The Judge

by Randy Singer

  “Sit down!” Finney barked.

  Stokes glared at the judge, then flopped back into his seat.

  “You’ll get a new lawyer,” Finney said. “But no more pen pals. I’m ordering the defendant held in solitary confinement pending trial. No mail privileges, no visitation.”

  Then Finney turned his attention to a crestfallen Landers. “And if I were you, Counsel, I think I’d watch my tongue.”

  5

  “Wow!” Nikki said when she and Finney retreated to his chambers. “How’d you figure that out?” She had grabbed the letters from the judge’s bench on her way in and was even now counting the words.

  “Elementary, my dear Watson.”

  “Huh?”

  Finney shook his head. “It’s Cryptology 101. These inmates all think they’re Einsteins, but the code in those letters is as basic as it gets.”

  Nikki watched as Finney walked over to his bookshelf and pulled down a small hardback with a brown parchment-like cover and maroon lettering. The cover featured a ghosted picture of Christ wearing a crown of thorns. Finney handed it to Nikki. “Ever see this before?”

  The book was titled The Cross Examination of Jesus Christ, written by some guy Nikki had never heard of. She flipped through a few pages. “I don’t think so,” she said.

  “Not many people have.” Finney gave her a cockeyed smile, then grabbed his Bible off the corner of his desk. The black leather cover was tattered and well-worn. Nikki had caught him reading it on a few occasions.

  As the judge searched for the right page, he started in with one of his coughing fits. He turned his head, covered his mouth, and hacked like he might spit his lungs out at any moment. Eventually he stopped coughing and started turning pages again as if nothing had happened. “Did you know that the Old Testament scribes encrypted a few words in the biblical text using a Hebrew substitution code called the atbash cipher?”

  “Uh, no. But I’m not exactly a Bible scholar,” Nikki admitted. “I think I did hear something about Bible codes once, though.”

  “I’m not talking about that nonsense,” Finney said. “Here.” He rotated the Bible for Nikki to see. “Jeremiah 25:26. See that word Sheshach?”

  Nikki nodded.

  “That’s really a Hebrew code word for Babel, or Babylon, produced using the atbash cipher. Someday I’ll show you how it works.”

  “Thrilling,” Nikki mumbled.

  The judge put the Bible back on his desk and reached for The Cross Examination of Jesus Christ. “I wrote this book,” he said, taking it from Nikki. “I used a pen name because a lot of people might think it inappropriate for a sitting judge to be writing a religious book like this.” He opened the book to the introduction. “It’s tells how Jesus handled the hostile questions of the lawyers, the Pharisees, and ultimately Pontius Pilate. You ought to read it sometime.”

  Nikki didn’t know what to say. She knew that her judge was a religious man, but she had been working for him almost a year and never realized he had written a book. “Sounds interesting.”

  “Oh, it is.” Finney’s eyes sparkled with mischief, and he became more animated. “Christ’s answers are masterful on so many levels. Every time you think you’ve got Him figured out, there’s another whole layer you’re completely missing. So I decided to add an element to the book to symbolize that.”

  “Of course,” Nikki said, trying to remember how they had started talking about this. “Which is?”

  “I’ve encrypted hidden messages in the book,” Finney responded. “I figured if the Old Testament scribes could get away with it, so could I. Like this one in the introduction. See these hidden letters?”

  Nikki looked at where the judge was pointing. She probably wouldn’t have noticed the small letters on her own. But even now, as Finney pointed out the faded images that seemed like part of the page design, it looked like a haphazard jumble of meaningless letters, like trying to figure out who was sitting where on the bus all over again. “I don’t get it,” she said after enough time had passed so the judge would think she had tried.

  Unfortunately, he picked that moment for another coughing spasm. When he finished, his eyes watering, he handed the book back to her. “Figure it out and I’ll buy you lunch,” he announced.

  Don’t hold your breath, Nikki thought, though you couldn’t really speak that way to a judge. “You’re not going to tell me?”

