The Judge Who Stole Christmas Page 6

  “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.

  The night was nearly over by the time Vince Harrod approached Thomas Hammond with another subpoena. Thomas took the document, stared at Harrod with thinly veiled contempt, then finally looked at the papers in his hand. This time the subpoena required Thomas to attend court on Monday, December 11, at 9 a.m. in Judge Cynthia Baker-Kline’s courtroom.

  “You know the drill,” Harrod said.

  “I sure do,” Thomas replied as he turned to survey the manger area for sheep droppings.

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 11

  Thomas sat stiffly in the front row of the courtroom. This was a travesty! First, Harrod had examined Mayor Frumpkin for nearly an hour. Now the judge was taking her turn pummeling the poor man. And all the while the town’s attorney just sat there, scribbling notes on a legal pad, not even looking at the witness.

  Thomas wished that Jasmine could be here—at least she would say something! But she had a final exam this morning that she couldn’t get moved, leaving Ottmeyer to fend for himself.

  “So you’re saying that this was just a secular holiday display about Christmas and not an attempt to get around my earlier ruling?” Ichabod leaned toward the witness.

  Frumpkin shifted in his seat. “Judge, we weren’t trying to get around your earlier ruling—we were trying to comply with it. I mean, the sign didn’t even say, ‘The History and Traditions of Christmas.’ It said, ‘The History and Traditions of Xmas.’”

  Ichabod frowned. “The easiest way to comply with my ruling is to keep the crèche off the town square.” She let out a sigh as if she detested where this case was taking her. “Who was the architect of Operation Xmas Spirit?” she asked. Under questioning from Harrod, Ottmeyer had referred to his scheme as Operation Xmas Spirit rather than Operation Christmas Spirit.

  “I was.”

  “In putting together the plan for this celebration, did you happen to read the Supreme Court’s opinion on the Ten Commandments cases handed down just this summer?”

  Frumpkin’s hesitation told Thomas that the mayor had indeed read it. But like many politicians, Frumpkin wasn’t about to let the facts stand in his way. “No, Your Honor.”

  “Then you may be interested to know that in the case of McCreary v. ACLU, one of the things the Court considered was the history of the Ten Commandments display and whether it demonstrated an improper religious purpose by the county officials. In that case, the county first hung just a framed copy of the Ten Commandments on a courthouse wall all by itself and only later, after the display was challenged by the ACLU, did they add other historical documents like the Magna Carta. That’s what you’ve done here—tried to camouflage a religious display by adding secular elements to it. And in this case—with a live manger scene and the potential for proselytizing still there—it also remains a fundamentally religious display, doesn’t it?”

  Frumpkin made a face as if the argument had never occurred to him. “With all due respect, Your Honor, I have to disagree. This was just a straight-up display of history and traditions.”

  “Was it?”

  Frumpkin squirmed for a moment but then rallied. After all, he knew where the voters stood on this issue. “That’s all it was, Judge. A fair and balanced view of the history and traditions of the holiday.”

  “I see.” Ichabod leaned back in her chair and reviewed some notes. The silence hung like a guillotine over the courtroom.

  “Well then, it would be important for the display to accurately reflect the holiday traditions and history. So let’s start with this question: how far back did you go?”

  “Huh?”

  “How far back did you trace the history of Christmas? Who did your historical research?”

  Frumpkin twitched his nose at the question. He took a quick drink. “We went back hundreds of years, Judge. To a time when Christmas wasn’t commercialized like it is today. And I guess I was pretty much the one doing the research.”

  “I see.”

  This time Frumpkin waited through the silence, though he squirmed so much he reminded Thomas of fishing, the way a worm would wiggle around as you skewered it with the hook.

  “So you were aware that the church first began celebrating Christmas on December 25 in reaction to the Roman pagan festival honoring Saturn, the god of peace and plenty?” Ichabod eyed the silent witness with amusement. “And I’m sure you were aware that the Roman holiday called Saturnalia was one of the most pagan and debased celebrations ever imagined.”

  “I’m not really up to speed on Saturnalia,” Frumpkin admitted. “When I said ‘history,’ I was actually referring to as far back as the colonial time frame.”

  “Oh,” Ichabod replied. “Then I’m sure you had a display someplace on the square commemorating the fact that the Puritans banned any celebration of Christmas when they landed in the New World in the 1600s. As you know, anyone caught celebrating Christmas in the New England colonies would be subject to arrest and fines.”

  “Um . . . I didn’t happen to run across that one law by the Puritans.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t just one law.” Ichabod had a look of smug satisfaction on her face that was driving Thomas nuts. “You see, Mayor Frumpkin, similar laws were passed throughout the colonies, and Christmas wasn’t celebrated until the Revolutionary War. You know why?”

  “My research didn’t exactly reveal why.”

  “Because the celebration of Christmas by Christians in Europe had become almost as bad as the celebration of Saturnalia by the Romans. And the Puritans didn’t want any part of it. Take for example, Christmas carolers. Did you have any of those in your town square celebration?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Well, that tradition is centuries old. In England during the days of King Charles, drunken mobs would roam the streets in a tradition that was a cross between Halloween and Mardi Gras. These mobs would bang on the doors of the houses of aristocrats and demand food, drink, and money. If they didn’t get it, they would loot these nice homes and carry away everything inside.”

