The Judge Who Stole Christmas Page 2

  Jasmine gave the man a quizzical look. “We still lost by five,” she said.

  “Yeah, but the spread in Vegas was six,” Payne shot back. “Your shot put ten thousand bucks into my grandkids’ college fund.”

  Jasmine resisted a smile. She immediately liked this guy, though he seemed more like an old gym rat than a distinguished partner in a big New York firm.

  “Six points,” Payne continued, shaking his head at the absurdity of it. “Tennessee might have had Pat Summitt stalking the sidelines, but ODU had Jazz Woodfaulk on the court!”

  He patted the outside of her arm, and Jasmine was starting to get a little embarrassed by this stroll down memory lane. The 2001 NCAA Finals, though her team had lost, was still the pinnacle of an up-and-down basketball career that ended a year later with her third knee injury—a torn ACL. Jasmine was now in her third year of law school, and basketball seemed like a whole other life. Though she loved Pearson Payne’s enthusiasm, she wanted to be taken seriously as a prospective lawyer, not as a former hoops star.

  “Have a seat,” Payne said.

  “Thanks.” Jasmine settled her six-two frame into one of the brown leather chairs in front of Payne’s desk. She smoothed her black pin-striped skirt and crossed her legs. Payne slid onto the front of the desk, one leg on the floor, the other dangling off the desk. He was every bit as tall as Jasmine—maybe an inch or two taller—rail-thin and full of explosive energy. He wore suspenders and a red bow tie, accentuating his reputation as a free spirit in a place that valued conformity. Though Jasmine knew Payne was fifty-five years old, she would never have guessed it. He had a perfect head of gray hair, an impressive tan for the first week of December, and the sharp facial lines of a much younger man. Do senior partners in New York law firms get face-lifts? Jasmine wondered.

  “How’s the knee?” he asked.

  “It feels great,” Jasmine said. She wanted to turn the conversation away from old basketball injuries to the issue at hand—a job offer. “Once those old cadaver ligaments got used to hauling my frame around, I started feeling great.”

  Payne glanced at the knee and smiled. “The bionic woman.”

  “Not hardly,” Jasmine replied. The knee had kept her from going pro, and they both knew it.

  Payne grabbed Jasmine’s résumé from his desk—finally—and perused it while Jasmine felt her palms start to sweat. She was sitting in front of the chief outside legal counsel for the New York Times. He had argued in front of the U.S. Supreme Court—what?—fifteen, twenty times. It seemed like half the First Amendment cases in Jasmine’s con-law book had Pearson Payne listed as attorney of record.

  “Tell me a little about Regent,” Payne said, looking up at her. Jasmine thought she could detect the slightest hint of skepticism in his voice. She knew that in this firm, filled with Jewish lawyers and outspoken agnostics like Payne, all representing a bevy of liberal New York media clients, she should downplay the Christian and conservative aspects of her Virginia Beach law school.

  “It’s the Yale of the South,” she replied, bringing a smirk to Payne’s face. She had checked out his alma mater before she flew north for this interview. “In fact, we finished ahead of Yale in this year’s moot court tournament.” It was a not-so-veiled reference to the second-place finish in the national competition that Jasmine had featured prominently on her résumé.

  “I see that,” Payne said. “Congratulations.” Jasmine nodded. “Looks like you’ve got a knack for second place,” he quipped.

  “Bad judging in the finals,” Jasmine countered. She recrossed her legs. “Kind of like New York v. Clarke.”

  Payne didn’t blink at the reference to his latest Supreme Court case—one he had lost by a five-four vote. “Touché,” he said. “Sometimes those judges don’t recognize brilliance when it’s standing in front of them.”

  “My point exactly.”

  They talked a few more minutes about Regent, where Jasmine ranked second in her class, and about Payne’s multifaceted legal practice. Eventually Payne invited her to join him at the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the outer walls of the office. They offered a spectacular view of Rockefeller Center. Jasmine could see, across the plaza, the studios for NBC’s Today show, the Rockefeller Center ice-skating rink, the angels that lined the walkway to the plaza, and the eighty-foot-tall Norway spruce that had been chosen as this year’s Christmas tree. She was trying hard not to be impressed, but for a girl from Possum, Virginia, it was not easy.

  “Thirty thousand bulbs on that baby,” Pearson Payne said, pointing down to the Christmas tree. Though the tree was enormous, its top was still a good twenty stories below Payne’s office. “The star on top is ten feet high.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Jasmine said. The view was breathtaking. She wondered if Payne ever got used to it.

  “Mmm,” Pearson replied. Then he turned to Jasmine as if reading her mind. “It’s a great view, but we don’t get much time to enjoy it. Eighty-hour weeks, incredible pressure, demanding clients.” He paused and Jasmine nodded. She knew all this. “Why do you want to work here?” he asked, crossing his arms.