  “Nope. I don’t give away my secrets. I just wanted you to see this so you’d know why Stokes’s method was mere child’s play.”

  Now Nikki was curious. And she had zero chance of figuring it out on her own. “Why would you go to all the trouble to hide these messages in your book and not tell anybody what they mean? What if nobody figures them out?”

  “Somebody will.” Finney plopped down in his desk chair, looking tired from his coughing fits. He placed his cigar in the ashtray. “John Wesley once said that there are things hidden so deeply in Scripture that future generations will always be drawing out new truths. In some small way, I wanted this book to symbolize that—hidden truths yet to be discovered by future generations.”

  Nikki paused to think about that, struck by the effort the judge had put into these codes. In some ways the codes were like the judge himself. A family man who never reconciled with his son. An outspoken Christian who wouldn’t stop smoking. A puzzle. A walking contradiction. “Really, Judge? That’s why you did this?”

  “Nah,” Finney said. “Actually, I just like puzzles.”

  6

  The Honorable Lester Madison Banks III did not look so high and mighty as he sat naked in his Jacuzzi, his eyes bugged out with fear at what he saw on the small monitor on the bathroom counter. In fact, to the Assassin, the sixty-six-year-old judicial despot looked more like a prune than a powerful state court judge. Except that the old man’s wrinkled skin was pasty white, the only purple coming from his shivering lips and the round Gorbachev birthmark on the front half of His Honor’s mostly bald scalp.

  “Pronounce the sentence,” demanded an anxious voice into the Assassin’s earpiece. The Client. Someone the Assassin detested even more than the judge shivering with fear in front of him. A control freak. Consumed by revenge. With only one redeeming quality.

  Money. One point two million, to be exact. For a high-risk hit involving a judge, one million dollars. For the privilege of watching via videophone, an extra two hundred thousand.

  The Assassin kept his gun leveled at the judge though he knew it was no longer necessary. “Remind him how merciful we’re being,” the Client’s voice continued with a mixture of stridency and delight. “We’re sparing his grandchildren and will be executing him in a certifiably humane fashion.”

  “I’ll stick with the script,” the Assassin said in return. He should never have allowed this guy to monitor the execution. Even by the Assassin’s standards, the Client was bizarre.

  “I want to watch him die,” the Client had insisted when he first hired the Assassin. He asked to actually come along, as if this were some kind of theme park ride that he could enjoy while sitting next to the Assassin. The Assassin vetoed the idea but, for the extra cash, agreed to bring along the videophone device that now sat on the bathroom counter, transmitting every moan and grimace from the embattled judge.

  Next to the camera sat a small monitor, the sole reason the judge had earlier gone from being demanding and arrogant, even at gunpoint, to being compliant as a whipped puppy. The monitor showed a real-time video of the judge’s youngest grandson, sleeping blissfully in his own house, less than half a mile from the judge’s home. The young boy was barely distinguishable in a room illuminated only by an Aslan night-light.

  After the Assassin bragged that he had planted an explosive device that could be detonated by remote control (a small but necessary lie), His Honor became very good at following orders.

  Banks had disrobed and filled the Jacuzzi with water just as the Assassin instructed. Before climbing in, the judge turned on the bathroom telev
ision, located on a custom-designed wooden shelf above the Jacuzzi. The judge seemed to shrink as he slid into the water, the Fox News commentators babbling in the background.

  “He looks pitiful,” the Client said, as if the Assassin needed a running commentary. Ignoring him, the Assassin recited the indictment against the judge. In a steady monotone, the Assassin reminded the judge of the most egregious mistake of His Honor’s celebrated judicial career. It had cost a young woman her life. And now it was time to pay. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. A life for a life.

  He pronounced the old man guilty and asked Judge Banks if he had any final words. But the judge didn’t answer, keeping his eyes glued instead to the monitor showing his grandson. The judge seemed to be drawing strength from the image of the boy.

  “Not even an apology,” the Client sneered.

