SPELL ROOM

HOME

EMAIL

Counsel for the Defense

shyster n. a person who is professionally
unscrupulous especially in the practice of law or politics

It was an oft-heard joke in the legal community that if one looked up the definition of shyster in a dictionary one would find a photograph of Gavin Ridgely beside it.

The prominent defense lawyer, whose clients included entertainers, sports stars, politicians, investment bankers and Fortune 500 CEOs, was quite familiar with the quips that cast aspersions on his integrity, but such jibes seemed not to bother Gavin in the slightest. The lawyer's lofty opinion of himself was impervious to attack by others. In his own eyes, Gavin Ridgely was a god.

Granted, the famed defense attorney's hubris was not completely unjustified. He was a handsome man, he had a charismatic personality and he was highly intelligent. He had graduated valedictorian in both high school and college and had gotten his law degree at Harvard. After working only two years with Dunne, Barlow and Maguire, Boston's most prestigious law firm, he opened his own practice and became the top-earning criminal defense attorney in the country.

One December day, after concluding yet another successful defense and getting his high-profile client acquitted despite what was thought by the prosecutor to be an open-and-shut case, Gavin triumphantly walked out of the courtroom amid a swarm of reporters. Although the press directed a few questions toward the lawyer, they were most keen on interviewing his client, a Grammy-winning rapper who had been accused of pistol-whipping his wife during a domestic disturbance incident.

While reporters were pushing through the crowd to get to the singer, Gavin Ridgely was able to back away from the mob without being noticed. He quickly headed toward the rear of the courthouse building, where he hoped to avoid further contact with the press. He was in sight of the exit when he encountered a familiar face coming out of the district attorney's office.

"Well, if it isn't Clarence Darrow Junior himself!" the attractive woman exclaimed. "To what do we owe this great honor? Let me guess, has another Bernie Madoff come up with a Ponzi scheme to milk innocent investors out of their life savings?"

"I didn't defend Madoff," Gavin said with a captivating smile. "If I had, he'd be soaking up the sun in Miami instead of looking forward to serving the rest of his life in federal prison."

Jocelyn Damon, who had known Ridgely from Harvard, wasn't the least bit surprised by his arrogant claim.

"And your conscience would be clear, too, no doubt," she said feeling contempt for her peer.

"Of course. This is America. Everyone is entitled to a fair trial."

"Tell that to some poor kid from Southie who would never be able to afford to hire you to represent him."

Gavin raised his arm and looked at his diamond-studded Rolex.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Jocelyn apologized, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Am I keeping you from your next great legal victory?"

"No, I merely wanted to see what time it was before I invited you to dinner."

The assistant prosecutor arched her eyebrows in surprise.

"How do you know I'm not going home to have dinner with my husband?"

"Because you're not married. There's no ring on your finger, and you're the old-fashioned type of woman who would wear a ring if she were married. I also deduce that you don't have previous dinner plans because you're taking the time to stand here and heckle me."

"Even though I have no plans for dinner, what makes you think I'd want to ruin my evening by spending it with you?"

Never one to waste time with false modesty, Gavin replied honestly, "Because even though you believe you're morally superior, you still find me fascinating."

"You really are an egotistical jackass!" Jocelyn exclaimed with frustration.

"Does that mean you accept my invitation to dinner?"

She did not immediately reply.

"Come on," Gavin urged, "you might have fun telling me what a bottom-feeder I am."

It was the prosecutor's turn to smile.

"Give me ten minutes to turn off my computer and get my coat."

* * *

Not wanting to go to any of the city's upscale restaurants where he was sure they'd encounter one or more colleagues, Gavin drove to a small Italian restaurant outside of Lexington.

"How did you find this place?" Jocelyn asked. "Did one of your mob boss clients tell you about it?"

"Very funny! Actually, I found it when I was in Harvard, and I've been coming here ever since. It's family owned and operated, and the food rivals anything you'll get in Boston."

"Ah! Hello, Mr. Ridgely!" the hostess said in strongly accented English. "It's good to see you again."

"Hello, Francesca. It's good to be back. How are the children?"

"Getting bigger every day. It's slow tonight, so we let them watch a movie on the large screen television. If it bothers you, let me know, and I'll send them to the kitchen."

