The Judge Who Stole Christmas Read Online Free Page A

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.
    â€œThe town does,” the mayor responded in his high-pitched voice. “But Freewill Baptist Church maintains the manger scene.”
    â€œDo you charge Freewill Baptist Church any rent for the portion of the square where the manger scene sits?”
    â€œNo, 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 .
    â€œAnd where might you attend church, Mr. Frumpkin?” Ichabod leaned into the question, and the mayor’s eyes went wide.
    â€œCan she do that?” Thomas whispered to Jasmine. Jasmine just nodded.
    A few seconds of silence followed as if the Munchkin Mayor had just been exposed in some mortal sin.
    â€œDo you understand the question?” Ichabod scowled.
    â€œYes, Your Honor.”
    â€œWell?”
    â€œI attend Freewill Baptist Church of Possum.”
    Ichabod made a check mark on her legal pad. She turned to Harrod. “The town council resolution authorizing a manger scene in the Possum town square for the holiday season—what exhibit number was that?”
    â€œExhibit 9, Your Honor.”
    â€œPlease look at Exhibit 9,” Ichabod instructed Mayor Frumpkin, “and tell me what that resolution says about who will maintain this manger scene on behalf of the city.”
    Bert Frumpkin pulled the exhibit out of the stack of papers in front of him, handling it carefully like the snake it had become. He took his time reading it, licking his lips a couple of times in the process.
    â€œIt doesn’t say anything?” he finally responded.
    To Jasmine, the mayor’s answer sounded like a question, the way kids guess at an answer in class when they don’t know, hoping the teacher might accept their humble offering.
    â€œThen whose idea was it to delegate this responsibility to the good folks at Freewill Baptist Church?”
    Frumpkin hesitated. “I’m not 100 percent sure.”
    This brought a glare from Ichabod that lowered