  Which made the Assassin respect the judge, if only a little. But the Assassin still had a job to do.

  “Before I carry out the sentence, Your Honor, my client wants me to remind you of your own opinion, twelve years ago, in State v. Vincent, when you delivered a stirring defense of the constitutionality of the electric chair. Do you remember that case, Judge?”

  His Honor ignored the question.

  “You want your grandson to survive this?” the Assassin asked, his voice flat.

  Banks nodded, still transfixed by the monitor.

  “Then answer the question. Do you remember the case?”

  “Yes.”

  “You ruled that the electric chair was not cruel and unusual, right?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Do you remember the testimony of the doctor hired by Mr. Vincent’s lawyers?”

  The judge shuddered, perhaps at the thought of the testimony, perhaps at the specter of his own impending death. He took a furtive glance at the Assassin and then turned back to the monitor, breathing sporadically.

  “Make him answer,” the Client demanded. But the Assassin tuned out the voice in his earpiece.

  “The doctor testified that death by electrocution is an extremely violent and painful affair,” the Assassin said. “He testified about watching an inmate squirm as he died in the chair, the veins on the inmate’s neck standing out like steel bands. He said the temperature of the brain would have approached the boiling point of water and that when the coroner performed the post-electrocution autopsy, the liver was so hot it couldn’t be touched by human hands. Do you remember all that, Judge?”

  His Honor gave the slightest, smallest nod. The imperial power of the bench reduced to this—a shriveled and trembling old man.

  “How did you rule, Judge?”

  Silence. But the Assassin didn’t have time to wait him out.

  “How did you rule?” he asked more sharply.

  “I rejected the defendant’s motion.”

  The Assassin took a step toward the television. Two days ago he had broken into Banks’s home and replaced the GFCI outlet with a faulty one that wouldn’t trip the circuit when the water seeped into the high-voltage block on the back of the picture tube. Thirty thousand volts. He had replaced a few other outlets as well, so it would look like a case of faulty wiring, and he loosened the screws on the wooden brace supporting the television shelf to complete the accident scenario.

  All of this, he knew, would be considered entirely too coincidental for the city’s homicide detectives. But the Assassin believed in redundancy—a belt and suspenders approach—so he left two false leads. The detectives would pride themselves in ruling out an accidental death and suspecting foul play. But then they would immediately focus their investigation on the La Familia gang, concluding that this was a retaliatory strike for the contemptuous way Banks had sentenced a gang leader to death just last week. It was retaliatory, all right. But who would suspect an eight-year-old case?

  An eye for an eye. Wait until a judge crosses a gang noted for violence and you can literally get away with murder.

  The Assassin placed his free hand on top of the television and stared down at the judge. “You still believe the electric chair is not cruel and unusual?”

  “Don’t hurt my grandson. Please.”

  The Assassin felt a small pang of sympathy but quickly extinguished it. He had learned to suppress every emotion. “I’ve got no desire to harm the boy, Judge. Provided you’re ready to face your death sentence like a man.”

  “Don’t tell him that,” the Client hissed into the earpiece. “That’s not in the script. He needs to die wondering.”

  “You know, Judge,” the Assassin continued, “they say that when Jesse Tafero was executed in Florida, witnesses saw him clench his fists and convulse for about four minutes while smoke and sparks shot out of his death mask. Something about the sponges on his head not being properly placed.” There was more, but the Assassin was suddenly weary of this scripted approach to the old man’s death. The Client was sick. The judge just needed to die.

  “Any last words?” the Assassin asked. He placed his hand firmly on top of the television, preparing to send it and the shelf crashing into the Jacuzzi.

  “What are you doing?” the Client asked. “That’s not the end.”

  Without warning, the judge gasped and clutched at his chest. His eyes went wide as he convulsed and jerked back in the Jacuzzi, fighting for air. “Push the television!” the Client barked. “Push the television!”

