The Judge

by Randy Singer

  A few minutes later, a slightly less cocky Nikki Moreno hung up the phone and called Wellington. “We need some new search requests to send Judge Finney another message,” Nikki said. “Preston Randolph has established an approximate location for Paradise Island.”

  “You want me to e-mail you the requests?” Wellington asked. “Or do you just want me to do it.”

  Nikki sighed. It was exhausting playing private eye with everyone. Plus, Judge Fitzsimmons was breathing down her neck for some research. If she couldn’t trust Wellington, whom could she trust?

  She gave Wellington the password and asked him to also tell Finney that Murphy, now an agnostic, grew up with an abusive and legalistic Christian father. She hung up the phone and started on her research for Fitzsimmons. Less than five minutes later, Wellington called back. “I sent the information,” he said. “There’s a new message from Finney.”

  Nikki felt an adrenaline surge. Maybe this time Finney would send something meaningful. After all, time was running out. “What does it say?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Wellington replied. “I’m having some real difficulty figuring out the key for chapter 4.”

  Bryce McCormack received a cell phone text message from New York while taping Kareem Hasaan’s cross-examination of a Shi’ite Muslim cleric. Legal’s got a problem with the Chinese water torture promo. He cursed under his breath, turned the set over to an associate director, and stepped outside the courtroom to make a call.

  They patched his call through to Zacharias Snyder, outside counsel for the network. It was Snyder’s job to vet every Faith on Trial show prior to airing and flag any potential legal issues. He had been getting increasingly gun-shy with each show.

  “I’m pulling the promo on the Chinese water torture,” Snyder said. “You can’t do that segment.”

  Bryce forced himself to remain calm. They had to run that segment. But he knew from past history that screaming at Snyder wouldn’t help. “What do you mean—you’re pulling it?”

  “I’m pulling the promo, and I’m pulling the segment from future shows. I can’t believe you’re even suggesting we try this—you can’t torture people on the air.”

  Bryce could feel the heat rising—the New York suits trying to ruin his show. “And you’re just now telling me?”

  “They just sent me the piece,” Snyder responded. “It just left postproduction, which is another thing I wanted to talk—”

  “We’re doing the piece,” McCormack snapped. “It’s a crucial segment for next week’s show.”

  “But you can’t—”

  “Let me finish!” Bryce interrupted. He lowered his voice. “This isn’t torture. The contestants will be within reach of a Kill button and can stop the test at any time. We’ve got a clinical psychologist monitoring their vital signs and asking them questions. We aren’t letting anybody go longer than twenty-four hours. Plus, we picked up the idea from the show MythBusters, and that show shackled the hosts and dripped water on them for hours.”

  When Bryce stopped, there was silence on the line. “Are you done?” Snyder asked.

  “Yes,” McCormack hissed.

  “First, your promotion piece calls it ‘Chinese water torture,’ so how can you possibly tell me it’s not really torture? Second, if we were torturing our hosts, that would be different. But these are our contestants. They didn’t think this up, and they’re not getting paid for it.” Snyder’s voice was maddeningly calm and sanctimonious. The ultimate Monday-morning quarterback. “I’m not authorizing it.”

  “Then get the program director for the network on the line right now,” McCormack demanded, “so I can explain to her why we need new outside counsel.”

  50

  The Tuesday night crowd at Norfolk’s Finest Sports Bar was bigger and rowdier than ever. Earlier that day, Nikki had finagled her way on as a guest for a popular drive-home radio show and invited all of Hampton Roads to the party. By 8:45 the line to get into the bar was half a block long.

  Nikki decided to emphasize her divaness tonight by accessorizing to the hilt. Aviator shades, a multicolored bandanna, and a matching Bracher Emden bag were a start. She added tasteful chandelier earrings, chunky bangles from her wrist halfway up her forearm, a bead necklace, and fat rings on most of her fingers. Painted-on jeans, pumps, and a frilly white spaghetti-strap top completed the outfit. When she glanced with approval at the mirror on her way out the door, Nikki decided that only she could wear this much jewelry and not look overdone. Okay, maybe she and Beyoncé. But only if Beyoncé was having a very good day.