"They'll be no bother. Let them enjoy their movie."

Francesca, wrongly believing the two lawyers were lovers eager to be alone, led them to a dimly lit corner table. She gave them menus and promised to return shortly to take their order.

"The veal parmesan is excellent here," Gavin advised.

Jocelyn, who saw her dinner companion's suggestion as egotistical and sexist rather than helpful, deliberately chose something different.

"I'll have the chicken marsala," she told Francesca when the woman returned.

"So, do you like working for the district attorney?" Gavin asked while the two waited for their food to arrive.

"Yes, I do," Jocelyn replied with a decided edge to her voice. "The job doesn't pay as well as the private sector does, but at least I have the satisfaction of knowing I put dangerous criminals behind bars, not set them free to continue preying on the good people of Boston."

Gavin raised his hands in the air and laughed.

"Look, Christmas is only a few weeks away. Can't we leave our arguments for the courtroom and just enjoy a nice, quiet evening together like two old schoolmates?"

Jocelyn had to admit her colleague and fellow Harvard alumnus was a charming dinner companion.

"Oh, all right," she capitulated with a wide smile. "In honor of the holiday season, I'm prepared to be civil."

Rather than discuss the law, they talked about mutual friends and professors from Harvard.

Then the laughter of the three children caught Jocelyn's attention.

"Are they Francesca's?" she asked.

"Those are her three youngest. She and Gino have five altogether."

Jocelyn's eyes went to the large-screen television above the bar.

"I love that movie," she said.

Gavin glanced at the screen and turned away.

"I was never into old black-and-white films."

"Are you kidding? Miracle on 34th Street is a classic!"

"Is that what it is?" he asked without interest. "Isn't that the movie where Santa Claus sues Macy's department store?"

"Not quite. It's about the Macy's Santa Claus claiming he's the real Kris Kringle. To make a long story short, there's a competency hearing to judge his sanity. His attorney decides the best defense is to prove he really is Santa Claus."

"Smart move. That's what I'd do."

"Are you kidding? A poor old man, working a temporary retail job? You'd never take the case."

"You really have a low opinion of me, don't you? I'll bet you think I'd sell my own mother for a nickel."

"A nickel, no. You have a much higher price tag."

"Would you think better of me if I told you I occasionally take a pro bono case to help out someone in need?"

Jocelyn's eyes widened, and her expression softened.

"Do you really?"

"No, but would you have a better opinion of me if I told you that?"

"You really are a shit!" she said with disgust.

"Does that mean you won't go out with me?"

"I'd sooner date a serial killer."

"Let's make a deal," he said. "You go out with me, and I'll take a pro bono case."

"Are you serious?"

"Completely. I'll defend someone to the best of my ability, free of charge, if you agree to go on a date with me."

Jocelyn thought about Gavin's offer before replying.

"On two conditions: one, I decide where we go on our date, and two, I pick the case."

Gavin, who believed he could successfully have defended both Saddam Hussein and Osama bin Laden, if he'd been given the opportunity, accepted her counteroffer without reservation.

* * *

As though fate had taken a personal interest in Gavin Ridgely's career, just two days after the two attorneys dined in the cozy Italian restaurant outside of Lexington, a murder case was brought to Jocelyn Damon's attention. It was one slated to go to the public defender's office since the defendant was an elderly homeless woman with no visible means of support.

After reading the details contained in the police file, Jocelyn picked up the phone and called Gavin.

"Do you still want to go out with me?" she teased.

"You know I do."

"Then I've found just the case for you. Do you have any free time this week?"

"It just so happens my afternoon is open."

"Good. I think you should go over to the jail and introduce yourself to your new client."

"Sure, and, by the way, where are we going on our date?"

"Aren't you getting ahead of yourself? You have to prepare a defense first."

"I will, and I'll win. Don't worry about me. You just come up with the best possible first date you can think of—and don't limit your choices to the North American continent."

After hanging up the phone, Jocelyn smiled. Gavin was the most arrogant man she had ever met, but he was beginning to grow on her.

* * *

When Gavin walked into the jail, the guard's jaw literally dropped with surprise.

