The Judge

by Randy Singer

  Just then an iguana darted across their path, startling Finney. “Not to mention the iguanas,” Dr. Kline said. “Native to that band of islands as well.”

  They walked on a few steps in silence. What Dr. Kline said made sense, except for the style of the architecture. Somehow it seemed out of character for a Pacific island.

  “And your guess, Judge Finney?”

  “I was going to say we were on an island too,” Finney said. It was important to keep the poor country lawyer routine going as long as possible. “Somewhere in the middle of an ocean—most probably the Atlantic or Pacific.” He glanced at Kline out of the corner of his eye. It was possible that somewhere under those large-framed sunglasses the pretty eyes were smiling, but he doubted it. “But I’ll tell you one thing: it’s way too hot for paradise.”

  12

  They gathered back at Paradise Courthouse a few minutes before nine. Finney had stuffed two suits and one sports coat with matching slacks in his suitcase. For his first court appearance, he wore a two-button suit coat with a blue windowpane pattern and pleated pants that Nikki had begged him to leave in Norfolk. “You’ll lose everybody under thirty with those pants,” Nikki said. But based on what he’d seen so far of the other contestants, the under-thirty crowd was going to be hard to win no matter what.

  The inside of the courthouse could have been transplanted from Norfolk, or just about any other jurisdiction in the Commonwealth of Virginia, except that the hardwood floors had been recently varnished and showed no signs of wear. The harsh television lights bounced off the flat surfaces of the judge’s dais, the counsel tables, and the floor, creating a kind of antiseptic glare that Finney found disconcerting. Still, it was a courtroom and it therefore felt like home.

  Finney had been assigned to sit at the table on the right side of the courtroom, next to the ever-serious Kareem Hasaan. A bad spot, Finney thought, since Hasaan had him beat in both the physique and clothing departments. The Arab’s suit screamed money, a dark-gray pin-striped three-button model with a matching pocket square and wide lapels. A monogrammed shirt, cuff links, the works. No pleats on this guy, of course. Finney leaned away from his tablemate—no sense making it easy for the cameramen to get them both in the same shot.

  The other three contestants shared the opposite counsel table—a real mishmash of styles. The Swami opted for casual chic, with a wrinkled sports coat and open-collar shirt. Dr. Ando apparently decided to dress the part of a Buddhist monk, his one-size-fits-all robe swallowing his pint-size body. And then there was the stunning Dr. Kline.

  Finney stole a few sideways glances at Kline, not the way a younger man might look, not the way he noticed the Swami stealing glances, but the way a lawyer sizes up opposing counsel before a case, wondering how much the natural beauty will convert to jury appeal. Kline had large blue eyes, accentuated by dark eye shadow, and a slender nose. She had a broad mouth and pouty lips, and she wore her blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. Even when she was in a skirt suit, you could tell that Victoria didn’t miss many days at the gym—there was no hiding the definition in those calf muscles.

  Finney thought about the young men watching the show. Maybe he should have brought Nikki Moreno to argue for Christianity. Except, of course, that she wasn’t a Christian yet. But the judge was working on it. Another reason, he reminded himself, for doing this program. Nikki had promised to rally support and handle PR for the judge’s cause. For Christ’s cause. To do so, she would have to watch every minute of every show.

  It would help Finney define his style. He’d be speaking to a lot of folks just like Nikki, so he would pretend that she was his only audience. Every speech he made, every question he asked, every answer he gave would be articulated with Nikki Moreno in mind. If he could convince Nikki, he would probably end up reaching thousands of others as well.

  Before they started rolling, McCormack filled them in on a few logistics. They would be on Paradise Island for two weeks. A week from Friday, everybody would be sent home except the two finalists, who would be asked to stay for an additional day. The method of choosing the finalists would be revealed later.

  As with other innovative reality shows, the network was running a pilot during the summer months to see what kind of ratings the show would generate. If it did well, a sequel would follow next year.

