The Judge

by Randy Singer

  Finney realized he had silenced the room with his sanctimonious lecture, but he didn’t care. McCormack had asked the question. Finney was too old and too sick to worry about what other people might think.

  McCormack jotted a few notes while the silence hung in the air. “Fair enough,” he said when he had finished. “Which leads me to the second issue.” He paused, apparently at a loss about how best to phrase this. “It says here you’ve got metastatic lung cancer.”

  The “c” word sucked the remaining air out of the room. Though they all knew the facts, McCormack’s saying it out loud made the youngsters stare at Finney as if he were already a ghost.

  So Finney decided it was time to loosen things up a little. The last several months had taught him how awkward it could be for healthy people to be around a cancer patient. “Oh,” Finney said, glancing around, “I must have the wrong show. I didn’t know I’d stumbled into the WWE studio.”

  Nobody grinned. “It’s not championship wrestling,” McCormack said matter-of-factly, “but it’s not Jeopardy! either. Faith on Trial will test you spiritually, intellectually, emotionally—” he paused so the point would not be lost on Finney—“and physically.”

  “Such as?”

  “You know I can’t provide details.”

  Finney was tired of playing games. He wasn’t accustomed to meetings he didn’t control. And he felt another coughing fit coming on.

  “Is it something a fifty-nine-year-old cancer patient can do or not?” he asked.

  The director hesitated for a second or two, just long enough to convey his concern. “I think so.”

  “Then where do I sign?”

  McCormack looked to his left and his right. Nobody registered an objection. “Congratulations, Judge Finney,” he said, sliding a sheaf of papers across the table. “It looks like the future of Christianity is resting squarely on your shoulders.”

  “Thanks,” Finney said, though the word was cut short by a cough. He put his fist over his mouth and hacked away while the others watched wide-eyed as if he might kick the bucket at any minute.

  “I think it’s getting better,” Finney said.

  The paperwork was preposterous. According to the documents, Finney released the show, the producers, and anybody associated with the enterprise from any and all claims of whatsoever kind or nature. There was a full page listing all the dire consequences that would develop, including lawsuits for injunctions and a two-million-dollar liquidated damages payment, if the contestants divulged any information about the show’s results before all of the episodes had aired.

  The release went on for pages, explaining all the dangers facing the participants and all the reasons they couldn’t sue the show—not for injury or death or fraud or deception or breach of contract or loss of consortium. Finney laughed out loud at the last one. “Loss of consortium” would be the loss of a spouse’s companionship and physical affections due to an injury. Some New York lawyer obviously had too much time on his hands. Finney had been a widower for several years.

  “Is this a reality show or a POW camp?” Finney asked.

  “Lawyers,” McCormack said as if that explained everything.

  Finney skimmed quickly through the boilerplate, content in the knowledge that most of this stuff wouldn’t hold up in court anyway. He flipped to the end and found the place for his signature.

  “You don’t want to read it?” McCormack asked.

  “I know what it says,” Finney responded. Actually, he was rushing to sign because he felt yet another coughing spell coming on. “Basically, I’m signing my life away.”

  McCormack’s mouth formed a thin line, and he didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. Finney had spent the last twenty years reading the eyes of witnesses. Compared to the cons Finney dealt with on a daily basis, McCormack was an open book.

  You have no idea, McCormack was saying.

  8

  “We lost the rabbi?” Cameron Murphy repeated in disbelief. The executive producer of Faith on Trial ran his fingers through close-cropped brown hair, then subconsciously rubbed the stubble of his beard. “How can we lose a rabbi?” He stood and shook his head. “What else can we mess up? This is our last preproduction meeting, folks. We’ve got one week. One week!” He cursed through clenched teeth.

  Everyone around the table except Bryce McCormack winced. Bryce had known Murphy too well for too long. He had known the producer would explode when he learned the news. In fact, Bryce had secretly counted down the seconds as the casting assistant stammered through the news. Liftoff, he thought just as Murphy exploded.

  Halfway down the conference table, the assistant casting director spoke softly. “The Anti-Defamation League got to him,” she said. “They’ve been making a lot of noise about how inappropriate this show is—fosters competition and hate among religions, the Jews have suffered enough from religious bigotry, that type of thing. Rabbi Demsky wanted some assurances we couldn’t give him.”

  “Like what?” Murphy sputtered. “What was he asking?”

  The young woman fumbled through her notes for a second. McCormack thought about bailing her out but decided against it. If she planned on being the lead director someday, she’d have to learn how to take the heat. “Not allowing the contestants to denigrate one another’s faiths. No proselytizing people of other faiths. Plus, he wanted a complete dossier on the Muslim contestant—”

  Murphy strung together a creative string of curse words and then apparently remembered that a fair number of the folks around the table were Jewish. He shook his head and stood to get a refill on his coffee. “Why didn’t he just ask to direct the show? We could have given him Bryce’s job.” Murphy reached the counter and poured himself a cup. “This is reality TV, not a scholarly symposium at the Guggenheim.”

  Murphy returned to his seat without further profanity (a minor miracle) and turned to the assistant casting director again. “Who’s the backup?”