  The aviator glasses went on top of the bandanna as soon as Nikki stepped inside. She smiled at the overflowing offering buckets and the people crammed into this place. She couldn’t wait to hear the crowd roar with approval for their local favorite.

  Unfortunately for Nikki, Byron spotted her a few minutes after she arrived and latched on like a leech. She finally managed to brush him off when she found a booth full of friends, with room for only one more to squeeze in. “Maybe we can hook up as soon as the show is over,” Byron suggested.

  “Maybe.”

  Nikki had barely started on her first drink when Faith on Trial began with its standard introduction of the contestants. Finney’s face brought raucous cheers, Hasaan was roundly booed, and the others garnered mixed receptions.

  A shining moment for Finney occurred less than fifteen minutes into the program, during Nikki’s second drink, when they showed Finney standing strong in the face of temptation. Nikki was astonished to learn that Finney’s temptation had occurred long before he had headed to the island. They replayed parts of it now, taped through the lens of a hidden camera.

  The meeting took place in Finney’s cluttered office. The young man meeting with Finney had a soft western Virginia accent that rolled off his tongue as he introduced himself.

  “Thanks for meeting with me, Judge Finney. My name is William Robert Lassiter, and I’m from the governor’s office.” Though Finney’s visitor wore the hidden camera and therefore couldn’t be seen by Nikki, his accent immediately brought to mind a Dukes of Hazzard cast member in a business suit. Given the man’s heavy accent, Nikki barely recognized Judge “Fee-ney’s” name, though she certainly recognized Lassiter’s name—a man who most decidedly did not work at the governor’s office.

  Finney had never mentioned this visit to Nikki, a fact that would have been remarkable if it were any other judge. But with Finney, privacy and discretion were paramount. So now Nikki was about to learn, along with the rest of America, at least one thing that had happened behind Finney’s closed doors.

  “Wheel-yum, huh?” Judge Finney said, repeating the way the kid had pronounced his own name.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s a long way from the governor’s office,” Finney said, stuffing an unlit cigar in his mouth. “Welcome to southeast Virginia, Billy Bob.”

  The young man hesitated for a moment. “Actually, I go by William now,” he said. “Can we talk off the record?”

  “Sure.” Finney spit a small piece of the cigar in the trash.

  “Well, as you know, there’s an unexpected vacancy on the Virginia Supreme Court,” William said. “And the governor really likes your ability to make the tough calls. He’s narrowed his list down to three for this interim appointment, and you’re one of them.”

  Finney looked genuinely shocked. With good reason. Nikki didn’t follow politics closely, but she still couldn’t imagine that Virginia’s Democratic governor would appoint Finney.

  “Does the governor know about my cancer?” Finney asked.

  “Yes. That actually works in your favor. One of the problems with our system is that our part-time legislature only meets from January through March. The governor has the power to make interim judicial appointments and most of the time uses that power to select somebody with a prospect of being confirmed for a full-time slot once the legislature reconvenes.” William hesitated, and Nikki could hear the urgency in h
is voice. “Can I be frank here, Judge Finney?”

  “Please.”

  “As you know, one of the governor’s key initiatives last year was an executive order authorizing state grants for stem-cell research. Several other states have already gone this route, and if Virginia doesn’t act quickly, we’ll be left behind. All of the best genetic scientists are already relocating in areas like California and Massachusetts.”

  Finney sat there impassive, his stare giving nothing away.

  “A bunch of Republican senators filed suit, claiming that Governor Malone acted ultra vires by not running these grants through the budget process. That lawsuit will probably be decided by the Virginia Supreme Court this fall. Anybody who knows the justices can predict the results of the present court—a three-three split.”