  Throughout the month of June, the show would air twice a week—Tuesdays and Thursdays. After those eight episodes, they would skip Tuesday, July 4, and the final episode would be aired on Thursday, July 6. They would be filming something most every day, and editing would be tight. Most reality shows were recorded weeks or even months before they aired. But not this one. They had considered doing the whole thing live, but it would have cost too much to keep everybody on the island for five straight weeks. So they would be doing the next best thing. The first two weeks of the show would air while the contestants were still on the island. The last three weeks would air immediately afterward. McCormack reminded everyone that they had signed a confidentiality agreement promising they wouldn’t divulge any aspects of the filming or results until after the final episode aired.

  It would not be unusual for segments shot one day to be edited and aired the next. The contestants should treat this like live television, because that’s essentially what it was. In fact, if the contestants messed up royally, they could be pretty certain that their mistakes would be featured in the next show, since that kind of thing makes for good television. Even Finney’s stomach got a little riled by that comment—the prospect of the entire nation watching his biggest faux pas.

  Without asking for questions, McCormack stepped aside and started counting down the seconds. Tammy toed her spot at the front of the courtroom, looking glamorous but stiff as she addressed the contestants.

  “Each of you has been chosen to represent one of the prominent faith groups in America,” she said on cue. “You’ve been selected because you have a rare combination of theological and legal training and because you are passionate advocates for your faith. In addition, your various life experiences demonstrate that your faith can help you survive the worst of times.”

  Tammy paused and turned woodenly, looking into a different camera that apparently represented the viewing audience. “Each of those traits will be put to the test in the upcoming weeks as these advocates defend their faith in this courtroom and try to live their faith on Paradise Island. We will put the advocates through a literal hell on earth because we know that Americans are not just looking for a faith that makes sense but also a faith that survives when everything else is falling apart.

  “The rules are simple. Each week you will see the contestants advocate for their faith in this courtroom. And in each episode, you will see the advocates confront the issues that an authentic faith helps us address—temptation, injustice, trauma, sickness, shame, forgiveness, and love.”

  Tammy turned to face the contestants again as Finney wondered what the producers had up their sleeves that could address all of those issues. His mind flashed back to the release he had signed—maybe he should have read it with more care.

  “This show will use an innovative combination of two types of verdicts. The first verdict will be delivered by a judge here on Paradise Island—a certified agnostic whom you will meet in a few minutes. That verdict will be revealed immediately following the courtroom activity for that week. Our viewers will learn of this verdict when the show airs on Tuesday nights. A second verdict—a jury verdict—will be rendered by the viewers themselves. Our viewers will vote by phone following the airing of the Tuesday night show for a period of four hours. Their jury verdict will be announced on the Thursday night show.

  “For each judge and jury verdict you receive, Faith on Trial will make a donation of fifty thousand dollars to a charity of your choice. In addition, two finalists will be chosen to compete on the very last show through a method that will be revealed later. The overall winner will be awarded one million dollars for his or her favorite char
ity.”

  Finney could hardly imagine a better scenario. Even if he performed miserably and never obtained a verdict from the agnostic judge, he was pretty sure that the Christian viewers, who would far outnumber the viewers from the other faith groups, would grant him a jury verdict nearly every show. But just as he was thinking about his charity of choice, Tammy turned to another camera and flashed a nervous smile.

  “There is, of course, a twist,” she said. “We want to see how persuasive our contestants are, not just gauge the number of viewers watching from any given faith group. Therefore, we’ve conducted an independent poll of television viewers who said they were planning on watching the show.” While Tammy was talking, a large flat-screen monitor automatically lowered from the ceiling behind the judge’s bench, and a chart appeared on the screen.

  “Judge Finney, we found that 74 percent of potential viewers labeled themselves as Christians already. Mr. Hasaan, 4 percent of potential viewers said they were Muslim. Mr. Hadji, one percent are Hindu . . .”

  “Cool,” the Swami said.