  Frumpkin’s eyes were wide with amazement. This was obviously not the type of history he had in mind.

  “My law clerk researched all this,” Ichabod continued. “It’s publicly available on the Internet.”

  Thomas had always hated the evil Internet for a number of reasons. Now he had one more.

  “The song ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’ originated during this era. Mobs would go from rich house to rich house and sing ‘so bring us some figgy pudding.’ Then they would follow it with a threat: ‘We won’t go until we get some . . . so bring some out here!’ Did you realize that, Mr. Frumpkin?”

  By now nobody in the courtroom was surprised when Frumpkin simply shook his head.

  “And did you know that as late a
s 1828, in New York City, they had to hire a whole additional police force to guard against Christmas looters on December 25?”

  “No,” Frumpkin answered. “But that doesn’t surprise me. After all, New York City is New York City.”

  Got that right, Thomas thought.

  “And also,” Ichabod said, undeterred, “let me ask you a few questions about your use of the term Xmas.”

  “Okay.” Frumpkin scooted a little forward in his seat as if he was finally on solid ground.

  “Do you know why that term is used?”

  “Yeah. Retailers and such decided that they couldn’t use the name of Christ anymore because it wasn’t politically correct.”

  Ichabod studied Frumpkin for a moment, sizing him up. “Yes, but do you know where the word Xmas originated?”

  Frumpkin scrunched his face and thought. It seemed to Thomas that the little mayor was growing weary of admitting his ignorance. “Sure,” he said. Though he didn’t offer any details.

  “Then you know,” Ichabod said, “that it actually originated with the Greek followers of Christ during the time of Roman persecution. The Greek word for the name of Christ is X-R-I-S-T-O-S. Like the symbol of the fish, the letter X became a powerful symbol for the early Greek Christians, especially Christians being persecuted for their faith. The letter X would often be used to mark the spot where a martyr died. So when Christmas celebrations started in this country, the use of the term Xmas served as a powerful reminder of both the birth of Christ and the martyrs who paid the ultimate price in the first century to spread the faith.”

  “Interesting,” Frumpkin said.

  “So you see, Mr. Frumpkin, even the use of Xmas on the sign at the front of the square could lead a reasonable judge to conclude that you were just using an ancient symbol of the Christian faith as a way to trick me into thinking you had secularized the celebration.”

  A reasonable judge, Thomas thought. Wonder where we could find one of those?

  Thomas had the urge to stand up and tell this judge a thing or two. Though he didn’t know much about court proceedings, he was pretty sure that Harrod wouldn’t be calling him as a witness today. Frumpkin had already given away the farm, and Harrod wouldn’t need Thomas. He was equally sure that Ottmeyer wouldn’t be calling him to testify, since Ottmeyer looked like he just wanted to get out of the courtroom as soon as possible.

  So, Thomas reasoned, his only chance to be heard, his only chance to say how utterly ridiculous this all was, would be if he stood up right now and spoke his mind. What could they do to him—throw him in jail?

  Then another thought hit him. Something more effective. More controversial. The judge had inspired him with her little speech about Christian martyrs. It’s about time somebody stood up to our own government, Thomas thought.

  It’s about time to put the X back in Xmas.

  Jasmine left her exam and headed straight for her apartment, calling Ottmeyer’s cell phone on the way. She left a message with the town attorney and another on the Hammonds’ home answering machine. While driving, she flipped from one radio station to another but couldn’t find anything about the hearing. It was driving her crazy not to know.

  She grabbed the remote as soon as she got inside her apartment and started flipping through the channels before even removing her winter coat. The noon news had just started and the nice-looking brunette on channel 3 led off with the manger story.

  “In a controversial ruling issued just minutes ago, Judge Cynthia Baker-Kline deemed another holiday display on the Possum town square unconstitutional. Her ruling has infuriated conservative activists, who claim that Baker-Kline has ignored controlling Supreme Court precedent and distorted the very history of Christmas.”

  Wording from the Court’s opinion suddenly filled the screen as the anchor read along. “‘The Puritans outlawed Christmas celebrations because they thought the birth of Christ was too sacred an event to be associated with such a secular celebration,’ Judge Baker-Kline wrote. ‘Likewise, I am convinced that Christmas is, by definition, a religious holiday celebrating the nativity of Christ. I also find that the Possum town square celebration in question, though it had many secular trimmings, was still a religious display on public property. Like the Puritans, I find myself constrained to rule it illegal.’”

  The news then flashed to video footage of Pete Winkle soliciting signatures for his Impeach the Judge petition. “It’s judicial tyranny plain and simple,” Winkle was saying. “And I don’t care what the Puritans did.”

  Five minutes later Theresa Hammond called and confirmed that things were every bit as bleak as the television news made them out to be. “You’ve got to talk with Thomas,” she said. “He said he’s not going to take the court’s ruling lying down.”