  The bluntness of the question threw Jasmine off stride for a moment. But the man seemed to like the no-nonsense approach, so Jasmine decided to throw it back at him.

  “I love constitutional law,” she said. “Especially the First Amendment. And someday I want to sit on the Supreme Court.” She watched Pearson’s face carefully but detected no hint of disapproval or surprise. “For that, I need to work at a firm that argues the cases everyone else is talking about.”

  Pearson nodded. “And?”

  Jasmine searched his eyes. What was he hinting at? And . . . what?

  Clueless, she said the first thing that came to her mind. “And the money’s not bad.” For proper etiquette, she left the precise amount—$115,000 as a first-year associate—unsaid.

  Payne smiled. “Exactly. I never hire anyone who is too dishonest to admit that money’s a factor.” He checked his watch.

  It was nearly lunchtime, so Jasmine prepared herself for the next step in the interview dance—a power lunch. Her class standing and minority status had landed her several big firm interviews, though this was her first in New York City, and by now she knew the drill. Swanky restaurants and a ninety-minute lunch, as if lawyers took that much time every day. A high-profile partner like Payne would come along to make her feel important. It was a carefully choreographed performance, part interview and part recruiting. If the firm liked you, they would drop a job offer on you right after lunch. If not, they’d talk about how firm policy required that they run all candidates through their recruiting committee. They would promise to call you once you got back to school. A week or so later, you’d get a rejection letter in the mail.

  Lunch was a big deal, and Jasmine was ready to graciously accept Payne’s invitation.

  “You bring any workout clothes with you?” Payne asked.

  Huh? “Back at the hotel.”

  “Perfect!” Payne’s eyes lit up. “Why don’t I have Andre get a cab and escort you back there, then take you to the Downtown Athletic Club. I usually shoot a few hoops with some guys over lunch and then grab a pretzel or hot dog on the way back to the office. You in?”

  “Sure,” Jasmine said, faking enthusiasm. The thought of rubbing sweaty bodies with a bunch of out-of-shape old white guys was not exactly her idea of fun.

  “It sure beats sitting around and drinking martinis,” Payne said.

  But Jasmine wasn’t so sure.

  Nearly an hour later, Jasmine was fed up. It had all started innocently enough. She and Pearson had been playing a friendly game of one-on-one in the stuffy little half-court gym at the athletic club. She even let the old guy score a few times. He wasn’t half-bad, considering his age, though his feet barely left the floor on his “jumper.” Jasmine resisted the urge to block every shot.

  Then the pair from hell showed up.

  The big guy, who introduced himself as David, wa
s a real beast. About six-four and two-forty, the Beast had a bald head, hairy back, and sweat glands that started pouring out gallons of slimy perspiration two minutes into the game. By the end of game one, the Beast’s shirt was soaked through, and sweat came flying off his head and back whenever he pivoted. Jasmine figured the Beast was somewhere in his forties, an old-school ballplayer who took himself entirely too seriously. His partner, a little guy called “Scooter,” was probably fifteen years younger and fast as lightning. He handled the ball pretty well, and Jasmine guessed he had played some in high school, maybe even college.

  The first game went smoothly, with Jasmine scorching the men from the outside as Payne smiled and ribbed the boys about getting beat by an old man and his “daughter.” In game two, however, the Beast decided to get physical, taking Jasmine down on the blocks for a punishing game that resembled football more than basketball. The good-natured banter stopped, the pushing increased, and Jasmine and Payne got clobbered.

  “Rubber match?” Pearson asked.

  “Of course,” the Beast snorted.

  Game three was worse than the second game, in part because Jasmine was tired of backing down. It got particularly bad when Jasmine blocked one of the Beast’s patented little hook shots.

  “Whoa!” said Pearson, who didn’t know when to shut up. “You blocked that baby into next week.”

  Jasmine gave her teammate a dirty look. He might be “the man” in a courtroom, but out here on the hardwood, he had to learn to let his playing do the talking.

  Pearson’s trash talking inspired the Beast to take the pushing and shoving to a whole new level, making life even more miserable for Jasmine. Two Beast elbows and one lowered shoulder later, Jasmine’s competitive instincts took over.

  She posted herself low on the blocks, established a broad base, and held out her hand for the ball. As usual, the Beast leaned into Jasmine from behind, his elbow planted firmly in her back. Miraculously, Pearson managed to slide a bounce pass around the outstretched fingers of Scooter and into Jasmine’s waiting hands. The last time she had the ball in this position, she simply took a quick step away from the Beast and swished a turnaround jump shot. She knew he expected that same move again. Instead, she gave him a head and shoulder fake that the Beast bit with every ounce of his 240-pound frame, hurling his body into the air to block her shot.

