The Judge

by Randy Singer

  Murphy had three children, all girls, aged twenty, fifteen, and twelve. He paid a small fortune each month in alimony and child support. At least he was supposed to.

  Nikki frowned at the reports. This was garbage. She’d found out the same information in a few hours on the Internet, everything except the death of McCormack’s daughter. Randolph’s goons hadn’t personally interviewed anyone. All they did was put nice binding on some reports that contained copies of official public records and a few pictures. Overall, it was worthless.

  All those ex-wives, Nikki thought, and not even one phone call by the investigators. What a waste of matrimonial spite.

  Javitts was boring with a capital B. A college football star, he had married one of the cheerleaders the summer before his senior year. A few years later, he traded her in for a more sophisticated model he met in law school, a classmate named Katrina Pershing. A month after they graduated, she became Katrina Pershing-Javitts. Five years later, she was Katrina Pershing again. As fate would have it, his college flame was busy dumping her second husband at about the same time, so the two decided to give marriage another try. The second time around turned out to be a charm, and as far as the investigators could tell, Javitts had been happily married for nearly fifteen years.

  He had two boys, both teens, and a raging desire to leave the grueling practice of law for the bright lights of a television judgeship. How he hooked up with McCormack and Murphy was unknown.

  None of the men or their families had any apparent connection with the defendants from the speedy-trial cases.

  Nikki tossed the worthless files on the passenger seat, flicked off the overhead light, and pulled away from her parking space. She started working her phone as soon as she had reception. She called the governor’s office first. Nobody there had ever heard of William Lassiter.

  Her next call was to Wellington Farnsworth. She gave him a quick synopsis of the information produced by Randolph’s investigators and explained that there was no William Lassiter in the governor’s office. She asked Wellington to think up some Westlaw search requests that would convey this information to Finney using the same codes that Finney had used. “Oh, and let’s tell him we’re working with Randolph on this,” Nikki instructed. “E-mail those search requests to me, and I’ll pull over someplace in Richmond where I can get wi-fi access and transfer them into Westlaw.” She could have just given Wellington the Westlaw password, but that would have taken her out of the code-breaking driver’s seat.

  Wellington said he’d send them right away.

  That done, Nikki put on the cruise control as she flew down the interstate and dreamed up some stories that might get the ex-wives talking. For McCormack’s and Murphy’s ex-wives, Nikki would say she was an attorney advising a new fiancée on whether she should sign a prenuptial agreement. For Katrina Pershing, Nikki would claim to be a casting director for a new judge show, trying to make sure that Javitts, the potential star, didn’t have too much personal baggage.

  With any luck, Nikki would dig up enough dirt to start a landfill. Hopefully, the boys had been slow with their spousal support payments.

  A few minutes after noon on Monday, his stomach growling, Finney logged on to the Internet in his condo and checked out the research trail on Westlaw. Someone had entered a number of searches an hour ago. Finney knew it would be Nikki and Wellington responding to his questions.

  He tried to focus on the Westlaw searches rather than his gnawing hunger. Finney had fasted before and knew the routine. The first few days he would feel like he was dying from hunger. Finney would get raging headaches and a thick coating on the tongue. Someone once told him that this was just the body cleansing itself of toxins. Days three and four were generally the worst for hunger pains and fatigue. Then his body would get used to the new routine, and he would actually increase his focus and productivity.

  But knowing that didn’t make these first few days any easier. Especially when Finney was already weak from cancer.

  He squinted through his reading glasses and wrote the capital letters from the searches down on a piece of paper and then slid the paper under a legal pad. After a few more minutes on the computer, he logged off and put the paper into the pocket of his shorts. He headed for the bathroom, moving slowly to avoid the dizziness that sometimes came if he sat for extended periods and rose too quickly. Once in the bathroom, he deciphered the message using the codes from his book.

