calls Mr. Thomas Hammond,” Harrod said.

Jasmine watched helplessly as Vince Harrod fired questions at Thomas Hammond for thirty minutes. In all the trials she had watched as a law firm clerk, she had never seen a witness look so ill at ease. The big man reminded her of Shrek—squeezing into the witness chair with the wide-eyed wonderment of an innocent ogre about to be swindled by a crafty foe. Even his worn white shirt and blue blazer seemed two sizes too small. He left the top button of his shirt unbuttoned, relying on his tie to pull the collar somewhat together. Jazz decided that Walmart shirts were not designed for necks as thick as Thomas's.

Jasmine couldn't object to the questions because Thomas was not a party, just a witness, and therefore she wasn't an attorney of record in the case. The objections, such as they were, were being interposed by the Possum town attorney, Arnold Ottmeyer, a stooped and aging man who didn't appear to have much enthusiasm for protecting the witness. When he did object, rising slowly to his feet and raising his arm partway toward the judge like an orchestra conductor with an imaginary baton, it was too late to help the beleaguered witness.

“Mr. Hammond has already answered the question,” Ichabod would say. “Objection overruled.”

Thomas testified that he saw his role in the live Nativity scene as a ministry. He and Theresa would take every opportunity to pray with those who came to visit or talk to them about “the true meaning of Christmas.”

“Did the town attorney or anyone else associated with the town ever tell you what you could or could not say to visitors?” Harrod asked.

“No.”

“Did it ever occur to you that you were acting as a representative of the Town of Possum, and it would be inappropriate for you to proselytize people who came to visit the live manger scene?”

Ottmeyer stood and pointed his imaginary wand forward. “Objection. Assumes that the witness is a representative of the town.”

Ichabod shot Ottmeyer an impatient glance. “Overruled.”

A few questions later Harrod reviewed his legal pad and seemed satisfied that he had done enough damage with the witness. “No further questions,” he announced.

“Nothing from me,” Ottmeyer said with a big sigh.

Jasmine watched the tight lines on Thomas's face loosen just a little as he stood and stepped down from the witness stand.

“Where're
you
going?” Ichabod asked.

Thomas froze. “I, um . . . thought I was done.”

Ichabod leaned forward. “I have a few questions as well,” she said.

Resolutely, as if he were a gladiator being led to the floor of the Roman Coliseum, Thomas returned to his seat. He inhaled, then looked at the judge.

“So . . . I take it that you attend Freewill Baptist Church along with the mayor?” The way Ichabod phrased the question, it sounded like she was accusing Thomas of belonging to a cult.

He stiffened. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Is it a big church?”

“Pretty big. 'Bout 150 members or so.”

“I'll bet that you and the mayor probably know each other pretty well—probably bump into each other at church quite often?”

“We're in the same Sunday school class—” Thomas looked down at his hands for a moment—“but we don't really run in the same circles.”

Ichabod studied her notes before peering at the witness again. “In that Sunday school class, do you ever discuss the live manger scene in the Possum town square and your efforts to proselytize people out there?”

Thomas furrowed his brow in confusion.

Ichabod shook her head at the density of the witness. “Do you ever talk in Sunday school about the manger scene?”

“Sometimes.”

“Tell me about the last time you did so.”

“Well, just last week, I might've mentioned a couple things.” Thomas frowned and looked Ichabod squarely in the eye. “We prayed for a family I talked to at the manger last week . . . prayed that they might come to church and find out more about Christ.” He swallowed. “And we prayed for you . . . that you would make the right ruling.”

“You did?” A smirk pulled at the corner of Ichabod's mouth. “And what might that ruling be?”

Thomas shrugged. “Let us keep the manger scene up. Let us keep ministering to people.”

“Did it ever occur to you,” Ichabod snapped, “that trying to convert people to your Baptist faith on town property using a Christian manger scene sponsored by the town might violate the wall of separation between church and state?”

Jasmine had heard enough. This was so unfair! How could Thomas, with no legal training, answer such a question? She glanced at Ottmeyer to make sure he wasn't objecting—nope, he didn't even twitch—then she jumped to her feet.

“Objection!” she blurted out.

Ichabod turned her stare from Thomas to Jasmine. The judge took off her reading glasses and studied Jasmine as if figuring out the best way to torture the nervous young law student. “And who might you be?”

“Jasmine Woodfaulk. I represent Mr. Hammond.”

“I see.” Ichabod tented her fingers in front of her. “How long have you been practicing law?”

“I'm a third-year law student, and Mr. Ottmeyer is my supervising attorney today.” Out of the corner of her eye, Jasmine noticed Ottmeyer turn partway around in his seat, shaking his head from side to side in quick, vigorous little motions.

“I see.” The judge paused and Jasmine shifted from one foot to the other. “Then you probably haven't learned yet that you have to be a lawyer of record in the case to make an objection . . .”

“I know that, Your Honor, but—”

“Ms. Woodfaulk!”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“I wasn't finished.”

“Sorry.”

“In addition, even if you were counsel of record, it's typically not real smart to object to the questions of a judge who will ultimately decide the case. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Good. Now would you like to withdraw your objection?”

“I can't do that in good conscience, Your Honor.”

“You ‘can't do that in good conscience,'” Ichabod repeated. “And would you mind telling me why?”

Jasmine took a deep breath and tried to focus on the issue. Just like stepping up to the foul line . . . shut out the jeering fans, the trash-talking opponents . . .