The Judge Who Stole Christmas (11 page)

Something caught his eye that he knew his mommy would like. “Excuse me,” he said, pulling on the leg of a kind-looking lady. “Can you reach that for me?” He pointed to the necklace, and the lady smiled and handed it to him.

It looked even better up close. It was a big necklace with a flashing light on a little thing that hung down. If you twisted the top of that hangy-down thing, right where it attached to the necklace, the necklace would flash—like a police car. How cool!

Mom was done.

Dad was next, and Dad was hard. Tiger covered a few more rows and decided to be practical. White underwear. His dad could always use some more underwear. Tiger grabbed a pack and threw them into his little basket. Not the most exciting gift, but Dad already had everything he wanted. Dad's gift was history. Now for Lizzy. But what did you get for a baby?

Searching for the perfect gift, Tiger made his way down the toy aisle. This was unbelievable, so many things to choose from! His eyes bugged out as he surveyed the mountains of cool stuff. A plastic snake. Action figures and little race cars. Dinosaurs and lizards. Hey, that would be a good idea—a lizard for Lizzie. But then . . . oh, my goodness!

Tiger grabbed a package of two Wild West cowboy guns with rubber-tipped darts and everything. He thought about how much fun it would be, racing around the trailer, sneaking up on his dad. Bam! His dad would groan and stumble around and then fall down dead.

He raced around the store hunting for Stinky. “C'mere a minute,” he said breathlessly.

He dragged her back to the toy aisle and pointed out the guns. “Those are really cool,” he said.

She turned up her nose. “I don't like guns.”

“Not for you, Stinky. I'm dus' saying, if you were wondering what to get for
me
 . . .”

Stinky, who had been using her body to protect her basket from Tiger's efforts to peek, did not seem impressed. “Hannah, not Stinky,” she scolded. “And I already got yours.”

“But what if I don't like it?”

“I already showed Mom. She said you'll like it.”

“I really like guns,” Tiger said, leaning forward a little so he could sneak a look at what Stinky had in that basket.

“No peeking,” Stinky said, twisting so he couldn't see. “'Sides, if I get you the guns, you'll know what I got you. And that will take all the fun out of it.”

Shucks.
At least he had tried. But Stinky was a girl. What did she know about guns?

Then another idea hit him. His dad weren't no girl. And his daddy loved guns. His dad had as much fun as Tiger when they played with guns.

After Stinky had disappeared around the end of the aisle, Tiger grabbed the guns and put them in his basket. Then he took out the underwear and, after checking for store clerks, placed them in the bin of plastic snakes.

Boy, his dad would love these guns. And as Tiger knew better than most, you can make a few pair of used underwear go a long way.

Even though Jasmine had another final less than one day away, she spent almost the entire morning and early afternoon on Wednesday preparing for the show-cause hearing. True to his threats, Vince Harrod had filed the paperwork necessary to drag both the Town of Possum and Thomas Hammond back into court to answer for their conduct the night before. Because Ichabod already had a full docket on Wednesday, the hearing was not scheduled to begin until four in the afternoon.

This time Thomas was a party and Jasmine was an attorney of record, with Arnold Ottmeyer serving as her supervising attorney. She sat at the defendant's table with Ottmeyer, Mayor Frumpkin, and Thomas. Harrod, representing himself as a citizen of the Commonwealth of Virginia, sat alone at the plaintiff's table.

The short notice for the hearing didn't seem to detract from attendance. More than half the seats were full, mostly with representatives of the media. A half hour before the hearing, the media satellite trucks had rolled into position.

Jasmine straightened the pile of papers in front of her. Final exams were one thing, Ichabod quite another. She knew that Ichabod would come out swinging, especially if she'd seen the morning paper. “Possum Resident Flaunts Court Order,” the headline read.

But Jasmine did have one thing going for her—an opinion by the U.S. Supreme Court—
Capital Square Review and Advisory Board v. Pinette
. She had read the case four times already. It was probably the only thing standing between her client and contempt.

“All rise! The Honorable Cynthia Baker-Kline presiding.”

Ichabod began the proceedings by reminding everyone of the procedural posture of the case, probably for the benefit of the press. She reiterated her prior ruling, then explained that Harrod had filed a motion seeking sanctions against the Town of Possum, Mayor Frumpkin, and Thomas Hammond for violating her prior order. As a result, Ichabod had scheduled this show-cause hearing—an opportunity for the defendants to “show cause” why they shouldn't be held in contempt.

“I'll hear from Mr. Hammond's counsel first,” Ichabod announced, “since he seems to be the person who started this uproar.”

Jasmine stood and walked to the lectern. “May it please the court, my name is Jasmine Woodfaulk and I represent—”

“Yes, yes, I'm aware of all that,” Ichabod snapped. “Did your client erect a manger scene on the Possum town square last night in direct violation of this court's order?”

“Yes and no,” Jasmine replied. “Yes, my client erected a crèche on the town square. But no, he didn't violate the court's order.”

“I understand the yes part,” Ichabod fired back. “But you'd better explain the no part . . . and you'd better make it good.”