  “So you need a sacrificial lamb,” Finney interjected. “Someone conservative enough in his judicial opinions so that he won’t be seen as an obvious vote for the governor’s stem-cell funding. But once he does vote that way, of course, there’s no way he could ever get approved by the Republican-controlled Senate in the fall.”

  It was vintage Finney, and Nikki loved it. Blunt. Insightful. And she knew what was coming next—unyielding.

  Lassiter tried gamely to recover. “I wouldn’t exactly call it a sacrificial lamb. After all, this is a six- to nine-month term on our state’s highest court . . . and a chance to impact history.”

  “How do you know I’ll impact it the right way?”

  There was a long pause. “We don’t, of course. And we’re not looking for any guarantees. But we thought that your physical challenges would make you sympathetic to what the governor is trying to accomplish with this research.”

  “You mean my cancer.”

  “Yes, your cancer. But we would, of course, need to know ahead of time what your views—” Lassiter paused long enough for Finney to get the drift—“let’s just say, what your judicial philosophy is on issues like the governor being able to authorize new research programs through executive orders.”

  “In other words,” Finney said, his voice harsh, “how I might vote on the stem-cell case.”

  “Not really, Judge. I’m just talking about your overall judicial philosophy here, not how you would vote on a particular case.”

  Finney stared at the camera for a long moment, and Nikki was sure that young Lassiter had been forced to divert his eyes. “Do you know how long I’ve been on the bench?” Finney asked.

  “Not exactly. But a long time.”

  “A long time is right,” Finney responded, his unblinking eyes focused hard on the camera. “And in all those years I’ve never promised anyone how I would rule on a case beforehand. I’m not about to start doing so now.”

  “You da man!” somebody in the bar yelled.

  “You tell ’em, Judge!”

  As if in response, Finney shifted forward in his seat. “You go back and tell your boss that Judge Finney would be honored to serve his final months on the Virginia Supreme Court. But make sure you tell the governor that you don’t have the foggiest idea how Finney might rule on that stem-cell case.”

  “I’ll tell him,” Lassiter promised. “And the governor would appreciate it if you kept this conversation confidential.”

  “I can understand why,” Finney replied, and pandemonium broke loose in the sports bar.

  “Fin-ney! Fin-ney!” the crowd chanted. Nikki couldn’t keep from smiling.

  “It almost restores your faith in the justice system,” Tammy, the show’s host, was saying over the din. Finney had literally stared down his temptation and never blinked.

  “I’ll drink to that,” somebody at Nikki’s table said. Nikki agreed.

  The Assassin watched the show with a thin smile. Finney’s temptation had perfectly demonstrated the beauty of reality shows. It was so hard to know what was real and what was not. Even before the show officially began, Finney had been sucked into the alternative reality created by television. All of life had indeed become a stage.

  The Assassin knew that even things portrayed as real by the show’s producers could in fact be contrived. A camera angle here, a remark taken out of context there, and reality could be warped to suit the purposes of the producers. The quest for higher ratings was the only reality that could be trusted.

  What a perfect setting, this world of fun-house mirrors, for the Assassin’s most dramatic job ever. It was the game within the game. And it would be over before the others even knew that they were playing.

  The Patient watched the temptation of Oliver Finney and then the televised cross-examinations of the contestants with great interest. He had heard about the results last week during the taping, but it was fascinating to watch the blow-by-blow.

  Finney did a spectacular job of exposing the weaknesses of Buddhism, forcing Ando to defend the extreme limits of nonattachment that require people to turn their backs on anything they might love, including family. But Finney made a better attorney than he did a witness, stumbling some under relentless questioning by Kareem Hasaan.

  The Patient was not surprised when Javitts awarded his verdict to Hasaan. The voting public, on the other hand, would probably go for either Finney or the ever-popular Swami. Dr. Kline could be a long shot if enough men voted.

