I get to my feet. “Absolutely,” I tell the jury. “We’ll call in an appellate panel.”

As if to confirm my promise, the Kydd emerges from the crowd and stands with me at the defense table. The jurors don’t seem to notice him, though. Their eyes are glued to Harry and the struggling court officers. It’s hard to move Harry when he’s on his knees.

The retired schoolteacher turns to the man beside her, the restaurant owner, and whispers. He looks back at her and nods once, then again. Whatever it is she said, he agrees.

Big Red seems to be in charge of Operation Remove Harry; he’s calling the shots. He slaps a handcuff on one of Harry’s wrists but can’t get hold of the other one. He orders Harry to stand.

Harry sits.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Big Red says.

A few jurors snicker.

“Enough!” Stanley’s losing it. He backs away from the struggling guards, points at Harry. “This man is vile! Reprehensible! Get him out of here!”

All action stops, even the guards’ efforts to restrain Harry, and all eyes move to Stanley. He’s frozen in front of the jury box, still pointing at Harry.

The room is quiet until Harry starts laughing-howling, actually-and tosses his head toward his captors. “What the hell do you think they’re trying to do, pal?”

“Your Honor!”

Stanley undoubtedly has been called many names in his lifetime, but “pal” apparently isn’t among them.

The elderly schoolteacher twists around in her seat, whispers to the juror behind her. That juror, in turn, passes a message down the back row. The restaurant owner does the same in row one.

The guards have Harry in hand now-literally. Two grasp his shoulders while the other two hold him by the ankles. His wrists are cuffed behind his back. And he’s still talking. “You’re in charge,” he tells the jurors. “Don’t forget that.”

This is one of the first things that impressed me about Harry Madigan. I noticed it years ago, before I knew anything else about him. When Harry gets carted off to jail, he goes out the courtroom door talking to the jury. Always.

With a good deal of effort, the court officers drag Harry, still talking, across the worn carpeting and through the side door. When it closes behind them, the room falls abruptly still, silent.

I lean toward the Kydd. “Follow them. See where they put him. Then get him the hell out.”

The Kydd does a surprisingly good imitation of Big Red’s salute, then heads for the door.

Our retired schoolteacher raises her hand, but Beatrice doesn’t notice. The older woman clears her throat and gets to her feet. “Excuse me, Your Honor.”

Beatrice looks startled.

“We’ve discussed it, you see.”

“Discussed what?” Now Beatrice looks annoyed.

“We’d like to deliberate.” She fingers her lapel, looks apologetic. “Now.”

“Now?” Beatrice takes hold of her gavel again, as if she might use it on the elderly juror.

“Yes, Your Honor. No disrespect intended. We feel it’s the right thing to do. It’s what we all expected to do. And it’s what Mr. Hammond expected of us. It was planned that way from the start, you see.” She gives the judge a slight bow, then sits again.

Beatrice turns away from the impudent juror and glares at me. She looks as if she’s certain I orchestrated this. I’m flattered.

Big Red and Joey Kelsey return to the courtroom. The other two must have Harry under control. That means he’s in a cell. And it’s locked.

I pull my phone from my briefcase and place it in the center of the defense table, then drop into my chair and smile up at Beatrice.

She scowls at the phone, so I know she gets it. Either she allows these jurors to deliberate or I place a call to the Court of Appeals’ emergency line. And the appellate panel won’t like that. The judges on call won’t appreciate being summoned on Christmas Eve. Far better that Beatrice work the holiday than the Big Boys.

“Oh, and Your Honor.” Our schoolteacher is on her feet again.

Beatrice turns an angry face to her. “What now?”

“I just thought I should mention…” The older woman looks resolute, not a bit nervous. “We’re in agreement on this. It’s unanimous.” She takes her seat once more.

Beatrice’s face turns to stone. She signals Big Red again, and he strokes his beard. He tells the panel to stand and follow him, and they do. Just like that, they’re gone. Deliberating. Beginning their draft of the final chapter.

Joey Kelsey looks relieved as he approaches our table to escort Buck Hammond back to the House of Correction. Compared to Prisoner Madigan, Prisoner Hammond is a breeze. He surrenders to the handcuffs willingly, as he always does, then asks Joey Kelsey to give him a moment. Joey hesitates, then agrees.

Buck turns toward me. “Thank you. And thank Harry too.” He smiles. “If you ever see him again.”

I laugh. “Don’t worry. We’ll see him again. But don’t thank us yet. It’s too soon.”

Joey gestures toward the door.

Buck leaves his seat, shakes his head. “It’s not too soon,” he says. “I mean it. No matter what happens. Thank you.” He stares into the first row for a moment, at Patty, then allows Joey to lead him away.

Beatrice watches them exit, then looks from Stanley to me. “Well, Counsel, I trust you’ll enjoy your evening. I’m going home.”

“Home?” The word escapes before I realize I’ve thought it. Beatrice lives in Provincetown, a solid hour from here even without the snowstorm.

She leaves the bench, her footsteps decidedly heavy, and pauses at the chambers door. “That’s right, Ms. Nickerson. Home. These jurors want to bring in their verdict on the holiday, they can damn well wait for me to get back.”

Santa Claus spends Christmas Eve-every Christmas Eve-in Chatham. He arrives at dusk, waving from the bow of the year’s designated Coast Guard vessel, thigh-high oilskins protecting the legs of his cherry red suit. Coastguardsmen outline the masts of the chosen boat with twinkling white lights each year. The crew docks at the Fish Pier, where Santa disembarks and glad-hands his way through the wind-whipped, near-frozen assembly. He distributes candy canes as he makes his way through the crowd, ho-ho-ho-ing all the way.

On the street side of the pier, the Chatham Fire Chief waits in his official truck, heater running and red lights ablaze, to serve as Santa’s surrogate chauffeur. The reindeer, we’ve always been told by town selectmen, are busy elsewhere. After all, they explain each year, some children don’t live in Chatham. Someone has to deliver their toys.

Every year, Santa and the Fire Chief lead a caravan from the Fish Pier to the Main Street Elementary School, where the Cape Cod Carolers and the Chatham Band greet one and all with holiday music, home-baked cookies, and mulled cider. There, Santa sits enthroned on the gymnasium stage, chatting leisurely with every good boy and girl in town. The naughty ones usually stop by for a few words as well.

When Luke was little, he worried about the rest of the world’s children. Who visits them, he wondered, if Santa spends all of Christmas Eve-every Christmas Eve-with us? Helpers, I told him. Santa has thousands of helpers, and many of them look remarkably like him. The real Santa, I said, would just rather spend Christmas Eve in Chatham. That explanation made perfect sense to my son, for more years than he now cares to admit.

Luke and his friends still attend the Christmas Eve festivities each year. They stay until the last cookie is gone, then head out to a movie, an annual tradition of sorts. This year Maggie plans to join them. Luke actually invited her, she told me breathlessly this morning. When Luke got into the car, though, she acted as if the evening plans had all but slipped her mind. She’s good, that Maggie.