  “Rabbi David Cohen,” the woman said hopefully. She passed a file down the table to Murphy. “Rabbinical studies at Hebrew University. Law degree from Columbia.”

  “And how do we know the Anti-Defamation League won’t get to him?”

  “We don’t know for sure. But he doesn’t seem the type to be intimidated by anybody.”

  Murphy took a sip of black coffee and glanced through the file. “I remember this guy,” he said tersely. “Too old. We’ve already got the judge and that Buddha dude. We don’t need another old guy.” He shot a look at Bryce, who stared back over wire-rimmed glasses. Bryce was two years older but hadn’t aged as well as Murphy, a fact that Murphy brought up whenever possible. Unlike Murphy, Bryce let nature take its course—no hair color, no plastic surgery, no LASIK surgery. The cumulative effects cost him the appearance of ten years. “No offense, McCormack.”

  Bryce McCormack showed Murphy his middle finger. He was one of the few folks around the table who could get away with it.

  The assistant slid another file toward Murphy. “Levi Katz is thirty-three and an up-and-comer in a big New York law firm. A little weak on religious studies but very camera friendly.”

  Camera friendly. A euphemism for young and good-looking, words that nobody used for fear of getting sued. Except for Murphy. After all, he was the producer. Laws for mere mortals didn’t apply to him. Murphy glanced at the young Levi Katz’s picture.

  “What’d you think of this guy?” he asked Bryce.

  “Orthodox Jew,” Bryce said, sounding bored. “Serious about his faith. I don’t remember what skeletons he had in his closet.”

  Murphy checked the file. “Fooled around on his wife,” Murphy said. “Don’t we already have one of those?”

  Bryce hitched a shoulder. “It could still serve its purpose.”

  Murphy didn’t look convinced. “What kind of medical condition does this Levi Katz have?” he asked, flipping through the file again. “All I see in here is a blood condition he’s taking medication for. How does that qualify as life t
hreatening?”

  This time the casting assistant was barely audible. “That’s all he’s got, Mr. Murphy.”

  Murphy sighed, a signal that these people could never get anything right. “That won’t work,” he barked. “A life-threatening medical condition—we’ve had that requirement in place from day one.”

  The table grew silent. The casting crew were apparently fresh out of Jewish candidates with life-threatening medical conditions, theological training, a shameful secret, and if possible, a legal background.

  For the next half hour, they discussed whether to do the show with three older contestants or to conduct an expedited search for a suitable replacement. It was Bryce McCormack who finally came up with an idea that could turn this setback into ratings gold. The Passion principle, he called it—a lesson from the extraordinary success of The Passion of the Christ. “Embrace the controversy,” he lectured. “Tell the world that we won’t back down. We believe in a free marketplace of religion with no rules that would interfere with a robust debate. But just to show what great egalitarians we are, we will agree to give Rabbi Demsky five full minutes on our first show to tell the world why they shouldn’t watch us.”

  Heads turned toward McCormack as if he’d lost his mind. Who had ever heard of such a thing? But they all had to admit that embracing the controversy had worked for Mel Gibson.

  Before the meeting was over, they agreed to recommend it to the suits. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Murphy said to Bryce after the others had dispersed.

  “Controversy,” Bryce said, smiling like a madman, “is a reality show’s best friend.”

  The Assassin checked and rechecked the final punch list Friday night. Professional killers don’t operate on emotion or instinct. They plan. Then they check every detail of the plan. Twice. Then they execute, pushing aside every emotion. Otherwise, they don’t survive.

  He had survived the last job better than most others in his profession would have. The coroner had ruled the death accidental. The Assassin had even thought about going to the funeral, but he knew investigators would be there surveying the crowd. The mental images of the old man croaking in the Jacuzzi had lasted only a few weeks. Soon the Assassin was consumed with planning his next job, sweating over every detail and developing backup plans for every contingency.

  That’s why the Assassin’s services didn’t come cheap. The down payment for the Faith on Trial job had already been confirmed. He would get five hundred thousand dollars up front, wired to an offshore bank. The Assassin would transfer the funds at least three times before they reached their final destination. Another two hundred thousand would come once the Assassin reached the island. The rest of the money—eight hundred thousand—would be paid after the successful hit.

  The total of one-point-five million dollars, though it might sound like a lot of money to most people, was actually low for a job like this. High exposure meant high risk. And what could generate more exposure than death on a high-profile reality show? A federal investigation would follow. After the job, the Assassin would have to undergo a complete makeover—nose, chin, eyes, hair, weight, everything. Plus, the expenses would be substantial.

  But the Assassin wasn’t complaining about his fee. After all, one-point-five million dollars was more than the prize money for the winner’s charity of choice.

  The Assassin would earn every penny.

  Part 2

  Contestants

  Strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends.

  —Shakespeare

  No wise combatant underestimates their antagonist.

  —Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

  9

  At least the show is transporting us in style. Finney climbed on board the network’s Gulfstream G450 with the other Faith on Trial contestants, preparing to leave Teterboro Airport in New Jersey for a top-secret set location that the producers took great pains to conceal. Cameron Murphy joined them a few minutes later.

