by Randy Singer
“The Galápagos,” Nikki interrupted.
“How do you know that?” Mitchell asked.
Oh yeah, Nikki thought. Randolph. “I guess we don’t.”
“Which is my point,” Mitchell continued. “We don’t even know where the judge is, but we can assume it’s not Norfolk. Plus, the only evidence we have that anything is wrong on that island are these cryptic messages from the judge—”
Nikki started to interrupt again, but Mitchell held up a hand. “Let me finish. We’ve got Randolph in DC presumably conspiring to help two other gentlemen impersonate FBI agents, but Randolph would probably just say that those men duped him, too—”
“But Randolph claimed to know them,” Nikki said. “Plus, I’ve talked to him about it on the phone from here in Norfolk—doesn’t that count for something?”
Mitchell shook his head. “That could make it a federal wire-fraud case—a phone call across state lines from DC to Virginia—but we’d have a hard time claiming jurisdiction. The impersonation took place in DC. This alleged conspiracy is taking place in DC and on some unidentified island.”
Nikki could feel her frustrations rising, the red tape of government prosecution strangling every attempt to act quickly and decisively. Mitchell Taylor was the one person in the prosecutor’s office who would shoot first and ask questions later. But even he was struggling to get through the red tape on this one.
They eventually agreed to call the DC prosecutor’s office. Mitchell tried to prepare Nikki beforehand, explaining that he had good relationships with the commonwealth’s attorneys in Virginia but didn’t know anybody in DC. His warning turned out to be prophetic. Despite Mitchell’s best efforts to explain the urgency of the case, Nikki could hear the skepticism bleeding across the phone lines in the gruff voice of an experienced DC prosecutor named Kenneth Bell. Mitchell at first pushed for an indictment on the impersonation charge, then dropped back and asked Bell to at least obtain a search warrant for Randolph’s computer and office.
“Tell me again the evidence that we would present to the judge in order to get this search warrant against one of the most powerful lawyers in DC?” Bell asked.
Nikki had heard enough. Even on a good night’s sleep, she wasn’t known for her patience. But this morning, with little sleep, no shower, and Finney’s life on the line, she couldn’t help but explode. She lashed out at Bell, sprinkling her tirade with enough profanity that Mitchell had to hit the Mute button.
“You done?” he asked when Nikki finally fell silent.
She snorted in response. Mitchell took the phone off mute and asked Bell to bring Randolph in for questioning.
“Don’t do that,” Nikki said sharply. “That will just tip him off.” She was practically pulling her hair out.
Mitchell looked at her with concern in his expressive green eyes. The look calmed her a little, reassurance that Mitchell was on her side.
“What do you want me to do?” Bell asked. “I know you’re frustrated, but you’ve got to give me something. I don’t know how things operate in Norfolk, but in DC we can’t get indictments based on coded messages.”
“Let me participate in the questioning,” Mitchell said.
“I can do that,” Bell said after a moment’s hesitation. “But I doubt that Randolph is going to voluntarily come in and answer a bunch of questions.”
Nikki shook her head vigorously at Mitchell and sliced her hand across her throat.
“Can we get back to you?” Mitchell asked.
When they got off the phone, Mitchell turned to Nikki. “What was that all about?”
“Where does Randolph live?” Nikki asked Wellington. Her partner had done some quick Internet research for Nikki earlier that morning.
“Fairfax,” Wellington said.
“How’s your relationship with the commonwealth’s attorney there?” Nikki asked Mitchell.
“Good. I know some folks in that office. But everything you’ve described occurred in DC.”
“Give me your cell phone number,” Nikki said. “And give me a few hours.”
Mitchell tried to pry more details out of Nikki, but she was determined. She left his office, with Wellington struggling to keep up.
“What are we going to do?” Wellington asked breathlessly.
“Do you know how to create a computer virus?” Nikki asked.
Wellington hesitated, but they both knew the answer. “They’re not that hard,” he eventually admitted.
“Good,” Nikki said. “I’ve got a plan.”
61
Somebody’s watched a few too many Survivor episodes, Finney thought. To him, this ceremony felt like a cheap imitation of the grandfather of all reality shows.
Finney was the second contestant to march into the courtroom to render his verdict. He walked solemnly from the back door to the podium at the front, just as McCormack had directed. He stood there for a few seconds facing Judge Javitts. “Remember,” McCormack had said, “everything should be done deliberately, as if you’re moving in slow motion. That way we can build the drama when we add in the sound track.”