"You're going to defend this one?" he asked with disbelief. "What is she, one of the Kennedy family?"

"No, just an old homeless woman in need of legal representation."

"Yeah, but you're the ace," the guard argued. "If you don't mind my asking, how can a homeless woman afford your fee?"

"I've taken the case pro bono, for a friend."

"As I've always said, it's who you know that matters in this life."

The guard shook his head as he opened the door to an interrogation room where the lawyer could talk in private with his client.

When Gavin saw the old woman seated at the table, he thought she looked utterly out of place, like a modern automobile in the midst of the ancient Roman army. She didn't look like either a vagrant or a criminal, much less a murderer. Gavin would have taken her for someone's grandmother, the kind who baked cookies and always brought gifts when she visited, the elderly relative everyone loved, who was never an embarrassment to the younger generation.

"What's your name?" Gavin asked, not having bothered to read the file.

"Greta," the old woman replied, with an angelic smile that the Mona Lisa herself would have envied.

"Greta, my name is Gavin Ridgely. I'll be your attorney. In order to defend you to the best of my ability, I'll need to ask you some questions, and I'll need you to be completely honest with me."

"Oh, I never lie."

"Good. Now, what is your full name?"

"My real name or the name by which I'm most commonly known?"

"Give me both your legal name and any aliases you've used."

"My real name is Greta Kringle, but most people call me Mrs. Claus."

Gavin looked up from his writing and stared into the old woman's innocent blue eyes.

"Mrs. Claus, as in Mrs. Santa Claus?"

"Yes. My husband, Kris, is known—or rather was known—as Santa Claus."

The lawyer opened the folder Jocelyn had sent him and quickly scanned the contents of the police report.

"It says here you killed your husband."

"That's right."

Gavin shook his head and said to himself, "I always knew there were people on the district attorney's staff who hated me, but I never thought they'd go this length to prank me."

Many people might have been angry at such an elaborate practical joke, but others would probably have a good laugh and then go about their usual business. Ridgely, on the other hand, chose to play along mainly because he still wanted that date with Jocelyn, and he believed her offer was still on the table.

Gavin picked up his pen and continued writing.

"I assume your address is the North Pole?"

"It used to be," Greta replied guilelessly. "But when we couldn't make the mortgage payments on the castle and workshop, the bank foreclosed."

"The bank?"

"Yes, North Pole Savings and Loan."

Gavin tried to keep a straight face just as the bogus Mrs. Claus had managed to do.

"You and your husband must have lived there for some time; surely the place is paid for by now?"

"It was, but then we ran into a bit of financial trouble, and Kris had to take out a mortgage to cover our debts," Greta explained.

"Oh? I suppose the toy market isn't what it used to be."

"That's not true. The letters from children asking for toys are at an all time high."

"Then why were you in debt? Did you make some bad investments?"

"No, Kris had a problem, you see—gambling. He gambled away all our savings on the reindeer games."

Gavin had to lower his head and cover his mouth with his hand so that Greta would not see the smile on his face.

"Is that why you killed him?" the lawyer asked once he had his urge to laugh under control.

"Not really. Things have been building up for the past two centuries, and that was just the straw that broke the reindeer's back, I'm afraid."

"You were having marital problems, then. Can you give me some examples?"

"Kris was never home. He was always at his workshop, inventing new toys and supervising the elves. When he did come home—smelling of reindeer, I might add—all he wanted to do was eat and then go to bed. Now, I don't mean to sound like a nagging wife, but you have no idea how boring it can get at the North Pole. I had no one to talk to but the elves, and all they talk about is toys. There are no shopping malls. We can't get any television reception, no Internet, no cell phone. About the only form of entertainment I had available to me was reading. That and baking cookies, of course."

"So your husband neglected you?" Gavin asked, making notes on his pad of paper. "What else? Was there another woman?"

"Good heavens, no! There was only Kris, me and the elves."

"Any female elves?"

Greta looked horrified.

"Elves, indeed! My Kris may have had his faults, but he wasn't that type of person."

"Did he drink?"

"Only hot cocoa."

"And I take it he wasn't abusive and didn't place any unusual physical demands on you?"

Greta's face turned as red as her fur-trimmed sweater, and she avoided his eyes as she emphatically shook her head in denial.

