The Judge Who Stole Christmas (23 page)

Jasmine sighed. For some reason, she couldn't quite bring herself to say it. Ajori was closing in, so Jasmine waved her off. This, of course, made Ajori move closer.

“I'm not a coach, Mr. Greenway,” Jasmine said softly, turning her back on her little sister. “There's a big difference between being a player and a coach.”

“You'd do great, Jazz. You were a natural the other night.”

Jasmine started to object, but Ajori was hovering too close for her to say anything else that might give away this conversation. The last thing Jasmine needed was her little sister begging her to do this.

“Tell you what,” Greenway continued. “How about if I have Barker drop some game films off at your mom's. You can watch the tapes of the first few games that you didn't see. You look at the game films tomorrow and ask yourself honestly if you could help this team. The Christmas tournament starts next week, so I'll need your decision by Saturday.”

Jasmine kept one eye on Ajori. How could she phrase this? “What's the alternative?” she asked.

“I talk Barker out of quitting. Or talk Rebecca Arlington into taking over.”

Jasmine closed her eyes. She could outcoach either of them in her sleep. “I'll come pick them up,” she said.

“Pick what up—the tapes?”

“Yeah. Tomorrow. Is there someplace there I could watch them?”

“At the school?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure. There aren't any students here, so I'll set you up in a classroom. Is Ajori listening to your end of this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I get it.”

By now Ajori was giving Jasmine dirty looks. Prime shopping time was slipping away.

“Gotta run,” Jasmine said.

“What time you coming by?” Greenway asked.

“Does nine work?”

“I'll be there.”

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 22

A man who identified himself only as Santana Kringle shuffled toward the judge's bench, head down, hands cuffed behind his back. His long, matted gray bread covered most of his face but couldn't hide the red and bulbous nose, one of many signs that his body had processed enough alcohol for ten men. His hair receded and he wore it straight back, tucking the greasy gray strands behind his ears. His clothes, including a heavy wool coat, were grimy and tattered, faded to the color of the streets. His body odor arrived at the judge's dais a few seconds before Santana himself did.

The prosecutor stood beside him while a marshal loitered a few steps behind.

Judge Cynthia Baker-Kline looked at her docket sheet and smirked when she saw the name. Last month, the day before Thanksgiving, this same man had identified himself as John Pilgrim. “Is this man dangerous?” the judge asked the prosecutor. She was a new member of the U.S. attorney's staff, someone Judge Baker-Kline had seen only a few times before.

“I don't believe so, Your Honor.”

“Then uncuff him.”

As the marshal complied, Santana looked up.

“Good morning, Mr. Kringle.”

“Good morning, Judge.”

“You have the right to an attorney. If you can't afford one—”

“I'll waive it,” Santana said.

“You know where to sign.”

The prosecutor shoved some papers in front of the man, and he scribbled his signature. The prosecutor put the paper in her file and then began reading the charges. “Mr. Kringle is being charged with trespass on government property,” she began. “The steps of this courthouse, Judge. We asked him to leave several times, but he refused.”

“Guilty,” Santana said.

The prosecutor looked stunned. Judge Baker-Kline smiled. “You want two days or three, Mr. Kringle?”

“What's the weather supposed to be like?” the defendant asked.

“Chance of rain or maybe even a little snow tomorrow,” the judge said. “Supposed to warm up some on Christmas. Tuesday should be all the way up to the fifties.”

“I'll stay through Christmas, Judge.”

“Suit yourself.” She banged her gavel. “I find the defendant guilty of trespass on government property and hereby sentence him to three days in the federal holding tank.” She glanced back at the federal marshal. “Make sure he gets a turkey dinner on Monday.”

She had issued the same order on Thanksgiving and on the same two holidays last year. For some reason, making sure that the Norfolk bum had a warm place to spend Thanksgiving and Christmas made her feel as good as any order she entered all year.

Santana smiled, showing rows of yellow teeth. “God bless you, Judge. The homeless shelter is pretty crowded this time of year.”

“Merry Christmas,” Judge Baker-Kline said.

By 11:00 a.m. Jasmine had watched two full games and taken nearly five pages of notes. She sat back in the chair and rubbed her tired eyes. She was getting caught up in this—she couldn't help it. Her sister's team wasn't that bad; certainly much better than their 1–7 record. They had the talent to beat most of these teams. All they needed was a change in philosophy and a little . . .

Stop!
she told herself.
You're a law student, not a basketball coach. What are you even doing here?

She looked at the videotapes on the desk, all labeled with the names of familiar schools. Each brought back memories of a certain gym with its own unique smell and feel, the different chants of the student bodies, the dead spots on the gym floors, silencing the other team's crowd, celebrating with teammates afterward. She wanted Ajori to have those same memories. But even if Jasmine was willing to sacrifice her last semester of law school, could she coach well enough to turn this team around?

One thing was sure, nothing could be worse than Barker.