  He introduced himself to the contestants and collected watches, cell phones, computers, and PDAs. He cleared his throat and made a few curious announcements.

  “You’ve got a long flight ahead of you, so relax and get some sleep,” he said, looking from one contestant to the next. “You’re going to need it.

  “We’ll explain the official rules of the game when we’re on location, during our first day of shooting, which is when the game starts. However, from this point on, pretty much everything you do or say will be recorded on camera. You need to wear your microphones at all times, except when you’re sleeping or in the bathroom.” As Murphy spoke, a couple of cameras were already running, one focused on him and one scanning the contestants. “Everything we catch on film is fair game for the show. And I do mean everything.”

  At this, Murphy looked at the younger contestants, including a young female scientist named Victoria Kline. She had introduced herself to Finney with a firm handshake and a hard gaze. Apparently, Murphy felt no need to lecture Finney about extracurricular activity.

  “While we’re shooting, you’ll be prohibited from interacting with camera or audio crews or your director, Bryce McCormack, or myself. It will feel awkward at first, but after a while, you’ll get used to ignoring us and you’ll feel like the cameras are not even there.”

  Murphy hesitated for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure how to phrase this next part. “As you know, you’ll be required to defend your faith over the next two weeks, and I think all of you will be very persuasive. But you need to know that Faith on Trial is not just about defending your faith; it’s also about living your faith under the most stressful circumstances imaginable. So if you’re not ready to do that . . . this is your last chance to opt out.”

  None of the contestants moved, including Finney. He knew how reality shows worked. He would be ready for anything they threw at him.

  “I’m scheduled to leave on another plane a little later, so I’ll see you on location,” Murphy said. “I’m not going to ask if you’ve got questions because I know you’ve got a ton of questions I can’t answer. That’s something you’ll just have to get used to.”

  The man had an arrogance that Finney didn’t like. What was it with these TV people? A cocky producer. A surly director. And Finney thought lawyers were bad!

  Murphy turned toward the door, but Finney blurted out his question anyway. “Is this a nonsmoking flight?”

  Victoria groaned and the others looked at Finney as if he’d just proposed a suicide mission.

  “Yes, Judge Finney. I’m afraid it is.”

  At forty-one thousand feet, Finney met his match in the person of the young man sitting across from him—Skyler Hadji, or Swami Skyler Hadji, as the kid called himself. Finney almost laughed when they first shook hands. The guy couldn’t have been a day over thirty. With his shaggy blond hair, light-blue eyes, slender build, and serious tan, the “Swami” had California surfer dude written all over him.

  “I’m not a real swami,” he confessed almost in a whisper. “It’s just a nickname my friends gave me.”

  Turns out the Swami was the chosen advocate for Hinduism, a passionate convert who embraced the faith after his acting career hit the rocks. He legally changed his name and traveled to India for two years to study with a leader of the Bhakti sect of Hinduism, then returned to California enlightened and focused. He attended the University of Southern California Law School and graduated near the top of his class. His goal, he said, was to represent the workers in India being abused by corporate America. As soon as he won this reality show.

  After a few hours of boredom on the flight, the Swami suggested a few hands of Texas hold ’em. He talked two cameramen into playing and, after the other contestants refused, Judge Finney as well.

  A half hour later, the chips were piled high in front of the Swami, who always seemed to know just when to hold and when to bet. Finney started chewing on the stub of a cigar, but it was apparently no match for the Swami’s serious card karma, as he called it. Though Finney
was losing, he couldn’t help but like this kid. The other contestants seemed to be taking themselves seriously, but the Swami was obviously intent on going with the flow.

  “All but one,” Finney said as he pushed a large pile of chips to the middle of the table. The two cameramen each raised an eyebrow and folded, but the Swami barely moved. He closed his eyes, cards held in front of him, and hummed in a low voice. He uttered Vishnu’s name a few times—something he had done on every major hand (“You ought to try it, Judge O”)—and then opened his eyes to glance at Finney and the cameraman standing behind Finney, one of two who had been filming the entire game.

  The Swami smiled and started counting Finney’s chips. “I’ll call,” he said, shoving a big pile of his own chips to the middle of the table, “and raise you one.”

  Finney flicked his last chip in as well. The only reason he had held it back in the first place was so that the Swami would have to reveal his cards first. It would make the look on the kid’s face that much sweeter.

  Finney liked his chances. There were five cards showing on the table: two aces, a jack, a ten and a deuce. In his hand Finney held another ten and a useless six, meaning that the Swami would have to beat two pairs—aces over tens—or lose the biggest hand of the night.

  The Swami laid down the cards in his hand—two queens. His aces and queens were more than a match for Finney’s hand. The Swami raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “You’ve been a good sport, Judge O.”

  But before Finney could reveal his own hand, he started coughing. He pulled the cigar out of his mouth and placed it on the table, covering his mouth with his free hand as he turned his head and hacked. His other hand, the one holding his cards, dropped down near his lap.