  “One percent Buddhist, Dr. Ando. And, Dr. Kline, when we subtract our Jewish viewers, that leaves approximately 15 percent who are either agnostic or belong to some other religion not already mentioned.”

  Victoria Kline nodded, looking determined to double that number before the show was over. Finney coughed, but nothing major, just a polite little smoker’s hack.

  “To win a jury verdict, you must show you are making converts,” Tammy said. “Which means that you will be judged based on the percentage of viewers above this baseline percentage who are calling to support your cause.”

  Finney stared at the percentage for Christians as if by sheer willpower he could reduce that huge number to something more reasonable. Seventy-four percent? Either the show’s producers had surveyed every Christian in America, or a lot of nominal Christians who hadn’t seen the inside of a church in years answered the survey. Or they had rigged the show.

  “All rise!” the court clerk shouted. “The Honorable Judge Howard Javitts presiding. All those with pleas to enter and arguments to be heard should now draw near. God save this honorable court.” The clerk looked at Dr. Kline and smirked. “Assuming, of course, there is a God.”

  “You may be seated,” His Honor said.

  Javitts glared at the contestants as if daring them to challenge his authority. His square face featured wrinkle lines that creased deep into his forehead when he scowled, which was most of the time. His broad and flat nose gave him the appearance of a former heavyweight boxer who now took out his aggression in the courtroom. The man was probably gunning for his own judge show when this stint was over, Finney reasoned.

  Javitts lectured the contestants on the rules of decorum, his bass voice filling the courtroom. The man had the voice of God, Finney thought, though not His visage. Finney preferred a smiling Jesus, one who enjoyed us too much to be constantly frowning.

  Javitts finished his lecture and immediately dished out the first assignment. Court would reconvene tomorrow at 9:00 a.m., and each contestant would give an eight-minute opening statement—not a minute more, because the judge himself would be keeping time. Were there any questions?

  Hearing none, the judge adjourned court for the day, and the cameras stopped rolling for a moment. “That’s a wrap,” McCormack said.

  Murphy strolled to the front of the courtroom with his hands in his pockets to address the contestants. “Most of you have probably already discovered that we’ve placed a computer with Internet access in your room. We want you to feel free to use that computer for research, for notes, whatever.

  “However, keep in mind that your Internet access will be monitored and, in fact, filtered. Any attempts to access video of the shows already aired, or to access press stories or other information about the shows, or to communicate with anyone outside of Paradise Island about any aspects of the show, will result in your immediate dismissal. The computers are provided for the purpose of doing research about the various faith issues involved in this reality show and for that purpose only. Are there any questions about that?”

  Nobody raised a hand, so Murphy continued. “The camera crews will be following you back to your condos and shooting some footage tonight. Plus, as I’m sure you noticed, there are wall-mounted bubble cameras in every room of your condo except the bathroom. Feel free to go through the same types of prayer or meditation ceremonies that you would on any other night. It wouldn’t hurt if we caught some of that on camera to use as B-roll.”

  This, Finney reminded himself, was what he hated most about television. Everything was so phony. Stage a little prayer time for me, Murphy was basically saying. Viewers might be fascinated to see the Swami burning incense and performing rituals in front of some small shrine, or Kareem on his prayer rug facing Mecca, but Finney’s prayers were much less exotic. Besides, he didn’t like the idea of praying for show.

  Jesus must have seen a day like this coming. When you pray, don’t be like the hypocrites who pray standing in the temple and on the street corners, Jesus had warned. But when you pray, go into your private room, close your door, and pray to your Father in secret.

  The problem on Paradise Island was the lack of a private room. There was no place to pray secretly except . . . Wait! There was one place where the cameras wouldn’t follow him. A bathroom was not exactly the first thing that would spring to mind when you think of a prayer closet, but then again, privacy is privacy.

  13

  “What do you think about Skyler Hadji?” Bryce McCormack asked. He took a swig from his iced tea and eyed the beer in Murphy’s hand. There was a price to pay for being an obsessive perfectionist as a reality show director. Part of it was not drinking on nights during the shoot.

