Santa and the Poor Box
Gail Farrelly
Two weeks before Christmas, and I’m listening to holiday music from the fifties as I sit paying bills at my computer in the corner of the living room. When “Jingle Bell Rock” comes on, I have to pause for a moment and just enjoy it. That was what I was listening to on this same day a year ago when my 14-year-old daughter asked her forty-something widowed mom for a very special Christmas gift—helping to mount a defense in a case that seemed indefensible.
I look at the garland of tinsel and holly carelessly draped over my computer (lacking a decorator’s eye, I still try to do some decorating, really I do!) and recall how it shook last year when my daughter Lily returned from her friend’s house and came storming in, slamming our heavy front door behind her. No hello or how are you. She simply took off her white ski jacket, threw it on a chair, and then draped her slim body on the navy blue velour couch next to the computer.
“It’s an outrage!” was her greeting. “They have Santa Claus in jail, and I’m sure he didn’t do anything.”
I had read the story in
the local paper about a Santa Claus working a Christmas promotion at the
local A&P. He’d been arrested on the charge of burglarizing the
neighborhood church a few nights ago. “Oh, you mean the old guy who
broke into the poor box at church?” I said. This was big news in a
small, quiet town like ours in the suburbs of
Lily tugged at her ponytail in frustration. “They say he broke into the poor box, but I don’t believe it, not for a minute. No way.”
“Maybe he was desperate, honey. Sometimes people are, you know.”
Lily sighed.
“Desperate, that’s how I feel, Mom. He’s innocent. Someone has to
help him. His name is Kris Taylor, and he’s a Vietnam Vet, was shot
twice there. He must be in his sixties. He’s been homeless a lot,
jobless too. Now he lives in a rooming house in the
“How did you find out all this stuff?” I asked, amazed and appalled that she knew so much about this total stranger, possibly a thief.
“He told me,” she said, a slight tone of belligerence in her voice. “I talked to him last week when I was working outside the A&P, selling chances for the raffle for our teen group. He’s a good guy, Mom. I’m sure of it.”
I hated to shatter her innocence, but I said, “Well according to the paper, they have a witness. And forensic evidence too.”
“I don’t care what they have. He didn’t do it. Someone claimed the thief was a Santa Claus. So what? Anyone can dress up as Santa Claus. Remember when I was a kid and you took me to Macy’s to see Santa? You said he was the real thing. That all the others around town dressed as Santa were just his helpers.” She paused, a little smile on her face. Her voice was louder when she continued. “What a crock!” Another pause. “But this guy is the real thing. A really good person, I mean. I could tell.”
I sighed and said, “But sometimes good people do bad things, honey.”
“And good people could do good things. Like you. You’re smart. You know a lot of cops, big shots, and a bunch of other people. You could look into the case, see what’s going on, maybe get him the help he needs. I’m sure he’s not guilty.”
I shrugged. “I’m really busy at work these days. I’m sure he has a public defender.”
“A public defender may not be enough.” She got up from the couch and looked me straight in the eye. She looked like she was going to cry. “This morning you asked me what I wanted for Christmas. This is it. I want you to see what’s going on and help people see who Kris Taylor really is. Then they’ll let him out of jail.” She let this sink in before continuing. “Yep, that’s my Christmas present. Get Santa Claus out of jail.” Not sure of how to reply, I kept my mouth shut. As she turned to leave the room, she fired a parting shot. “Daddy would do it if he were still here.”
The kid made a helluva closing argument.
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