  NO CONNECTION BETWEEN SPEEDY TRIAL SUSPECTS AND NAMES YOU PROVIDED ALSO NO WILLIAM LASSITER IN GOVERNORS OFFICE WE ARE STILL WORKING ON LOCATION OF ISLAND HAVE TEAMED WITH PRESTON RANDOLPH WHO REPS KLINE BUT HE DOESNT KNOW ABOUT CODES

  Finney ran his hands through his hair and tried to make sense of the information. The William Lassiter deal had seemed fishy to Finney all along. But the lack of a connection between the show’s bigwigs and the speedy-trial cases was a complete surprise. Finney thought for sure he had discovered the motive for the schemes Kline had been warned about. He hoped Nikki had checked all of the family members of Javitts, McCormack, and Murphy. She was a good investigator. He would have to trust her.

  He found it interesting that Nikki had “teamed” with Randolph and wondered whether that had been her idea or Randolph’s. In either event, he was reassured that Nikki was not sharing anything about the codes. The methods of his protégée brought an inward smile. Here Finney was on the island pulling information from Kline without telling her about the codes. And there Nikki was in the real world presumably doing the same thing with Randolph, Kline’s agent. That girl acts more like a daughter of mine every day, Finney thought.

  He considered sending a bunch of clues about the island’s location. He had been carefully noting wind patterns, temperature, sunrise, sunset, wildlife, and vegetation. Plus, he knew they had flown in on a Gulfstream IV without refueling. The range of that aircraft would provide a broad starting point.

  But putting all this data in a number of search requests would take forever. The people monitoring his computer would probably get suspicious. Besides, Finney had to focus on tonight’s plan first. If it worked, the location issue would take care of itself.

  45

  Finney called an early end to the card game and ran everyone out of his condo by eleven. He couldn’t help glancing up at the cameras a time or two as he got ready for bed. He put on his baggy nylon swim shorts and took off his T-shirt. He grabbed a cigar and padded out to his patio, where he kicked back in a lounger and lit up.

  Finney estimated the temperature to be about seventy-five or eighty, with a warm southeasterly wind that was in the ten- to fifteen-knot range. The moon was nearly full, reflecting off the ocean to illuminate the night, along with who knew how many billions of stars. This would be a nearly perfect night for visibility . . . which could cut both ways.

  He tried to keep his mind focused on the plan, but he couldn’t help thinking about the broader possibilities. Were the show’s producers just messing with the heads of the contestants, using one of the contestants to spread misinformation? If so, they were doing such a good job that they were about to have a full-scale revolt on their hands. Had somebody in the show’s production team really decided that a spectacular conclusion would require some type of catastrophe for the show’s runner-up—something that would look like divine intervention? If so, was it motivated by a desire to get ratings or a desire to rig the results? And if somebody was trying to rig the show, was it for religious reasons?

  As he pondered these issues and blew smoke into the night, Finney thought about his own reasons for being here. At fifty-nine years of age and battling lung cancer, Finney didn’t need this. He was here not because he wanted fame or adventure, but out of a sense of duty. He was willing to put his life on the line for the cause of Christ. The other contestants on the island obviously felt the same about their own religions.

  How many wars had been fought over religion? How many men and women had willingly died for their faith? Maybe he had written off a religio
us motivation too quickly. Though he still thought there might be some connection with the speedy-trial cases that Nikki just hadn’t found yet, he couldn’t rule out religion entirely. What if somebody involved in the production or financing of the show had recently converted to Islam or Hinduism or Buddhism? Or even Christianity? What if this were some misguided attempt to recreate a modern-day version of Elijah’s showdown with the prophets of Baal? The nation worships the winner’s god and the losing prophet dies.

  Why hadn’t he focused more on this angle before?