  TUESDAY NIGHT, DECEMBER 12

  Thomas arrived at the town square while it was still light. The night before, he and Theresa had been up until two in the morning tracing and cutting life-size manger figures out of plywood. Though Theresa hadn’t been happy about it, she had done a wonderful job painting the donkey, the sheep, the ox, the shepherd, and of course, the Virgin Mary. In Thomas’s opinion, the Virgin Mary looked a little bit like one of Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters, but other than that, the figures were easily recognizable. Besides, Scripture never said that Mary was easy on the eyes.

  He carted the plywood figures out of his truck and attached wooden bases made of two-by-fours in the shape of an X. As he hauled the figures over to his usual spot on the square, carrying two at a time, the shepherd slipped from Thomas’s grasp and landed on the hard ground right on the crook of the shepherd’s staff, snapping the plywood at a particularly thin point. Fortunately, Thomas had a few rolls of duct tape kicking around in the back of his truck, and it didn’t take him any time at all to fix the staff.

  Around 5:30, just as darkness was falling, Thomas placed Bebo in the makeshift straw-lined cradle that he had built out of old two-by-fours and leftover pieces of plywood. He turned on the spotlight that he had hooked up to a Walmart car battery and took his place next to the plywood Mary.

  A few folks who had watched him assemble his set told him how nice it looked. For some reason, they hung around after Thomas turned on the spotlight, perhaps waiting to see if he might be thrown in jail. Soon they were joined by a few other passersby. As folks gathered, many would tell him what a great idea this was. Others would remark about how this would really show that federal judge a thing or two. The townsfolk snapped pictures as if the manger scene were a national monument.

  “You got a permit for that?” one of the men asked.

  “Do you even need a permit?” someone else inquired.

  “I’d just hate to see that judge get him on a technicality,” the first guy said.

  “Did Mary and Joseph have a permit?” Thomas asked. Since nobody seemed to have an answer, that was the end of the discussion.

  Cell phone lines in Possum started buzzing, and word spread quickly. Soon the crowd had grown to nearly a hundred folks. Someone started singing “Away in a Manger,” and the entire group of onlookers joined in. After a few more phone calls, an entrepreneurial villager arrived with a card table, a pot of hot apple cider, and a hundred Styrofoam cups. He sold the cider for a buck a cup so he didn’t have to make change.

  Eventually the mayor himself joined the throng and started singing, shaking hands, and patting the heads of children as he worked the crowd. Somebody mentioned the permit issue, and the mayor disappeared into his nearby office. Fifteen minutes later he emerged with a slip of paper and a megaphone. During a break in the caroling, he stepped out in front of the crowd.

  “I’ve just been on the phone with Mr. Ottmeyer,” he said into the megaphone. “And the town attorney wanted me to make a few things clear.” Some scattered moans drifted forward. “First of all, the Town of Possum did not request this display, fund this display, or even know about this display. But he also reminded me that this is a town square, a quintessential public forum�
�” the mayor couldn’t help but grin a little at the enormous word that Ottmeyer had given him—“and that we would be on shaky legal ground if we tried to keep Mr. Hammond from celebrating a national holiday with this peaceful little display of his. I’ve therefore taken it upon myself to grant him a permit to display his manger scene at all times between the hours of 6:00 p.m. and midnight from now until December 25.”

  Frumpkin turned and handed the paper to Thomas while the crowd cheered. Someone yelled for a speech as if they really expected Thomas to say something into the megaphone. Soon others joined in the chant, and Thomas realized that he had no choice.

  He took the megaphone from the mayor. “Thanks,” he said. “Thanks to all of y’all.” Then he handed the megaphone back to the mayor, and the crowd roared wildly. Someone broke into a rendition of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” and others followed along, though most mumbled through a fair amount of forgotten words. This led to another round of singing as more people continued to pour onto the square.

  The crowd ebbed and the hot cider flowed for nearly three hours. People formed a line to come forward and pass before the straw manger. It seemed to Thomas that the Virgin Mary was smiling.

  She continued to smile until nearly nine o’clock. “I reckon I better shut down for tonight,” Thomas announced. The crowd had died down, and there was no longer a line. “I’ll be back out here tomorrow night.”

  Vince Harrod stepped forward, huddled into his long overcoat as if he were some kind of secret agent who had been hiding in the crowd. He handed Thomas a typed piece of paper. Apparently his cell phone had been busy too. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he said.

  WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 13

  Theresa didn’t wait for the alarm to go off at 5:30 before she crawled out of bed and padded to the kitchen. She hadn’t been this tired since the first few colicky weeks of little Elizabeth’s life—a nonstop screamfest that deprived Theresa of sleep and nearly her sanity. Last night she had been kept awake not by Elizabeth but by worries about today’s court hearing and the way things were escalating out of control. Thomas, on the other hand, slept soundly, snoring as loud as ever. Twice she woke him up, supposedly to stop his snoring. “Thomas, can you roll over on your side, please?” Secretly she hoped he would wake up enough for them to discuss this situation.