“Does the contestant have a verdict?” Javitts asked.
“I do.”
“Cut!” McCormack said. “Judge Finney, you’ve got to give us some time to change shots. You practically walked on Javitts’s question that time.” McCormack conferred with his cameramen. “Let’s try that again, Judge. This time, count to three before you answer.”
“Three Mississippi or one thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three?”
“Take two,” McCormack said.
Javitts asked the question again, and Finney waited for three Mississippis. “I do.”
“What say you?” Javitts asked. Finney counted to three again, just to be safe. But then he coughed.
“Cut!”
On the third take, he got it right. “I voted for myself and Victoria Kline,” Finney said.
“What is your basis for voting for yourself?” Javitts asked. To Finney, the question sounded stupid. But Javitts wore his most solemn expression yet.
“On the basis that my faith is true, it’s survived the trials of these past two weeks, and plus, I’m one heckuva guy.”
It looked like Javitts almost smiled at that one. “And what is your basis for voting for Dr. Kline?”
“On the basis that she’s the only other contestant who would go sailing with me,” Finney said.
“C’mon,” McCormack growled, and the cameras stopped rolling. “This is supposed to be a serious climax to the past two weeks of Faith on Trial, Judge Finney. The Last Comic Standing is another network. This is a jury verdict of you and your peers. And jury verdicts have to have some basis in reason.”
“I can tell you haven’t handled many jury trials,” Finney said. And this time Javitts did smile.
“Just put your ballot in the box on the judge’s dais and let’s get to the next contestant,” McCormack said in frustration.
Finney began walking forward.
“Not yet,” Javitts snapped. “We need to at least get this part on camera.”
After the melodramatic filming of each contestant’s verdict, all were ushered into the courtroom for the announcement of results. Tammy Dietz, whom Finney hadn’t seen around much lately, delivered a spiel about the procedures employed to select the finalists. It took her only two takes to get it right, and Finney wanted to applaud.
“All rise!” the court clerk called after Tammy stepped aside. “The Honorable Howard D. Javitts presiding.”
“You may be seated,” Javitts said.
Finney coughed as the contestants took their seats, the sound lost in the shuffle. He felt his heart pounding against his chest. It had been a while since he was on the receiving end of a verdict. He really wanted to make the finals, despite the possibility that the finalists might face danger. For one thing, he assumed that the Feds would be arriving soon. But even if they didn’t, he now had a backup plan.
Javitts cleared hi
s throat and surveyed the courtroom with all the gravitas of a real judge. “As Ms. Dietz explained, I will first announce the finalist I have selected. That will be followed by an announcement of the person the contestants have chosen as the second finalist.”
Javitts referred to some notes in front of him. “This is a tough decision. Getting to know the contestants these past two weeks has been a highly rewarding experience. I have developed a deep admiration for each of them. However, I may only award my verdict to one.”
Javitts shifted his eyes from the cameras to Dr. Kline, and Finney took that as a bad sign. But then Finney realized that he was doing exactly what he told lawyers not to do—guess a verdict based on who the judge or jury looks at. Finney himself always looked at the losing party to see how they reacted, since that usually told him whether or not the verdict was correct.
“Mr. Hadji and Judge Finney, though they presented excellent cases, treated this experience with an attitude that struck this court as being too cavalier and nonchalant for such an important matter. Issues of faith are matters of extreme seriousness and should be treated as such.”
Finney felt the gut punch of a statement made from the bench that he would have no opportunity to rebut. He wondered how many times he had made others feel the same way.
“As for Dr. Kline,” Javitts continued, “she also presented an excellent case, with a high degree of professionalism. But where does her argument lead? To no god at all—modern man with both feet planted firmly in the air. I just cannot believe that this entire universe was caused by nothing.”
Finney glanced at Victoria Kline. Her expression gave nothing away.
“Dr. Ando presented himself with great dignity, and his personal character gave his arguments tremendous weight. He has shown supernatural courage and peace in the face of suffering.
“But it was the unrelenting passion of Mr. Hasaan that impressed this court most. I am not necessarily saying that his religion is true and the others false. But I am saying that there can be no doubt about what he believes or about his devotion to his faith. At the end of the day, that’s what this judge was looking for.
