The Judge Who Stole Christmas (7 page)

“If I tell you, can we not talk about the game anymore?”

“Okay.”

Ajori took a deep breath. “He came in and ripped two sheets of paper from the stat sheets. Then he ripped that paper up into tiny slips and wrote everybody's name on a slip. As he folded them up, he said that we had played like crap—not his exact words—and it didn't really matter what he said or what he did since we didn't listen anyway. Then he said, ‘As long as we're going to all play like a bunch of little old ladies, we ought to at least be democratic about it.' He put the folded papers in his hand and held his hand toward me. He told me to draw five and announce the names, which I did. Then he said, ‘Ladies, those are your starters for the second half. The rest of you might as well make yourself comfortable on the bench.'”

“That's it?”

“Yep.”

“I hate that man.”

In response, Ajori turned on the radio again. “Me too,” she mumbled.

“Dad never did anything like that.”

Ajori responded with silence.

A few minutes later a change in subject matter loosened up Ajori, and by the time they hit the driveway, she was talking nonstop about the boys in her class. As Jasmine and Ajori climbed from the car, Ajori returned to the topic of basketball.

“Barker is making us practice at eight tomorrow morning,” she said, hefting her gym bag over her shoulder. “He saw you at the gym and wants to know if you'll come and scrimmage with us.”

Jasmine walked next to Ajori as they headed into the house. She wanted to be careful here—this was Ajori's team. She realized how hard it must be to be Jazz Woodfaulk's little sister in a town like Possum, especially when you're four inches shorter and born without the Woodfaulk basketball gene.

“How do you feel about that?” Jasmine asked.

“I don't care,” Ajori shot back. “I won't be there. I'm quitting.”

SATURDAY MORNING, DECEMBER 9

A few minutes before eight on Saturday morning, Jasmine found herself lacing on an old pair of sneakers in the cramped driver's seat of her red Dodge Neon. She could barely squeeze herself into the seat to drive, much less bend around the steering wheel and put on her treads. Ajori was having less difficulty in the passenger seat, though she hadn't muttered a word yet. Under ideal circumstances on a Saturday morning, Ajori would have slept in until noon and stayed in her pajamas until two.

Jasmine and her mom had talked Ajori out of quitting the night before. It was the third time this season Ajori had announced she was going to quit, according to Jasmine's mom. Jasmine at first decided not to come to practice but changed her mind late last night as she tossed and turned in bed, feeling sorry for her little sister. She would show Barker a thing or two during practice. Afterward she would take the opportunity to pull him aside and casually give him a few pointers about the game.

Nobody should treat her little sister the way Barker did.

It was 8:15 before Barker showed up in his Ford pickup, a gun rack and American flag covering the back windshield. He opened the gym, rolled out the balls for the girls to warm up, then disappeared into his office.

“Where's he going?” Jasmine asked Ajori.

“Smoke break.”

The scrimmage didn't start until nine. Barker placed Jasmine with the second team and put eight minutes on the clock. “Call your own fouls,” he said.

For the first few minutes, the starters actually showed sparks of potential. Ajori hit a couple smooth jump shots, and a tall, lanky white girl named Ginger pulled down a few rebounds when she wasn't busy pulling her long blonde hair back into a tight ponytail. Ginger was probably six feet tall and might have been a good post player, except that she didn't have a competitive bone in her body. She was quite possibly the nicest player Jasmine had ever played against. “Sorry,” Ginger would say if she touched Jasmine on a shot. “My bad” when a teammate's pass would sail through her hands. And when Jasmine boxed her out, Ginger would simply move out of the way, as if physical contact with another player might result in some deadly communicable disease.

“Congratulations,” Barker said to Ginger at one point in the scrimmage. “You get the least production out of six feet in height of any player in women's basketball.”

“Sorry,” Ginger said.

The only African American on the team other than Ajori, a little water bug named Tamarika, took care of the ball-handling responsibilities. In one particularly nice sequence, Ginger grabbed a rebound and threw an outlet pass to Tamarika. The quick little guard scooted around a few of Jasmine's helpless teammates and drove right at Jasmine. At the last possible second, just as Jasmine went up to block Tamarika's shot, the kid dished a no-look pass to Ajori, who banked in a nice jump shot. Barker immediately blew his whistle, stopping the scrimmage so he could yell at a few of Jasmine's teammates. He never complimented the starters on their nice play.

Jasmine took advantage of the coach's rantings to bend over, hands on her knees, and suck in a few deep breaths.
Law school and basketball don't mix,
she thought. But she also wondered how this team could look so pitiful in the game and have such brilliant moments in practice.

“You ladies better give Woodfaulk some help defensively,” Barker screamed at Jasmine's teammates. “You can't expect her to do it all! She's got two bad knees and she's out of shape.” Jasmine jerked her head up and gave Barker the eye, which he ignored. “Plus, she's carrying around a few more pounds than she did in college.”