Her mind wandered to the Hammond case. Everyone expected the appellate court to rule today, and Arginot had promised to call as soon as the opinion came down. If they won, Arginot would blanket the talk shows between now and Christmas morning while Thomas would probably be back out on the square on Christmas Eve. Jasmine allowed herself to linger there for a moment. How sweet would that be? A candlelight Christmas Eve service on the town square.

But if they lost? She couldn't allow herself to dwell on that.

She looked back at the pile of tapes, trying to decide which one to watch next, then smiled as her eyes landed on the tape of
Hoosiers
. It had been included with the other tapes left in this classroom for Jasmine to watch. There was a note attached to it:
I showed this one to the team for inspiration.

That, in a nutshell, was Barker's problem—believing a movie like this would motivate girls today. The movie was about a dysfunctional Indiana high school basketball team from the fifties that nobody believed could win. A new charismatic coach, played by Gene Hackman, moved into town and rallied the team behind him. They ended up winning the state championship, beating teams from schools ten times their size in the process.

Jasmine had seen the movie—what basketball player hadn't?—but she knew it wouldn't motivate high school girls in the twenty-first century. She popped it in for fun, just to laugh at the short shorts with the little belts and the old-school set shots the players used. Jasmine was pretty sure that any half-decent girls' team from Possum's league could beat the team featured in
Hoosiers
. Times had changed . . . for everybody but Coach Barker.

The tape hadn't been rewound, but that was all right. Sure enough, the players all wore their skintight short shorts with long (and very white) legs sticking out the bottom. Tank tops were in, short hair was in, and the girls all wore bobby socks. What nonsense, trying to motivate Ajori's team with this.

Jasmine was now viewing a scene where the head coach in
Hoosiers
tried to get himself tossed out of the game so the assistant coach, a recovering alcoholic, would realize that he could coach all by himself and earn the respect of his son in the process. After a bad call, Hackman's character went toe-to-toe with the ref.

“You're pathetic, you know that?” Hackman yelled.

The ref tried to calm him down, but to no avail. “You're a disgrace to the profession!” Hackman screamed.

Jasmine sat up in her chair and leaned forward.
Pathetic. A disgrace to the profession.
Almost the exact words!

She watched as Hackman edged closer to the referee. “Throw me out,” he said, nearly whispering.

“You're putting me on.”

“Kick me out of the game or I'll start screaming like a mad fool.”

The ref shrugged, said, “I guess you have your reasons,” and tossed the coach out.

“What?” Hackman yelled. “That's ridiculous!” He sulked out of the gym, leaving his assistant to handle the team on his own, discovering in the process that he could actually coach.

Jasmine ejected
Hoosiers
and scrambled for the Franklin High tape. She ran it on fast-forward until she found the place where Barker was ejected. Given the sparse attendance, it was not surprising that the camera picked up most of what Barker had said. “Unbelievable,” she muttered. It was a carbon copy of
Hoosiers
, just with longer shorts worn by girls instead of guys. There was even a segment where Barker leaned in and said something to the ref, just before he got thrown out. Though she couldn't hear it, Jasmine was pretty certain what was said.

She shook her head at the discovery. She couldn't tell from the tape whether Barker had gotten himself thrown out so Rebecca Arlington could coach, or whether he somehow knew that Jasmine would step in. But one thing was clear—Barker intentionally instigated his own ejection as some warped attempt to groom a replacement.

Jasmine wasn't sure what to think as she called Greenway. “Who put these tapes together for me?” she asked.

“Coach Barker, as far as I know. I asked him to pull together the game tapes for your review and place them in that classroom. He didn't sound happy about it, but I think he came in early this morning.”

“Is he still here?”

Greenway scoffed. “Jazz, it's the day before the Christmas weekend. There's nobody here but you, me, and one member of the janitorial crew.”

“Dumb question.” Jasmine thought for a moment. “What does Barker teach?”

“Psychology and sociology,” Greenway replied. She could hear the curiosity in his voice. “Does that matter? We're not asking you to teach.”

“Just checking.” Jasmine heard the telltale beep that indicated another call on her cell. She checked the number. “Can I call you right back?” she asked the principal. “I've got another call I need to take.”

Arginot's name appeared on the screen, and she punched the button to answer. It was hard to even breathe, knowing that he might be calling with the Fourth Circuit's decision. “Hello.”

“The clerk just announced that the Fourth Circuit will issue their opinion at 5:00 p.m. today,” Arginot said. “They're going to post it on their Web site.”

Jasmine relaxed, but only for a second. “That doesn't give us much time to appeal if we lose.”

“Or for the other side if we win,” Arginot responded. “Either way, I'll be ready. I've already investigated the best way to get a petition to the appropriate Supreme Court justice on Saturday if we have to.”

“Good. But let's hope we don't have to.”

They talked for a few more minutes, charting out plans for the worst-case scenario—an emergency appeal to the Supreme Court. It occurred to Jasmine how fortunate she was to still have Arginot involved in the case. At least he was admitted to the Supreme Court bar.

She hung up the phone and began worrying in earnest. The tapes no longer held any appeal.