  “Are you kidding?” Murphy replied. “He’s perfect. Makes me want to convert to Hinduism.” He took another pull on his beer and set it down on the patio next to his cushioned lounge chair. “Assuming they can drink.”

  “They say his condo already looks like a Hindu temple—idols everywhere, incense, the whole works,” Bryce said.

  Murphy didn’t respond.

  “What about Finney?” Bryce asked.

  A pause as both men studied the night. “Reminds me of my old man,” Murphy confessed, looking out at the ocean. The offhand comment surprised Bryce. There were a few things the two men didn’t talk about, an unwritten rule. Murphy’s domineering father was his forbidden subject; for Bryce, it was a daughter’s suicide.

  But there was something about the island breeze and the Jimmy Buffett music that caused a man to let his guard down. Bryce could feel it too, and he was stone-cold sober.

  “You think he’s that bad?” Bryce asked.

  Murphy considered this for a moment. “Nobody’s that bad. Plus, Finney’s too cagey to come across looking anything like my old man. But he’s got a lot of the same characteristics.”

  “And never got along with his own son,” Bryce added, knowing this was going through Murphy’s mind as well.

  “Imagine that.”

  Bryce let the silence hang for a few minutes. He had met Murphy five years ago, long after the man had changed his first name, last name, drug habits (mostly), and occupation. They started doing reality shows together, and the two developed a solid friendship. He knew enough about Cameron Murphy’s father not to push the issue. Bryce’s own father had been proud of his son’s brief Hollywood success and even the reality shows Bryce now found himself directing. But Pastor Ronald Martin had not merely withheld approval; he’d actually led a boycott against his son’s most recent reality show offering. It didn’t help when Marriage Under Fire got dumped after its first season.

  “What’s New York think about the buzz?” McCormack asked, sensing they needed a change in subject.

  It was dark, but he could hear the smile in Murphy’s voice. “This thing is hot, Bryce. The Anti-Defamation League is fired up, screaming loudly. After our teasers, the right-wing fundamentalists a
re thinking about joining them.”

  My teasers, Bryce thought. Murphy was the producer, but Bryce and a screenwriter friend had brainstormed the concepts for the spots. Temptation, trials, and faith. One of the teasers featured Tammy in the smallest of bikinis, which promised to test the resolve of the male contestants to keep the faith. The spots made Desperate Housewives promos look like teasers for Father Knows Best.

  Murphy burped, his way of rubbing in the fact that he was enjoying a beer while Bryce played the prude. The thing that drove Bryce nuts was that he ended up with the beer gut while Murphy’s incredible metabolism burned away every ounce of fat on his body.

  “Christians are so predictable,” Murphy said. “They’re saying it doesn’t treat faith with the proper respect. Another example of the Hollywood crowd being out of touch. All that crap. Our network execs pulled the ads right on schedule, promising a show respectful of our valued religious diversity. Or some nonsense like that.”

  The whirlwinds of controversy, Bryce thought, blowing money right out of the trees. You couldn’t buy this kind of publicity. They were fast becoming The Passion of the reality show genre. Or perhaps The Da Vinci Code was a more apt analogy—something the religious Right could denounce while they all read it.

  “I even sent my old man an anonymous letter with a copy of the promo tape for the show,” Murphy said. “He’ll probably be leading the charge.”

  Bryce smiled at the thought but also grasped the underlying desperation that it signaled. “Murph, this show’s gonna work,” Bryce said. “And if it doesn’t, we’ll bounce back. We always do.”

  “No,” Murphy said, barely loud enough to be heard above Jimmy Buffett. “There’s no second chance this time. This one’s got to work.”

  McCormack sighed and finished his iced tea. Murphy was a talented producer but one who had lost the fun of the business a long time ago. Ratings and reputation meant everything to Murphy. Lately, he hadn’t had much of either.