"To be honest, Greta, I don't see any compelling motive that would lead to a conclusion of justifiable homicide. And there's no case here for self-defense. That leaves us with an insanity plea, which could result in your being sent to an institution. Of course, there's always a diminished capacity plea. That would get you a much lighter sentence than a second degree murder conviction, but you probably would have to spend some time behind bars."

Greta's blue eyes brimmed with tears.

"I suppose either a hospital or a jail is better than the North Pole. At least I'll get cable television."

* * *

After Gavin concluded his initial interview with his client, he left the jail and checked the messages on his iPhone. He wasn't surprised to see that Jocelyn Damon had phoned him.

Just the person I wanted to talk to!

"I've taken the case," he told her when she answered the phone.

"Good. It'll be fun going up against you in court," she replied.

"You're prosecuting the case? This just keeps getting better."

"I've got the report of the husband's autopsy, do you want me to send it to your office, or would you prefer to meet for drinks after work and I can give it to you then?"

"Keep the report. I prefer to talk to the medical examiner myself. Maybe she'll let me see the body. But I will take you up on the drinks."

An hour later, Gavin was standing in the morgue with Dr. Dorian Brownlow.

"I can't believe you're counsel for the defense!" the medical examiner exclaimed.

"Like most people, I enjoy a challenge every once in a while."

He quickly scanned the report, noting the name of the victim.

"You have him listed as a John Doe."

"You don't think I'm going to jeopardize the reputation of my office by calling him Kris Kringle, do you?"

As the medical examiner crossed the room and opened one of the refrigerated units where the bodies were stored, Gavin half-expected Jocelyn or one of her fellow prosecutors to pop up and yell, "Gotcha!"

Instead, he saw a very large, naked old man, partially covered by a white sheet.

Just how far are they going to carry this joke? he wondered.

"Here he is, John Doe," Dr. Brownlow announced, removing the sheet.

For one of the few times in his life, Gavin Ridgely was speechless. His eyes darted from the full white beard on the victim's chin to his rotund stomach that bore the surgical stitches from the recent autopsy and finally the bullet hole in his chest. If the corpse was a dummy, it was an extremely convincing one.

"The bullet entered the chest here," the medical examiner exclaimed. "It struck the right coronary artery, killing him instantly."

* * *

That evening Gavin walked into O'Hara's Pub and spotted Jocelyn seated at the bar, talking to a fellow prosecutor. She smiled and waved when she saw him across the room.

"Did you see the forensic report on the John Doe murder case?" she asked. "The animal hair that was found on the body—it turned out to be reindeer fur."

"You know, I've got as good a sense of humor as the next guy," he said with a laugh, "but how long is this going to go on?"

There was a puzzled look on Jocelyn's beautiful face.

"I don't follow you."

"Okay, I'll continue to play along. No, I haven't seen the report. Tomorrow I'm going to request a psychiatric review of my client, Mrs. Santa Claus. I also want a neurologist to examine her to see if she's suffering from dementia or any other age-related condition."

"You think this is a big joke, don't you?" Jocelyn asked with surprise.

"Isn't it?"

"No."

"It just seems like too much of a coincidence: we talked about the Miracle on 34th Street movie just two days before this case shows up on your desk."

"Is it really that big a stretch of the imagination? It's December. Christmas is just weeks away."

"That explains the movie being shown at the restaurant but not an old woman claiming to be Mrs. Claus who has just killed Santa."

"I've worked in the prosecutor's office since I graduated Harvard," she explained. "I've seen lots of people, young and old, with stranger stories than that. There was a prostitute who claimed she was Mary Magdalene, a taxi driver who thought he was the reincarnation of John Lennon and a fifteen-year-old boy who believed he was a vampire, and that doesn't include all the senior citizens who are so confused they don't know who they are. Now if you think your client is insane, then plead accordingly."

"I'm sorry," Gavin chuckled. "I want to believe this isn't a prank, but I just can't."

"I suppose I shouldn't hold your skepticism against you," Jocelyn said, ordering herself another drink. "After all, you practice law in a world where clients have yachts, private jets and off-shore bank accounts. What do you know about the problems that affect real people?"

