The Judge Who Stole Christmas (26 page)

“It's beautiful,” Hannah said.

“It looks like a haunted mansion to me,” Tiger said.

“Tiger.”

“It does,” he said defensively.

Fortunately, the driveway circled right in front of the house. Though there were a few cars parked on each side, Theresa was pretty sure she could squeeze her minivan through, drop the cookies on the porch, and make a clean getaway. She thought for a moment about turning off her headlights so they wouldn't shine in one of the front windows and give her presence away. But then she thought about how lame that would look if she got caught.

She stopped right in front of the house and handed the plate of cookies, all wrapped up in aluminum foil, to Hannah. “It's kinda late,” Theresa said. “And it looks like the judge has company. So why don't you just drop these on the front porch and then hop back in the van?”

“Should I ring the doorbell?” Hannah asked.

Theresa thought about this for a moment. Ringing the doorbell might bring somebody to the door right away. Then they would invite Theresa and the kids in. How awkward would that be?

“No,” Theresa said. “No sense interrupting. She'll find them as soon as her company leaves.”

“Okay,” Hannah said. She grabbed the plate, climbed out of the van, placed the cookies carefully next to the doormat, then looked over her shoulder at Theresa. After Theresa nodded, Hannah tiptoed back to the van and gently closed her door.

“Go, Mom!” Tiger yelled. “Let's get outta here!” But he could have saved his breath. Theresa already had the minivan rolling down the driveway.

She checked the rearview mirror just before the driveway curved and the house went out of sight. Theresa thought she saw someone standing in the big front window, and then she saw the inside light go off.

Cynthia Baker-Kline started this Christmas Eve tradition about five years ago. When you're an only child, recently divorced, and you've just put your mom in a nursing home, you've got to do something different. Her dad had passed away four years before that, leaving behind the house and enough money to take care of the premises and her mom. To avoid confronting her loneliness, the judge invited four lawyer friends—all divorcées with grown children—to an elaborate Christmas Eve dinner. It was bring your own bottle of wine, and over the years, the competition for the most exotic and expensive wine had become fierce. Judge Baker-Kline had no chance of winning the competition on her government salary, so in year three, the hostess was granted an exemption from providing wine and was instead made a permanent wine-tasting judge.

She was in the kitchen, fetching another set of wineglasses for the next vintage bottle, when Ollie heard something outside and headed for the front door. The judge followed close behind.

She reached the foyer and peered out the glass panel next to the front door. She saw the minivan heading quickly down the drive. She stepped into the formal room and turned off the light so she could get a better look. The vehicle disappeared into the night. But the fates were with her. The right taillight was out.

She immediately dialed the federal marshals assigned to give her protection. Despite some recent death threats, she had refused a twenty-four-hour watch. Now she wondered if she had done the right thing.

The marshal on call said that the judge and her dinner guests should sit tight. A local patrol car would be dispatched to search the premises. A description of the vehicle—a minivan with a missing taillight—would be provided to Virginia Beach's finest. If he heard anything, he'd call her back immediately.

After making a clean getaway from the judge's house, Theresa put in the kids' favorite Christmas cassette. Before long they were singing at the top of their lungs to “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”—all but Elizabeth, who sucked hard on her pacifier and kicked excitedly. The minivan rocked gently along, its driver oblivious to the police cruiser pulling up behind her until she saw the lights flash in her rearview mirror! Theresa immediately hit the power button on the cassette player. Only Tiger's squeaky little voice continued. “‘He'll go down in . . .' Uh-oh!”

Theresa checked the speedometer—forty-seven. Just a few miles per hour over the posted speed limit. And it was almost Christmas for goodness' sakes! She slowed gradually, found a parking lot, and pulled over.

“What's wrong, Mommy?” Hannah fretted.

“Are we going to jail?” Tiger asked.

“No. Everything's fine,” Theresa assured them.

“I'm scared,” Hannah said.

“There's nothing to be scared of. The police are our friends,” Theresa replied.

“Then how come they put Daddy in jail?” Tiger asked.

There was no time to explain. The cop was walking toward her car, shining a flashlight as bright as the sun in the windows. Theresa squinted as he pointed it in her face.

“License and registration, please.”

She fished around in the glove compartment, whispered, “It's okay” to Hannah, and handed over the paperwork. The officer checked it for a moment, then flashed the light around the inside of the van again.

“Everything all right, Officer?” Theresa asked.

“Did you know you've got a taillight out?” the officer asked gruffly.

Theresa breathed a big sigh. So that's what this was all about. “No, sir, I didn't.”

“You and the kids just drivin' around?”

Theresa tensed again. “No, sir. We were delivering some Christmas cookies.”

