The Judge Who Stole Christmas Read Online Free Page B

the temperature in the courtroom five degrees.
    â€œBut it might’ve been mine,” Frumpkin added.
    â€œWhat a coincidence,” Ichabod mumbled, which brought a smattering of chuckles from the reporters present.
    She looked over the top of her glasses at the poor Possum mayor. “Did you ever consider asking Muslims to hold an Iftar on the Possum town square to celebrate the ending of their Ramadan fast or a Jewish rabbi to erect a menorah during Hanukkah?”
    Frumpkin squirmed a little in his seat, and Jasmine could see the confusion in his eyes. Even she didn’t know what an Iftar was—so there was no chance the mayor would.
    â€œNo,” Frumpkin said, “but they’re not national holidays either.”
    â€œThat’s right,” Thomas whispered.
    â€œHarrumph,” Ichabod said.
    She stared at the back wall for a second, then turned again to the witness. “Speaking of national holidays, Mr. Frumpkin, what did you do in your town square to celebrate Martin Luther King Day?”
    â€œWhat’s that got to do with anything?” Thomas wondered, loud enough so Jasmine could hear.
    â€œNothin’ in particular this year,” Frumpkin said.
    â€œAnd in past years?”
    â€œActually, not much then either.”
    Jasmine winced at the implications. This case would not be good publicity for her hometown. The press would characterize Possum as Redneck City, USA.
    â€œThat’s all the questions I have for this witness,” Ichabod said, making one final check mark on her pad.
    â€œFor its next witness, the plaintiff calls Mr. Thomas Hammond,” Harrod said.

Jasmine watched helplessly as Vince Harrod fired questions at Thomas Hammond for thirty minutes. In all the trials she had watched as a law firm clerk, she had never seen a witness look so ill at ease. The big man reminded her of Shrek—squeezing into the witness chair with the wide-eyed wonderment of an innocent ogre about to be swindled by a crafty foe. Even his worn white shirt and blue blazer seemed two sizes too small. He left the top button of his shirt unbuttoned, relying on his tie to pull the collar somewhat together. Jazz decided that Walmart shirts were not designed for necks as thick as Thomas’s.
    Jasmine couldn’t object to the questions because Thomas was not a party, just a witness, and therefore she wasn’t an attorney of record in the case. The objections, such as they were, were being interposed by the Possum town attorney, Arnold Ottmeyer, a stooped and aging man who didn’t appear to have much enthusiasm for protecting the witness. When he did object, rising slowly to his feet and raising his arm partway toward the judge like an orchestra conductor with an imaginary baton, it was too late to help the beleaguered witness.
    â€œMr. Hammond has already answered the question,” Ichabod would say. “Objection overruled.”
    Thomas testified that he saw his role in the live Nativity scene as a ministry. He and Theresa would take every opportunity to pray with those who came to visit or talk to them about “the true meaning of Christmas.”
    â€œDid the town attorney or anyone else associated with the town ever tell you what you could or could not say to visitors?” Harrod asked.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDid it ever occur to you that you were acting as a representative of the Town of Possum, and it would be inappropriate for you to proselytize people who came to visit the live manger scene?”
    Ottmeyer stood and pointed his imaginary wand forward. “Objection. Assumes that the witness is a representative of the town.”
    Ichabod shot Ottmeyer an impatient glance. “Overruled.”
    A few questions later Harrod reviewed his legal pad and seemed satisfied that he had done enough damage with the witness. “No further questions,” he announced.
    â€œNothing from me,” Ottmeyer said with a big sigh.
    Jasmine watched