  Finney snuffed out his cigar, checked his Ironman wristwatch, and slipped inside to log on to his computer. He had just enough time to get a message out through Westlaw. But this was chapter 3 in his book, featuring a cipher so complicated that he couldn’t remember the key off the top of his head. He grabbed the copy of Cross Examination that he had checked out from the island’s library on the first day in order to keep the other contestants from getting their hands on it. He remembered the hidden message conveyed by the code in chapter 3—“Man looks at the outward appearance, but God looks at the heart.” Using this, he headed into the bathroom, away from the prying eyes of the camera, and worked backward to determine the key for the chapter 3 code.

  Armed with the key, he logged on to Westlaw and entered the searches necessary to convey his message. He logged off at precisely 11:20. He brushed his teeth and threw some dirty clothes on the bed and began folding them. When he was halfway done, he pushed them aside and crawled under the covers.

  Five minutes later, with the room completely dark, he began pulling some of the clothes under the covers with him. He piled them in a long line next to where he was lying, then pulled the covers over his head. He was pretty sure that anybody monitoring the cameras wouldn’t be able to see anything in the dark, but he didn’t want to take any chances.

  As quietly as possible, he slid out of bed and onto the floor. He reached up onto the bed and rearranged things a little so that the clothes would look as much like a sleeping body as possible. Then, recalling the camera angles he had been studying for the last few days, he crawled across the bedroom floor, slid along the dining room wall, and darted across the one spot where the cameras couldn’t be avoided.

  He slid through his patio door, grabbed the John Deere cap he had left on the lounger, and slipped into his docksiders, then climbed over his railing into the bushes. Peering out of the bushes, he allowed his eyes to adjust to the shadows of the moonlit night and scanned the resort property for signs of life. Gus and Horace had told Finney about a few of the fixed security cameras mounted at various spots on the property, and Finney could easily avoid them. He was more concerned with the ever-present security guards who patrolled the property. Finney had met at least six different guards during his time on the island.

  Lights shone from the windows of a few other condos, but there didn’t seem to be anybody milling around. Finney moved cautiously from bush to bush, staying in the shadows and bending at the waist as he jogged from one spot to the next. A few times he thought he heard a noise and stopped in his tracks. But the only sound was the steady breaking of the small ocean waves and the distant echo of music. He made it unnoticed to a small grove of trees maybe fifty yards from the beach where the Hobie Cat and the WaveRunners were located. Finney took one final look around, crouched over, and ran down to the boats.

  He checked the WaveRunners first and confirmed that the ignition keys were missing. That didn’t surprise Finney. But the next discovery did. The WaveRunners were secured by a metal chain and padlock. The chain connected them to the Hobie Cat.

  He crawled over and took a seat in the sand on the opposite side of the Hobie from the condos, peering over one of the boat’s hulls and the canvas trampoline that served as the boat’s deck. He detected no movement on the resort premises and started inspecting the metal chain that somebody had woven around the hull of the Hobie, through a canvas strap, and around the shaft of the mainsail. The chain then snaked across the sand and looked like it was anchored to the shed. Another chain connected the Hobie with the WaveRunners.

  He had never seen these chains before. Must be the security guards unlocked the boats at sunrise. It seemed like an awful lot of trouble, unless they were worried about the contestants escaping.

  Escaping from what? Theoretically, any of the contestants should be free to quit the game at any moment. So why were the people running the show so paranoid about the contestants getting off this island—or at least away from this resort?

  He could ponder those questions later. For now, he fingered the padlock securing the first chain around the Hobie and considered his options. If he had a knife, he could slit the canvas strap on the hull, but the boat would still be locked because of the way the chain wound around the hull and mainsail shaft. He tried pulling on the chain anchored to the shed, but it held fast. Even if he could somehow undo that chain, the Hobie would still be chained to the WaveRunners.

  He scanned the condos again—still quiet. He remembered the surf kayak they had shown the contestants on the first day, leaning against the shed. Nobody had bothered to use it yet because it was too much work. With the kayak, Finney certainly wouldn’t be able to go as far or as fast. But he was running out of options.