"Ah, when all else fails, try laying the working class hero guilt trip on me."

"To you, the defendant and her dead husband are a joke waiting for a punch line. To me, Greta is a pathetic, lonely old woman with no home, no family—at least none that cares enough about her to take her in. She probably hasn't a cent to her name. Who knows, maybe she lost her life savings to one of your Wall Street clients."

"If you feel so much pity for her, why did you volunteer to prosecute her case?"

"Because going up against you, I fully expect to lose. That's why I want you to take it seriously. I don't want Mrs. Claus to spend the rest of her life—however long that might be—in jail."

* * *

On his way home, Gavin purchased a DVD of Miracle on 34th Street. He watched it as he ate the Peking duck personally cooked and delivered by the owner of his favorite Chinese restaurant.

At the conclusion of the movie, when John Payne and Maureen O'Hara are faced with the possibility that Edmund Gwenn was not only sane but was also the real Kris Kringle, Gavin reached for the remote and turned off both the DVD player and the television.

"Fred Gailey wasn't such a great lawyer," he told himself. "He tricked the district attorney into conceding the existence of Santa Claus and then took advantage of a mistake by the post office to prove his client was the one and only Santa Claus."

It occurred to Gavin that to prove Greta was insane or of diminished capacity, he had to prove that she couldn't possibly be Mrs. Kris Kringle. In order to do that, he had to determine her true identity.

The task proved to be more difficult than he'd imagined. His investigator spent nearly a week going through missing persons records, sending Greta's photograph to old age homes, hospitals, homeless shelters, churches and senior citizens organizations.

The doctors' reports did not help matters. Not one could point to a specific psychiatric or neurological problem from which Greta might suffer. For all intents and purposes, Greta appeared to be quite sane at the time of the murder, except for the fact that she believed her husband was Santa Claus.

* * *

On December 23, Gavin met with his client again. As a successful lawyer, he was quite skilled in the art of cross-examination. He hoped that if he put pressure on Greta, he might get her to reveal some minor detail that could lead to the discovery of her identity.

As on the previous visits, the old woman was in good spirits.

"Hello, Mr. Ridgely," she said. "It's so good of you to come see me again. You must be very busy, what with Christmas just a few days away."

Gavin decided to forego the formalities and commence his attack.

"You don't seem the least bit sorry you murdered your husband."

"I'm sure he'll forgive me. After all, I've never done it before, and I doubt I'll ever do it again."

"He'll forgive you? Do you honestly think he's up in heaven, smiling down at you with forgiveness after you murdered him in cold blood? After you robbed him of the few short years he had left on this earth?"

"Oh, he's not really dead, Mr. Ridgely," the old woman said with a good-natured chuckle. "The gun was a toy, one made by elves. Besides, Kris can't die. He's Santa Claus."

"Look, I don't care who you think he is or was, but I assure you he's dead. I've seen his body. He's listed as a John Doe, and he's lying on a slab at the morgue with a bullet hole in his chest."

"Kris is the embodiment of the spirit of Christmas. Tomorrow night he'll ride in his sleigh and deliver toys to all the children around the world."

"Even if he wasn't dead ...."

"He's not dead," Greta insisted.

"How can he deliver toys when the bank foreclosed on the toyshop?"

"Oh, that!" she laughed. "The elves had no intention of keeping the money they won from Kris. They paid off the mortgage and moved back into the castle."

"And your husband is going to rise from the grave and return to the North Pole."

"Something like that."

"It's about time you woke to reality, Greta—or whatever your name is. There is no North Pole Savings and Loan, no workshop, no castle."

"I beg to differ with you."

Gavin reached into this briefcase and removed several photographs.

"These are aerial shots of the arctic region taken by the United States Navy. As you can see there's nothing there but snow, ice and ...."

Gavin's eyebrows knitted in consternation. Although he'd examined the photographs earlier in the day, there now appeared to be several buildings where only hours before there had been nothing but snow-covered rock.

"Someone must have switched the pictures."

"That's the workshop," Greta said, pointing to one of the largest buildings. "Here's the castle. And this is the hangar, where Kris keeps the sleigh. Next to it is the stables where the reindeer live. And here's the elf school and ...."

