The Judge Who Stole Christmas (8 page)

The mayor scurried over, and Thomas stepped away from the animals to talk with him.

“We've got a problem,” Frumpkin confided.

Since when does the mayor discuss town problems with me?
Thomas wondered.

“It's Santa Claus.” The mayor motioned with his head toward the St. Nick line—easily the longest on the square. At the moment there was nobody in Santa's chair. “Bo Barton's sick. But he didn't bother telling anyone 'cause he wanted to do this so bad. He's been coughin' and wheezin' all over the kids. 'Bout had a revolt from the parents.”

The mayor glanced around and inched a half step closer. “Then Bo flipped his beets.”

Thomas made a face. “Was a kid sittin' on his lap?”

“Of course,” the mayor said. “But at least Bo had the good sense to turn his head to the side. Said he didn't get a lick of stuff on the kid, but the parents weren't so sure. I know this much, that Santa Claus suit will need a good washin' later.”

“That is a problem,” Thomas offered.

“Bo's a big man,” the mayor continued. “Didn't need no paddin' or anything. And I need somebody who can take his place right away.”

Whoa,
Thomas thought as it dawned on him where this was headed. He started shaking his head. “No way,” he said. “Get one of those dancing lords to do it.”

“They're too skinny, Thomas.”

Thomas tilted his head a little and gave the mayor a skeptical look.

“Okay, they're not exactly skinny. But they've got these soft little guts and skinny legs. But you—you've got real bulk. You're the only guy around here right now who can fill out that suit.”

“I'm Joseph,” Thomas protested.

“I can be Joseph,” the mayor said.

Thomas crossed his arms and shook his head. “Mayor, I want to help ya, but I don't even let my own kids believe in Santa. Christmas is about Jesus, not Santa.”

The mayor sighed in frustration. Thomas felt sorry for the little man, but this was a matter of principle. You didn't ruin a good manger scene just to get a fat Santa.

At that moment, with both men at a loss for what to do next, destiny intervened. They noticed him at the same time—the perfect solution. He was a large man with a wonderfully round belly and, as if he had been preparing for this role his whole life, a long and straggly gray beard!

They spotted him as he wandered toward the Frosty the Snowman display. Thomas raised his eyebrow at the man, and the mayor smiled. “Do you know his name?” Frumpkin asked.

“Nah,” Thomas said. Like most other residents of Possum, he had periodically seen the man roaming the streets in the same tattered clothes; then he would disappear for long periods of time, presumably to roam the streets in the big city of Norfolk. Thomas and his kids had bought the man a sub on a couple of different occasions. Everyone around town called him the Possum bum.

The mayor shrugged and walked toward the guy. “Hey, buddy, you got a second?”

Jasmine had studied all afternoon. By evening she needed a break. Besides, she wanted to see this spectacle for herself. She bumped into the principal of Possum High School next to the fruitcake stand. “Can I ask you a question?” Jasmine asked.

“Sure, Jazz.”

Jasmine looked around. “It's kind of private. Can we step over here for a minute?”

Jasmine pulled the man away from the card tables loaded with an assortment of fruitcakes, destroying the theory that there was really only one fruitcake in the world that just got passed around from one person to the next.

“It's about Coach Barker,” Jasmine began. She shuffled her feet a little, trying to think of an acceptable way to say this.

Jasmine had always liked her high school principal. Her fondest memory of Mr. Greenway was the time he caught Jasmine skipping class. He jettisoned his normally sunny disposition for about fifteen minutes as he raked her over the coals. She had never seen such fire in Greenway's droopy eyes before. When he was done with his lecture, he considered his options out loud. “I could suspend you for tonight's game,” he said. Jasmine remembered how her stomach sank to her knees. “Or I could just call your father and let him know.” Her stomach flipped. “Or I could tell you that you'd better go out and win tonight's game by thirty to make it up to me.”

They won by thirty-five.

“I don't know how to say this diplomatically,” Jasmine continued. “So I won't. Barker's destroying the girls' basketball program.” She watched Greenway's face for a reaction but saw none. Every good principal knows how to keep a poker face. “He humiliates the girls every chance he gets and tries to get them to play this slow-down game. I mean, it's just not good Possum basketball.”

“What do you suggest?” Greenway asked.

“Talk to him.” Since she'd gone this far, Jasmine might as well say what she thought. “If he doesn't change, fire him in midseason. Ajori only gets one senior year, and he's ruining it.”

Greenway pursed his lips. He waited long enough for Jasmine to get uncomfortable—another principal trick. “Who would I get to coach them?” he asked.

The question caught Jasmine a little off guard. She was ready to make a case for Barker's firing, not suggest a new coach. She mentally ran down a list of teachers she still knew at Possum High. Then she thought about the townspeople. “I don't know,” she said at last. “What about Rebecca Arlington?”

Greenway frowned at the suggestion of the assistant coach taking over. “Rebecca didn't even play ball in high school. She's just there so the girls have somebody to talk to. And our JV coach doesn't want to move up.” Greenway hesitated. “I already asked her.”