Jasmine dominated the next several minutes. She drove the lane, crashed the boards, and blocked one of Ajori's shots back to half-court. Barker's shrill whistle brought her out of the zone. This time he turned his ire on the starters.

“This is what happens every game,” he complained. “The other team starts running on us and we lose control . . .” He stared at Ajori and Tamarika. “We start playing hip-hop basketball, totally undisciplined.”

What's that supposed to mean—“hip-hop” basketball?
Jasmine was liking Barker less by the second.

“This isn't the WNBA,” Barker continued. “I want three passes before you shoot or I'll tie up the nets for the rest of practice like I did last week!”

Ajori rolled her eyes. Tamarika stared at a spot on the floor, shifting from one leg to the other. “My bad,” Ginger said.

The next time down the floor a fired-up Ajori blocked Jasmine's shot and passed to Tamarika. Several passes later, after working the ball around like a Princeton basketball team from the 1950s, Ajori scored over the outstretched arms of Jasmine.

When Jasmine posted up in the lane at the other end of the floor, Ajori gave her sister a sharp elbow in the ribs. “Quit trying to make me look good,” Ajori sneered. “I don't need your charity.”

Sheesh,
Jasmine thought,
are we having fun yet?

An hour later, as the girls were running their suicide drills, Jasmine walked over and stood next to Coach Barker. “Thanks for scrimmaging, Woodfaulk,” he said. “It helped our kids see their weak spots.”

“Sure.”

He blew the whistle and Jasmine felt like it had pierced her eardrum. “Two more!” he shouted. The girls groaned.

Jasmine thought about the American flag proudly displayed in the back window of Barker's truck. In her trial-practice class, she had learned to communicate in a language the jury understood. She'd try it out on Barker.

“Know what makes this country great?” Jasmine asked as she and Barker watched the girls jog up and down the court on their next suicide. Ajori was near the back of the pack.

“What?”

“Hard work and freedom,” Jasmine said. “If you don't have freedom, you're like Communist Russia used to be. If you don't have hard work, you're France.”

Barker coughed, the phlegmy variety common to smokers, never taking his eyes off the court. “Your point is?”

“Basketball teams are the same way. Right now, this feels like Communist Russia, Coach.” Another piercing whistle and the girls started on their last suicide. “You've got to give them some freedom to play.”

“Is that so?”

The two stood there in silence until the girls limped across the baseline at the conclusion of their last suicide. “Gather round,” Barker said.

The girls hobbled over huffing and puffing. Most of them bent over, hands on knees.

“What are the rules for when your parents whine about your playing time?” Barker asked.

“You don't play the next game,” Ginger said between hard breaths.

“That's right,” Barker said. “And, Tamarika, what happens when your parents complain to me about my coaching?”

Tamarika mumbled something that Jasmine couldn't hear.

“That's right,” Barker said. “Double suicides.” He turned to Ajori. “You think that rule applies to big sisters?”

Ajori groaned.

“On the baseline, ladies,” Barker announced. “You're about to find out.”

“This is stupid,” Jasmine said as she walked toward the baseline with them. If she had been the cause of their running, she could at least share in their pain.

The girls lined up on the baseline and Barker walked in front of them. “Any more suggestions before we start running?” he asked Jasmine.

The other girls looked at Jasmine like they might tar and feather her if she said a word.

“No, sir,” Jasmine shot back. “Stalin would be proud.”

SATURDAY EVENING, DECEMBER 9

Thomas Hammond had never seen so much junk in the Possum town square in his life. It felt to him more like the flea market than a celebration of Christmas. For starters, he didn't like the big sign at the front: “The History and Traditions of Xmas.” As if you couldn't even say the name of Christ anymore.

What's America coming to?

As one of Theresa's cousins watched the kids, Thomas and Theresa manned their live manger scene in a back corner of the square, though tonight it seemed more like a petting zoo. There were crowds of children waiting in line—
waiting in line!
—to pet the animals. And hardly anyone paid attention to the doll baby cradled in Theresa's arms. Even if they did, Thomas and Theresa were under strict instructions not to say anything that might be construed as proselytizing. Same for the carolers, who were under orders not to sing any serious Christmas carols, just stick with the “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” stuff. No telling who might be spying for the ACLU.

To make matters worse, the manger scene stood right next to the Twelve Days of Christmas display. The twelve drummers drumming were putting the animals on edge, not to mention Thomas. But he would gladly suffer through another hundred drummers drumming if he could just get rid of the ten lords a-leaping—ten grown men wearing tights who periodically put on a little leaping and dancing display with the nine ladies dancing. After watching the first performance, Thomas was pretty sure that there ought to be a law against men with beer guts wearing tights. Meanwhile, the eight maids a-milking, which Thomas thought was one of the calmer parts of the display, drew a constant chorus of “yuck” and “gross” from the schoolchildren who dropped by. Hadn't those kids ever seen a cow udder before?