"No. This is all some kind of sick joke, and I've had enough of it."

"It's not a joke. You're my lawyer, and I'm depending on you to get me out of this mess I've gotten myself into."

"Then tell me who you really are."

"I told you, I'm Greta Kringle."

"Then in order to defend you, I'll have to prove you're insane. To do that, I'll have to prove you can't possibly be Mrs. Claus because there is no Santa."

For the first time, the old woman stopped smiling.

"You can't do that."

"I have no choice. The only way I can prove you are insane is to prove Santa doesn't exist."

"But think of the children! Many of them are at the vulnerable age where they're beginning to doubt Kris's existence. And what about the younger ones who still believe?"

"I'm a lawyer. I have to do whatever is necessary to defend my client and to win the case."

"No matter what the cost?"

"That's right. No matter what the cost."

"Even if it means breaking the hearts of millions of children?"

"They'll get over it," he said, dismissing her objection. "All kids have to eventually face the fact that there is no Santa Claus."

"I've changed my mind," Greta said. "I don't want you as my lawyer."

"It won't be that easy to get rid of me," he explained. "You're obviously not of sound mind and therefore unable to make such a decision. There's not a judge in Boston who would take me off the case under those circumstances."

"It's funny," Greta said as her attorney put his papers back into his briefcase and prepared to leave. "I thought that underneath the mercenary lawyer there was a decent man. I'm not usually wrong about people. I think she believed the same thing about you."

"She?" Gavin asked.

"Miss Damon. I think she was actually beginning to care about you. What a shame."

* * *

When Gavin Ridgely woke the following morning, he noticed it had snowed overnight—nothing major, just an inch or two, but enough to give the people of Boston a white Christmas.

While still in bed, he decided to phone Jocelyn and invite her to lunch. Rather than go through her secretary, Gavin called her cell phone number.

"Hello?" she answered after two rings.

"Merry Christmas, beautiful," he greeted her.

"Who's this?"

"It's your favorite defense attorney."

"John, is that you?"

"Don't you recognize my voice? It's me, Gavin Ridgely."

"I'm sorry, but you must have the wrong number."

"Wait. What's wrong? Are you mad at me or something?"

"I don't know how you got this number, but I've never heard of you."

"What do you mean you ...?"

Before Gavin could finish his sentence, the line went dead. He pressed the redial button, but she didn't answer.

She must really be pissed off at me! I don't know what I did, but I'll send her some flowers. I've never known a woman who could stay mad staring at two dozen long-stemmed roses.

He called the same florist he'd been doing business with for the past fifteen years. The owner claimed to have no record of him on file.

"All right," he said. "I'll come in after the holidays and straighten everything out. For now, I'll just give you my credit card information and have you send the flowers over to Jocelyn Damon at the courthouse."

When the shopkeeper tried to put the credit card through, however, it was declined.

"That's not possible. I have an available balance of ...."

It suddenly occurred to him what the problem was. He was a victim of identity theft, and he had a pretty good idea who was behind it: the same person or persons who had cooked up the Santa Claus murder practical joke.

"I'll straighten everything out after the holidays," he told himself.

Gavin walked out of his bedroom into his kitchen, or what should have been his kitchen but was actually an empty room. The rest of the townhouse was equally vacant. Had someone robbed him? No, how could a thief have gotten out of the apartment with a refrigerator and several rooms full of furniture without waking him?

He turned and walked back into his bedroom to get dressed. The furniture that had been in the room just minutes earlier was gone, as were the contents of his closet. It finally occurred to him that his trouble was much more serious than a practical joke or a simple case of identity theft.

With no keys, and no car in his parking space, Gavin had to walk to the courthouse. Dressed in pajamas, robe and slippers, he shivered from the cold December air. Although many people turned to stare, no one spoke to him as he traveled down the snow-covered Boston streets.

"Excuse me, sir," the security guard called to him after he entered the courthouse and walked in the direction of the prosecutors' offices. "Do you have business here?"

"Don't you recognize me? I'm Gavin Ridgely. I want to see Jocelyn Damon."

"Ridgely, you say? I'll have to call Ms. Damon and see if she can see you."