  The show’s last segment that night featured gripping footage of Finney’s attempted escape. Only on television could a man hit the highs and lows that Finney had experienced on this one episode, all within the span of one hour. Finney looked desperate as they brought him to shore on the back of a WaveRunner. Finney’s scrawny frame, matted hair sticking out from under his John Deere cap, and semi-crazed eyes all combined to form a telling caricature of the psychological toll being exacted on the contestants. He looks like a POW, the Patient thought. It was good television, no doubt about it.

  The Patient was fascinated with Finney’s responses in the library room after the bungled escape attempt. First, Finney established that he was free to quit at any time. Then he claimed that he was just going for a midnight paddle and didn’t really want to quit.

  But the thing that intrigued the Patient the most was the final remark by Finney just before the commercial break. When told that he would have to pass an exam by the island medical doctor and a clinical psychologist, Finney had a ready response: “Nobody told me that being sane was a prerequisite.”

  “Crazy like a fox,” the Patient mumbled. He spent the next few minutes trying to get inside Finney’s head, ignoring the promos for Thursday night’s show when the winner of the viewers’ verdict would be announced and the contestants would face the ancient Chinese water torture.

  It would be interesting to see whom the contestants ultimately voted into the finals. Though the contestants didn’t know it yet, one of the finalists would be determined by their own vote. Who better to observe how well people’s faith held up under trial than their fellow competitors?

  Well, most of the contestants didn’t know it yet. The Patient speed-dialed the one who did.

  After they chatted for a few minutes, the Patient decided it was time to pop the question. “If you had to vote today, who would it be?”

  “Finney.”

  “That’s what I thought.” The Patient smiled to himself. The plan was going smoothly, almost too smoothly. “You think he suspects anything?”

  “Not yet, but don’t underestimate him. I think he’s got some cards under the table.”

  “Crazy like a fox?” the Patient asked.

  “Exactly.”

  51

  Nikki’s first thought was that her fashion lessons were paying off. She had asked Wellington to meet her at Starbucks after the show—a convenient excuse to avoid the prospects of another night with Byron. When she arrived, she was pleased to see an untucked light-blue cotton shirt hanging loose over reasonably long khaki shorts. The kid wore sneakers without socks, but then again, they hadn’t worked on footwear yet.

  The harsh lights and relative quiet of the Starbucks th
rew Nikki off stride. After the decibel volume in the bar, followed by the tunes she had cranked up on the way to the Starbucks in the Sebring, her ears were buzzing. Or maybe it was the gin and tonics catching up to her. Finney’s bizarre escape attempt had forced her to have one or two extras.

  She decided that she needed a cappuccino before joining Wellington at the table. When she sat down opposite him, she realized that her first impression had been wrong. Most of Wellington’s shirt was still tucked in, and he wore a V-neck T-shirt underneath that screamed of the eighties. The poor boy’s instincts were all wrong.

  Wellington looked up at her with bloodshot eyes, his hair sticking up from running his fingers through it. She wondered if maybe Finney’s antics had caused Wellington to hit the bottle too. He had a frantic look in his eyes, and Nikki noticed the chaotic pencil scratches on his normally neat tablet.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “I can’t figure it out,” he confessed. He rubbed his face and looked ready to cry. “I’ve been working nonstop since the minute I saw Finney’s last message.”

  Nikki reached over and turned the tablet so she could see it. Wellington had made his usual charts, but as far as she could tell, he had just been writing and erasing guesses, without figuring out a single letter. It looked like one of her sheets. The letters blurred a little, partially a result of the alcohol but also due in part to Nikki’s worsening eyesight. One of these days, she would have to get LASIK.

  “Did you watch the show tonight?” Nikki asked.

  Wellington nodded guiltily. “I did take a break for that.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean that. I just wondered if you saw Finney try to get off the island in that kayak.”

  “Yeah. Weird.”

  “It’s definitely not like him,” Nikki agreed. “I’m worried about him. He didn’t look good. But then again, he was his usual ornery self when they questioned him afterward.” She slurped on her cappuccino and noticed Wellington stare. It wasn’t that loud.