  She had done this a thousand times, though she couldn’t remember doing it on anyone quite so heavy before. Just as the Beast jumped, Jasmine dropped her shoulder and stepped hard toward the basket, going up and under the Beast, who rolled off Jasmine’s back and landed with a thud on the floor.

  The ball banked through. Jasmine thought she heard something snap as the Beast hit the deck behind her. She turned to see the Beast curled on the floor, holding his right elbow, while Pearson and Scooter walked to where he was lying. For a moment nobody spoke, and the only sound in the gym was the heavy breathing of the players and the echo of the ball as it bounced, then rolled to a stop.

  Jasmine didn’t move. She hadn’t meant to hurt anyone. And now this out-of-shape, middle-aged white guy was lying on the floor with what might be a broken elbow, all because she couldn’t keep her competitive instincts in check. Payne shot her a reproving look, and Jasmine figured she could kiss this job good-bye.

  “You okay?” Payne asked the Beast, extending a hand.

  The Beast reached out his left hand and rose to his feet, shaking his head. “I guess so,” he said, glancing at Jasmine. He straightened and bent his right arm a few times. “I don’t think it’s broken.”

  “Sorry about that,” Jasmine said, though she didn’t really feel sorry. She was glad that the brute’s arm wasn’t broken, but maybe this would teach him a lesson.

  “Don’t worry about it,” the Beast replied, sweat dripping from his chin. He smiled and extended his right hand to shake Jasmine’s. “I say we hire Jazz,” the Beast said to Pearson.

  “Me too,” Scooter said, as Jasmine’s jaw dropped in disbelief.

  She looked from one conspirator to the next.

  “I’ve always said you could learn more about a candidate in one game of basketball, golf, or tennis than you could in two days of interviews,” Payne said. “That’s why I always bring prospects to the gym or take them to the golf course.” The old man broke into a full-fledged grin. “I want you to meet David Borden, one of my junior partners, and Scooter McCray, a senior associate.” All three men were smiling.

  “Based on today’s performance,” Pearson continued, “I think we’d rather have you with us than against us.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” the Beast said. And Jasmine knew that this time he wasn’t putting her on.

  Later that night, after Jasmine returned to her room at the downtown Hilton, she plugged her laptop into the hotel’s broadband connection and accessed her e-mail. She was floating with the excitement of an offer from a major New York firm, news too wonderful to keep to herself. She sent a couple of e-mails to some law school friends, discreetly mentioning the offer from Gold, Franks. For the sake of modesty, she left out the precise amount of the salary, though she was pretty sure her friends already knew the ballpark for starting associates in New York mega-firms.

  She also instant-messaged her little sister, a senior at Possum High, to tell her the good news. Ajori, too young to be worried about proper etiquette, instantly sent a return message marked by a teenager’s enthusiasm: You rock! How much?

  Jasmine smiled as she typed in her reply: $115,000 plus a signing bonus. She waited less than five seconds for Ajori’s flashing response.

  R U serious!!!! Can I get a loan????

  No way, Jasmine typed back. You’ve got lousy credit.

  While she continued the dialogue with her kid sister, Jasmine pulled up the Gold, Franks Web site and opened her in-box from school. Interspersed with the usual spam and forwarded messages from friends was an e-mail from the Regent professor who ran the school’s legal aid clinic—Charles Arnold, legendary for his demanding teaching style and the street preaching he did on the Virginia Beach boardwalk. She opened it immediately.

  Given the fact that you missed your rotation the last two weeks at the legal aid clinic, I have taken the liberty of assigning you a few indigent clients in need of representation. You can go by the clinic and pick up the case files this weekend. However, there is some urgency on one particular matter.

  A former client of mine named Thomas Hammond has been subpoenaed for a federal court injunction hearing on Monday morning. He’s not a named defendant but is a key witness in the case brought by the ACLU. I thought you might be interested since the issue is whether a crèche can be displayed in the town square of your hometown (Thomas is one of the live “Josephs” in the manger scene). He could use a lawyer to go with him and prepare him to testify. His home phone number is 757-432-0056. He doesn’t have a cell phone.

  You can appear under the usual third-year practice rules. If for some reason you need to address the court, the town attorney has agreed to serve as your “supervising” attorney for the day.

  Have fun. And by the way, you might want to read Lynch v. Donnelly and Allegheny County v. ACLU before you go.

  The legal aid clinic. It had seemed like such a good idea at the start of the semester. But her law firm interviews had caused her to miss a few rotations, and now, with the holidays and final exams approaching, she really didn’t have time to fool with the likes of Thomas Hammond, a name that didn’t ring any bells. She thought about her family’s annual pilgrimage to the town square and the live manger scene. Why couldn’t the ACLU just let the residents of Possum celebrate Christmas the way they always had?

  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 an
d 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.