Free The Judge Who Stole Christmas by Randy Singer Page B

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.
    â€œYou got a permit for that?” one of the men asked.
    â€œDo you even need a permit?” someone else inquired.
    â€œI’d just hate to see that judge get him on a technicality,” the first guy said.
    â€œDid 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.
    â€œI’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