"She'll see me," he said impatiently. "Just tell her it's regarding the pro bono case I'm working on."

"I'm sorry, sir," the guard said after hanging up the phone, "but Ms. Damon has never heard of you."

"What's going on here?" Gavin demanded to know. "Surely you know me. I've tried cases in this courthouse—and won them all, I might add."

"Sure you have," the guard said, humoring the distraught man. "Would you like me to call you a cab?"

"No," he said as he saw Dorian Brownlow, the medical examiner, leaving one of the courtrooms after having given testimony in a murder trial. "Dorian, can I have a word with you?"

"Do I know you?" the doctor asked, surprised at the stranger's unusual attire.

"Of course, you do. I was just in your office the other day, discussing the autopsy results on John Doe."

"I'm afraid I haven't had to autopsy a John Doe in at least five years."

"Not you, too? Is everyone in Boston in on this joke?"

The guard stepped between Gavin and the medical examiner.

"I think I you should be on your way," he warned the pajama-clad stranger.

"I met with Dr. Brownlow on a case where a woman, claiming to be Mrs. Santa Claus, murdered her husband. The victim was a large man with a full, white beard and a gunshot wound in his chest."

At Ridgely's mention of Santa Claus, the guard and medical examiner exchanged a meaningful look. The doctor turned away, took out her cell phone and called the psychiatric department at Massachusetts General Hospital.

* * *

"All right, I'm going to go through this one more time. My name is Gavin Ridgely. I graduated Harvard Law School in 1996. After working at Dunne, Barlow and Maguire, I opened my own practice. I've defended dozens of high-profile clients including the Red Sox pitcher Bobby Raymond, former Massachusetts senator and presidential candidate John Paulus, the CEO of ...."

"You're having delusions," the psychiatrist interrupted. "I called Harvard. No one thever has ever heard of a Gavin Ridgely. Neither has anyone at Dunne, Barlow and Maguire. According to the American Bar Association, there's no lawyer of that name. The address you gave me is that of a townhome that's been vacant for six months."

"It's all a practical joke," Gavin insisted. "It all started when Jocelyn Damon asked me to defend that crazy old woman who thought she was Mrs. Santa Claus."

"I've told you that Jocelyn Damon doesn't know you, and neither does Dr. Brownlow. No elderly woman has been arrested; no elderly man with a white beard has been shot. The police have checked all their databases. You don't have a social security number, a driver's license, a voter registration card, a credit card or any bank account. According to all the state and federal computer records, you don't exist. What you need is a lawyer to prove you're really Gavin Ridgely."

"Like Kris Kringle."

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing," Gavin replied. "I was just thinking out loud."

"Well, it's getting late," the psychiatrist said. "Why don't you get some sleep, and we'll continue our conversation tomorrow. I've got to go home now. It's Christmas Eve, and I want to spend what's left of the evening with my family."

As the patient removed his bathrobe and kicked off his slippers, the doctor signaled for the guard to unlock the door. After the psychiatrist left, Gavin went to the window, and looked out at the clear, starry sky. Millions of children would look into that same sky that Christmas Eve night, hoping to get a glimpse of Santa. Ironically, only one person on earth would be allowed to see Kris Kringle; only a man locked in the mental ward in Massachusetts General would have definitive proof of his existence.

"Mrs. Claus was right; her husband isn't dead, after all," Gavin said, staring in awe at the sleigh and reindeer that landed on a nearby rooftop.

I didn't believe her, he thought with despair. In my foolish arrogance, I sought to prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that Santa Claus didn't exist. Now, thanks to some twist of fate or divine retribution, I am faced with the monumental task of having to prove my own existence.

Finally, he turned from the window and collapsed onto the hospital bed. He closed his eyes, and a feeling of hopelessness enveloped him.

For Gavin Ridgely, there would be no Fred Gailey to save the day, no deluge of letters from the post office to document his identity, no Kris Kringle to give him a happy ending. In threatening to forever extinguish the spirit of Christmas and break the hearts of millions of children in order to win a court case, he was destined to remain a person with no name and no history, a fitting punishment for a man with inordinate pride in himself and in his accomplishments.

That's the Christmas spirit, Salem!

"Ho ... ho ... ho ..." (yawn)