The Judge Who Stole Christmas by Randy Singer

Tamarika stared at a spot on the floor, shifting from one leg to the other. “My bad,” Ginger said.
    The next time down the floor a fired-up Ajori blocked Jasmine’s shot and passed to Tamarika. Several passes later, after working the ball around like a Princeton basketball team from the 1950s, Ajori scored over the outstretched arms of Jasmine.
    When Jasmine posted up in the lane at the other end of the floor, Ajori gave her sister a sharp elbow in the ribs. “Quit trying to make me look good,” Ajori sneered. “I don’t need your charity.”
    Sheesh, Jasmine thought, are we having fun yet?

    An hour later, as the girls were running their suicide drills, Jasmine walked over and stood next to Coach Barker. “Thanks for scrimmaging, Woodfaulk,” he said. “It helped our kids see their weak spots.”
    â€œSure.”
    He blew the whistle and Jasmine felt like it had pierced her eardrum. “Two more!” he shouted. The girls groaned.
    Jasmine thought about the American flag proudly displayed in the back window of Barker’s truck. In her trial-practice class, she had learned to communicate in a language the jury understood. She’d try it out on Barker.
    â€œKnow what makes this country great?” Jasmine asked as she and Barker watched the girls jog up and down the court on their next suicide. Ajori was near the back of the pack.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHard work and freedom,” Jasmine said. “If you don’t have freedom, you’re like Communist Russia used to be. If you don’t have hard work, you’re France.”
    Barker coughed, the phlegmy variety common to smokers, never taking his eyes off the court. “Your point is?”
    â€œBasketball teams are the same way. Right now, this feels like Communist Russia, Coach.” Another piercing whistle and the girls started on their last suicide. “You’ve got to give them some freedom to play.”
    â€œIs that so?”
    The two stood there in silence until the girls limped across the baseline at the conclusion of their last suicide. “Gather round,” Barker said.
    The girls hobbled over huffing and puffing. Most of them bent over, hands on knees.
    â€œWhat are the rules for when your parents whine about your playing time?” Barker asked.
    â€œYou don’t play the next game,” Ginger said between hard breaths.
    â€œThat’s right,” Barker said. “And, Tamarika, what happens when your parents complain to me about my coaching?”
    Tamarika mumbled something that Jasmine couldn’t hear.
    â€œThat’s right,” Barker said. “Double suicides.” He turned to Ajori. “You think that rule applies to big sisters?”
    Ajori groaned.
    â€œOn the baseline, ladies,” Barker announced. “You’re about to find out.”
    â€œThis is stupid,” Jasmine said as she walked toward the baseline with them. If she had been the cause of their running, she could at least share in their pain.
    The girls lined up on the baseline and Barker walked in front of them. “Any more suggestions before we start running?” he asked Jasmine.
    The other girls looked at Jasmine like they might tar and feather her if she said a word.
    â€œNo, sir,” Jasmine shot back. “Stalin would be proud.”

SATURDAY EVENING, DECEMBER 9
    Thomas Hammond had never seen so much junk in the Possum town square in his life. It felt to him more like the flea market than a celebration of Christmas. For starters, he didn’t like the big sign at the front: “The History and Traditions of Xmas.” As if you couldn’t even say the name of Christ anymore.
    What’s America coming to?
    As one of Theresa’s cousins watched the kids, Thomas and Theresa manned their live manger scene in a back corner of the square, though tonight it seemed more like a petting zoo. There were crowds of children waiting in line—