The implication threw Jasmine further off stride. “You did?”

“Yeah. Barker already tried to quit once.”

What a loser! The guy's not even halfway through his first season as head coach.

“Well, it seems to me that anybody would be better than Barker,” Jasmine offered.

Greenway took a half step closer. “You ever think about coaching, Jazz? You'd be great.”

“You're kidding, I hope.”

“I'm dead serious. The girls would respect you. The town would rally around. Rebecca could stay on as your assistant.”

Jasmine immediately thought of a million reasons it could never work. “I'm in my third year of law school, I've got—”

“Take a semester off,” Greenway suggested.

“It's not that easy. I've got a big offer from a New York law firm, contingent on graduating in May. Besides, I'm not looking for a job. This is about Ajori and her teammates, not me.”

“That's the problem,” Greenway said. “We've just started the season and everybody already thinks Barker ought to go, but nobody has a better solution. Listen, Jazz, your dad put this program on the map. How great would it be if his daughter came back and rebuilt it?”

“Barker just needs someone to hold him accountable,” Jasmine retorted. She wanted to help her little sister, but she had no desire to step back in time and return to Possum as a girls' basketball coach. She was going to be a lawyer now. A good one. Why couldn't people understand that?

“I hear you,” Mr. Greenway said. “But at least you can understand some of the challenges I'm facing. It's hard to hold a guy accountable when he doesn't even want the job in the first place.”

“That's why you get paid the big bucks,” Jasmine said, thinking about how much more she would make in her first year than Mr. Greenway was making after thirty or forty years of experience. Certainly much more than she would ever make as a basketball coach.

But it wasn't about the money, she assured herself. It was about breaking out and becoming successful in the real world. It was about facing the challenges of New York City. And besides, she wasn't sure Ajori would listen to her even if Jasmine did coach. She had a great relationship with her little sister. Why jeopardize that?

“Think about it,” Greenway said. “But keep this conversation confidential.”

“I will.”

“You can't share it with anyone—not even Ajori.”

“I know.”

Six-year-old John Paul Hammond, nicknamed “Tiger” by his parents for obvious reasons, had slipped away from the loose babysitting of his mom's cousin and raced around the Possum town square on a candy-cane sugar high. He eventually snuck his way into the Santa line, stealing nervous glances in the direction of his parents to make sure they weren't looking.

Though the line took forever, Tiger hung in there and waited his turn. When he finally got to the front of the line, he took one final glance at the manger scene and a quick look around for his babysitter. The coast was still clear. The little baby who had been in line ahead of Tiger was now sitting on Santa's lap, refusing to look at the mom trying to take a picture. Suddenly the baby began to howl as if Santa had tortured her, and Santa immediately handed the kid back to her mom.

Tiger scurried up and jumped on Santa's lap. “Are you real?” Tiger whispered. Santa sure smelled real, at least as real as the manger animals after a good rain.

“Ho, ho, ho,” Santa mumbled as if he were tired of hearing his own voice.

Tiger decided to give the beard a little tug as a quick test.

“Ouch,” Santa said, this time with a little more energy. “You better watch it, young man, or I'll put you on the naughty list.”

Whew. That must mean I'm on the nice list for now.
“Sorry,” Tiger said.

“Just don't let it happen again,” Santa warned. “Now what's your name, little man?”

“Tiger.”

“I should have known,” Santa said. “You been good, Tiger?”

This was a tricky question. Tiger didn't want to fib, but the truth could mean coal in his stocking. “Kinda.”

“Well,” Santa said, and Tiger found himself turning his head a little to the side, so Santa's bad breath didn't blow right into Tiger's nose, “you give any money or food to homeless people this year?”

Tiger scrunched his little brow, trying to remember. “I think so, Santa.”

“Good, then you're on my good-boy list. Now whadya want for Christmas?”

That was easy. Tiger leaned forward so he could whisper in Santa's ear. He knew that this would be the ultimate test of whether Santa was real. Tiger's mommy and daddy, who claimed to be the ones who bought all the presents, would never get him this.

“Mmm,” Santa said. “I'll see what I can do.”

“Really?” Tiger asked.

“Has Santa ever lied to you before?”

Tiger didn't have to think long on this one. He'd never even talked to Santa before. Thankfully, he'd never had to smell the old guy before, either.

“Nope.”

“Good, then he's not going to start now.”

His task complete, Tiger started to climb down from Santa's lap, but Santa held on to him for a moment. “You know what the real meaning of Christmas is?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Tiger said, grateful for such an easy question. His daddy had drilled this into Tiger every night for the last week. “That Jesus came down to earth 'cause He loved us.”

“And?”

Tiger hunched his shoulders. That was it, as far as he knew.

“And was born in a manger because there was no room for Him in the inn,” Santa said, spewing his stinky breath everywhere.

Oh yeah,
Tiger thought.
Now can I get down?

“So it's really about homelessness,” Santa continued. “Jesus was homeless, and He wants us to give gifts to the homeless.”

Wow.
Tiger wrapped his mind around the idea.
I never thought of that.