  But the Assassin pressed the End Call button on his cell phone, turned his back on the thrashing judge, and walked calmly over to the bathroom counter. He powered down the video monitor of the judge’s grandson and the video feed for the Client. When he looked back over his shoulder, the judge had stopped moving, slipping peacefully down the side of the Jacuzzi, all but his head and shoulders submerged in the water.

  A heart attack. Fate had intervened and spared the judge the electric chair. The La Familia scapegoat wouldn’t be necessary. The Assassin began the tedious process of sanitizing the crime scene, focusing on the work at hand while trying to keep the guilt and emotions at bay. But the Assassin knew the emotions would eventually catch up with him. Only Hollywood hit men feel no remorse. In real life, the emotions eventually bubble to the surface.

  Like the last job. A true family man. Two days after the killing, the nightmares started. The Assassin almost lost his mind, saved by prescription drugs and a new job that demanded total focus. This one.

  Now, to preserve his sanity, he would immediately begin focusing on the precision planning required for the next job. One last high-profile hit and another big payday. Afterward, he could put this behind him forever. It was only fitting that his final assignment would be the most complicated and daring of his entire career, making Judge Banks’s carefully orchestrated death seem like child’s play. The elaborate machinery of death for the Assassin’s final unsuspecting victim was already well under construction.

  7

  Oliver Finney felt ridiculous. A grown man, sitting in a big New York conference room straight off the set of The Apprentice. He was the only one wearing a sports coat and tie; these television folks all dressed like a bunch of burglars—black on black. At the time he applied for a slot on Faith on Trial, it had seemed like a good idea. But he never really dreamed he’d be sitting here . . .

  “We really like the idea of a judge on this show representing the Christian faith,” said the man in the middle on the opposite side of the table. In Finney’s mind the guy fit to a T the stereotype for a director—like maybe this guy had himself been selected by central casting. The man pulled his gray hair back in a ponytail and looked over wire-rimmed glasses at Finney. He had on a ratty black T-shirt that covered a soft, little gut but exposed two skinny arms and one forearm tattoo. He wore a left earring so everybody would know he wasn’t completely out of touch with the younger culture. The others in the room all nodded vigorously when he spoke, as if their jobs depended on it.

  “Christians are always complaining about the judges who run this country,” the director continued.
What was his name? Something McCormack—Bruce or Barry or one of those B names—but a little different. Finney had never been good with names. “Now they’ll be cheering for one.”

  The room became quiet for a moment as the production team considered the delicious irony they were about to foist on Christians everywhere. A young woman at the end of the table practically smacked her lips while McCormack finished shuffling through Finney’s application. He put the papers down and stared at Finney for a moment—a director’s feeble attempt at intimidation, Finney supposed.

  “You’re my first choice, Judge. But I’ve got a couple of concerns. My first has to do with your reasons for being on this show. Your application is not entirely clear.”

  “Other than a million dollars for my favorite charity?” Finney asked. But they both knew that wasn’t the reason.

  “Yes. Other than that.”

  Finney slid forward in his seat. The situation called for blunt honesty, his specialty. “When you sit where I sit and see what I see, you get concerned about the next generation.” Finney surveyed the group, practically daring somebody to give him one of those patronizing media-elite smirks, the kind that try to make you feel stupid for defending traditional values. “Gang rapes. Crackheads. Last week I sentenced a fifteen-year-old kid for stabbing another kid thirty-seven times with a Phillips head screwdriver. The victim was fourteen.”

  Finney let out an exasperated breath. Even talking about this could be depressing, the relentless march of wasted lives. “You know how many of the kids that I’ve sentenced in the past two months have fathers living at home?” he asked McCormack.

  The director shook his head. “Not many?”

  “Try none,” Finney said. “Not one time did I have a father come to court and stand up for these fifteen- and sixteen-year-old kids. So what do I do? Hand down long prison sentences. Warehouse more and more of these kids in places where they learn how to become career criminals. Somehow we’ve got to break this chain. Somehow we’ve got to reach these kids. Maybe a few of them will watch this show. God knows, most of them will never set foot in church.”