  He pulled his wristwatch close to his chest and pressed the button to illuminate the display: 11:52. Not much time.

  Staying low, he moved quickly across the open sand to the shadows of the shed. The surf kayak and paddle were still there, leaning against the shed, unlocked. He felt his heart pounding, his breathing hard and uneven, as he hoisted the kayak over his right shoulder and grabbed the paddle in his left hand.

  He walked calmly across the sand toward the water. How could he sneak around carrying a kayak? If he got spotted, he would act like this was the most natural thing in the world. A midnight kayaking expedition. Didn’t everybody do that once in a while?

  He kicked his docksiders off in the sand and carried the kayak into the breaking surf until the water was thigh deep. He climbed on top of the board, locked his feet into the canvas straps, and took one final glance over his shoulder. The coast was still clear as Finney started paddling. It was approaching midnight, he knew.

  He cut diagonally across the small breaking waves, alternating paddle strokes as he distanced himself from the shore. The exertion, or maybe it was the tension, brought on a small coughing fit, but Finney managed to keep it under control. He looked back over his shoulder again at the fading beach area. He was probably one hundred feet away now, hunched over as he paddled, as if that somehow might make him less visible.

  He could have gone faster, but he concentrated on making every stroke as quiet as possible, slipping the paddle in and out of the water at just the right angle. Still, each splash of water sounded exaggerated to Finney, and the moon felt like a spotlight shining overhead.

  He turned for another furtive glance, nearly losing his balance as he did so. This time, as if they had appeared from nowhere, he saw two figures walking on the path along the beach. They were looking straight ahead and talking, but Finney stopped the boat and braced, using his paddle, then turned the kayak parallel to the shore. They were male and female figures; the silhouettes looked like those of Victoria Kline and Bryce McCormack. They took a few more steps and turned toward the water, directly in line with Finney and his kayak.

  Finney saw the female point and knew he had been spotted. He turned the kayak toward the mouth of the bay and started paddling faster. He heard a few shouts from the shore but didn’t look back. He forced his arms to act like pistons, pounding out the rhythm of a steady stroke, no longer hunched over but sitting up straight. He angled his kayak to the right so he could make a long swinging turn past the coral reef that separated this cove from the next. His lungs started aching and he coughed as he paddled.

  Lactic acid quickly invaded his muscles, tightening his arms. The blood flowing to his forearms made them feel swollen like Popeye’s, and now they were bind
ing up. He had to back off the pace, and he risked another glance toward shore.

  The figures were more distant now, but there was no mistaking what was happening. Two large males—muscled security guards—were unlocking the WaveRunners and dragging them into the water.

  Finney spit some phlegm into the ocean, turned around, and started paddling faster.

  46

  Less than five minutes later, the great escape was over. The WaveRunners cruised to a stop beside an exhausted Finney, their wakes nearly swamping the surf kayak. Finney braced his paddle in the water and leaned into the waves, coughing and wheezing as he feathered the paddle back and forth. After the waves subsided, Finney dropped the paddle across his lap, his shoulders slumping in fatigue.

  “Get on the back, Tarzan,” one of the security guards said.

  Finney could have resisted, but it would only prolong his humiliation. He handed his paddle to one guard and reached out his hand to the other. The guard took it and helped Finney climb onto the back of his WaveRunner. His partner tied the kayak to the back of the other one.

  “What were you thinking?” the guard asked.

  Finney didn’t respond. He sat behind the man, his hands braced on the seat, struggling for breath. The world was spinning.

  The guard cranked the throttle, and the WaveRunner lurched forward, nearly throwing Finney off. Finney grabbed the shoulders of the guard and held on.

  “You on a midnight cruise, Judge?” the guard yelled over his shoulder.

  “You going to read me my Miranda rights?” Finney asked.

  “You’re not under arrest, Judge. I’m just trying to keep you from being shark food.” They bounced across the bay at speeds designed to impress the onlookers.