“Christmas cookies, huh?”

Theresa nodded.

“Any place in particular?” the officer wanted to know.

“No, sir. Just some friends.”

“Any judges' houses?”

Theresa stiffened. This must be the way criminals felt when they got busted. But what had she done? Why should she act so ashamed?

“Yes, sir. We just delivered a batch to Judge Cynthia Baker-Kline.”

“Christmas cookies.” He said it with an arrogance that made Theresa want to scream.

“Yes, sir. The kids and I iced them ourselves.” Theresa turned and looked at Tiger, who was nodding his affirmation like a little madman in the backseat. Even Elizabeth's eyes seemed wide with fear.

“Wait here,” the officer said. Then he walked back to his car, taking her license and registration with him.

Elizabeth started fussing, and Theresa reached back to calm her while the officer wrote on a clipboard in the front seat of his car and talked on his car radio. Several minutes later he came back to Theresa's window.

“This is a ticket for improper equipment,” he said. “You need to sign right here. If you get it fixed before your court date, the judge will probably drop the charge.”

Theresa signed the ticket and resisted the urge to say a sarcastic “Merry Christmas.”

“One other thing,” the officer said. “You need to follow me back to the judge's place.”

When Theresa pulled up in front of Judge Baker-Kline's, the judge was waiting on her front porch. She had on a long winter coat, pulled up at the collar, and her hands were jammed deep in the pockets. She walked over to the driver's door of the minivan, and Theresa rolled down her window.

“Hi,” Judge Baker-Kline said.

“Hello, Your Honor,” Theresa replied. It sounded dumb, but she didn't know what else to call her.

“It's Cynthia, please.”

Theresa tried to smile. “Sorry.”

“Thanks for coming back,” the judge said. “I just wanted to apologize for getting you pulled over—”

“Oh, it's nothing,” Theresa interrupted.

“No, it is. And it's incredibly thoughtful of you all to bring the cookies.” She bent down and peeked at the kids. She smiled a little—the first time Theresa had seen that. “Hey, guys. Thanks for the cookies.”

Tiger waved.

“You're welcome,” Hannah said.

Theresa felt so uncomfortable. What did you say to the woman who put your husband in jail? Merry Christmas?

Judge Baker-Kline apparently felt uncomfortable too. She glanced at the ground. “I can't believe you brought the cookies . . . after everything you've been through. And then to get pulled over . . .” She paused, searching for words. “It's just that I've gotten a few threats lately, so security's pretty tight.”

Threats?
It had never occurred to Theresa that the judge might be having a tough time too. She thought about some of the things people said about her, even at church, and suddenly felt ashamed.

“I'm sorry, Your Honor.”

“Oh . . . it's not your fault.”

Another awkward silence fell between them as conflicting thoughts bombarded Theresa. How many times had she thought about giving this woman a piece of her mind?
Why do you have to be so mean-spirited? so haughty? so disrespectful of Christians?
But here Theresa was—in a perfect setting to do it—and all she could feel was . . . sympathy?

“Well, good night,” Judge Baker-Kline said. “And thanks again.”

“You're welcome,” Theresa said.

“You're welcome,” the kids echoed.

As the judge turned toward the house, the front door opened and another woman appeared with a phone in her hand. “Telephone, Cynthia,” she said.

Theresa placed the minivan in drive and started rolling up her window as the little guy burst through the judge's front door. A beautiful light brown and white cocker spaniel! He ran toward the judge, tail wagging, then darted away just before he got to her feet.

“Ollie!” she yelled. But he was already circling around the yard. The judge glanced at the van.
“Gol-ly!”
she said quickly, but she was not fooling Theresa. “That dog is impossible to catch!” It looked like she was blushing. “I'll have to go get a treat to bribe him back in the house.”

“I'm sorry,” the judge's visitor called from the front doorway. “I forgot about Ollie.”

Hannah was up on her knees, watching wide-eyed as the dog stopped running and started sniffing around the front yard. “He looks just like King!” she said. She looked out Theresa's window at the judge. “What's his name?” Hannah asked.

Judge Baker-Kline hesitated a second too long. “His name is Spot,” she said. “C'mere, Spot,” she called. But the little cocker spaniel ignored her.

“Who wants a treat?” the judge yelled.

This time the dog lifted his head and sniffed in the general direction of the house. “Let's go get a treat!” she suggested, and the cocker spaniel started jogging toward her.

Theresa had been too stunned to move as she watched the scene unfold. But as dog and owner headed up the front steps, she felt like she had to say something.

“Merry Christmas!” Theresa yelled.

The judge turned and looked over her shoulder. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Hammond.” Then she headed inside to get Oliver Wendell Holmes the treat he so richly deserved.