“This court's order forbade the town, or any agents of the town, from erecting a crèche on the town square because it might be seen as an unconstitutional endorsement of religion. But as the court knows, the First Amendment's establishment clause applies only to governmental bodies, not private individuals. Last night Thomas Hammond acted as a private individual. The only thing the town did was to grant him access to a traditional public forum—the town square. Accordingly, the controlling case is the Supreme Court case of
Capitol Square Review v. Pinette
. . .” Jasmine picked up some copies from her counsel table, handing one to the court clerk and one to Harrod. “Under
Pinette
, the town can't keep someone like Thomas from erecting a manger scene on property traditionally open for speech and demonstrations, or it violates his free-speech rights.”

The clerk handed Ichabod a copy of the case, but the judge set it aside. “I'm familiar with
Pinette
,” she said. “The Klan wanted to erect a cross on a state-owned plaza in Columbus, Ohio, that had been used for public speeches, gatherings, and festivals for more than a hundred years. But the
Pinette
case involved a political display. This display is purely religious, thereby implicating the establishment clause and requiring this court to be more circumspect about allowing it.”

Jasmine felt a rush of adrenaline. The judge couldn't have been more wrong. “With all due respect, Your Honor, that's precisely the argument the Supreme Court rejected in
Pinette
. Listen to what Justice Scalia said, writing for the majority . . .” Jasmine picked up the case and went straight to her favorite quote. “The Klan's ‘religious display in Capitol Square was private expression' and, ‘far from being a First Amendment orphan, was as fully protected under the Free Speech Clause as secular private expression. Indeed, in Anglo American history, at least, government suppression of speech has been so commonly directed
precisely
at religious speech that a free-speech clause without religion would be
Hamlet
without the prince.'”

Jasmine looked up from the case and measured the expression on Ichabod's face. The judge did not look pleased, but she didn't say anything either; she just scribbled some notes. “Not only that,” Jasmine said, “but Justice Scalia had a few words to say about the argument that religious speech should be entitled to less protection than other speech, much the same way that pornography is entitled to less protection.” She quickly found the other quote she had highlighted. “‘It will be a sad day when this court casts piety in with pornography and finds the First Amendment more hospitable to private expletives than to private prayers. This would be merely bizarre—'”

“Enough,” Ichabod interrupted. “I get the point.” She turned to Harrod. “It seems to me that if the Klan can do it, Mr. Hammond is certainly entitled.”

Harrod rose confidently to his feet. “Before Ms. Woodfaulk graduates from law school, I hope she will learn to read the concurring opinions as well as the majority opinions for critical Supreme Court cases.”

Jasmine bristled. Why did Harrod always have to make it so personal?

“As Justice O'Connor points out in her concurrence, Capitol Square had traditionally been open to a wide variety of displays, the Klan used the same permit process as everyone else, and the display was to include a sign indicating it was not sponsored by the city. We intend to prove that all of those factors cut the other way in this case.”

“Just a moment,” Ichabod said. She picked up the
Pinette
case and read it carefully, page by page, as the lawyers and spectators watched in respectful silence. When she finished, she took off her reading glasses, closed her eyes, and pinched the bridge of her nose as if this whole affair was giving her a migraine. Then she slipped the glasses back on the end of her nose and glanced over them at Harrod. “Counsel, at this stage, I'm inclined to agree with Ms. Woodfaulk. So why don't you call your first witness?”

“Mayor Bert Frumpkin,” Harrod said without hesitation.

Harrod raced through a few preliminary questions and then got right to the point.

“At the time Mr. Hammond erected his manger scene on the town square last night, did he have a permit?”

“Not when he erected it. But before the night was over—he did.”

Harrod stepped out from behind the lectern and moved a little closer to the witness.

“In my courtroom,” Ichabod boomed, “attorneys stay behind the lectern.”

Jasmine wished she had a picture of the surprised look on Harrod's face. It was a whose-side-are-you-on-anyway? look.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Harrod said, retreating. Then to the witness: “Who issued the permit?”

“I did.”

“Does the mayor normally issue permits for displays in the town of Possum?”

Frumpkin rubbed his hands together and thought about this for a moment. “Not usually. Most of the time the entire town council votes on permits for things like parades and such. So no, I wouldn't say I normally issue permits myself.”

“When's the last time you issued a permit by yourself, prior to last night?”

More thinking by Frumpkin, this time accompanied by a mustache twirl. “Never.”

“I see. And why didn't the town council vote on Mr. Hammond's display?”

“Because we didn't have time. Mr. Hammond had already set up his manger scene on the town square. We either had to give him a permit or declare him a trespasser and have him arrested.” Frumpkin looked at Thomas. “We weren't going to arrest someone for celebrating Christmas.”

Jasmine glanced to Ichabod, but the judge had her game face on.

“So, if necessary, you as the mayor can grant permits without a vote of the council?”

“That's what I did.”

“Earlier today, did you as town mayor receive a request for a permit that I filed for a demonstration on the town square? I'm referring now to the Saturnalia Festival request for December 17–24, the weeklong party to end all parties in honor of Saturn, god of peace and plenty.”

Frumpkin scoffed. “I received it.”

“Did you reject it?”

“Of course.”