“Accordingly, I render the court’s verdict for Mr. Hasaan.”
Finney reached over and shook his friend’s hand. Surprisingly, it was cold and clammy. “You can smile now,” Finney whispered, trying to deal with his own disappointment. But Hasaan kept a straight face, though his eyes glistened with tears.
“As for the contestants,” Javitts continued, “they see things differently. Their verdict, in a very close contest . . .” Javitts waited and Finney tensed. It was probably three seconds, but it felt more like three years.
“. . . is for Judge Finney.”
Finney blew out a deep breath and felt gratitude flood his body. He was not, by nature, an emotional man. But now the feelings welled up without warning, a mixture of relief and exuberance and gratefulness. “Thank You, Jesus,” he said softly enough so that nobody else could hear. Kareem shook his hand, and the others mouthed their congratulations. In that moment, all Finney could think about was the respect he had for the other contestants and how honored he was to have their verdict.
The rest of the courtroom session was a blur. Flush with victory, Finney pushed aside his concerns about the danger awaiting the finalists. It was Hadji who brought it back to the forefront as the Hindu gave Finney a hug after the session had ended.
“Be careful, my brother,” Hadji whispered in his ear.
62
They were halfway to Richmond before Nikki dialed Randolph’s cell. Wellington rode shotgun, his knuckles white from the speed, his face drained of blood by the plan Nikki had concocted. He was too scared to even lecture Nikki about talking on her cell while driving. At least she didn’t break out the makeup.
God was with them. Randolph answered.
“Preston, it’s Nikki. Got a second?”
Randolph mumbled something about a court hearing, but Nikki pretended he had said yes.
“Two things; I’ll be quick. First, I received an e-mail from you about an hour ago claiming you were leaving the practice of law and going to work at some new company named Passion, Inc. When I dialed the 800 number, I got a porn line.”
“It’s a virus,” Randolph explained. “It sent the same message to everyone in my Outlook database. But my secretary said the 800 number was some telemarketing group, not a porn line.”
Nikki shot a sideways glance at Wellington, who quickly gazed out the side window. It was supposed to be a porn line, but her partner in crime apparently couldn’t bring himself to do that.
“We had the same thing hit our computers last week at the Norfolk Courthouse,” Nikki claimed. “Did you hear about that?”
“No.”
“I think they call this virus Insidious or something like that. Anyway, we had our own guys mess around with our computers for about three days, and then we called this one firm that apparently specializes in this type of thing. They fixed it in about two hours.”
She heard Randolph talking to somebody in the background. She wanted to reach across the line and slap him.
“Say that again,” Randolph said.
Nikki repeated herself and this time Randolph bit. “Can you call my assistant and give her that number?” Randolph asked. “I’m out of the office right now.”
Nikki nudged Wellington and gave him a thumbs-up when he looked her way. “Okay, Preston. But I’ve also got something a lot more serious and really need to meet with you about this issue right away.”
“Um . . .” She could hear the tension in his voice. “I really can’t right now, Nikki. I’ve got a thousand things going on. I just left a hearing in federal court, and I’ve got two pleadings to file by day’s end. Can we do it later by phone?”
“An investigative reporter called me, Preston. A friend of mine from Norfolk. He says he’s going to run a story on the eleven o’clock news that you’re involved in some kind of fraud with the Faith on Trial show. I can probably keep him from running it if I call in all my chips, but I really need to get a few things straight with you first.”
“Hang on a second,” Randolph said. He apparently stepped into someplace quiet, since the background noise disappeared.
“What’s his name?” Randolph asked.
“Byron Waterman,” Nikki replied. “Works for WVAR, a local affiliate of a major network. He’s been following Judge Finney’s exploits pretty closely, and I think Finney somehow managed to communicate with him.”
“How soon can you meet?”
“I’m on my way right now,” Nikki said. “Can you meet me someplace in Fredericksburg?”
“Fredericksburg?”
Yeah, Nikki thought. A city where the commonwealth’s attorney is a good friend of Mitchell Taylor’s. “It’s an hour south of DC,” she said, stating the obvious. “I thought it might save us some time.”
Finney exercised no self-control at lunch, gorging himself on a large roast-beef-and-cheese sandwich, french fries, soup, and two kinds of dessert. He started cramping up almost immediately.
The three contestants who didn’t make the finals were told to pack their bags and report to the courthouse for one final cross-examination session. The helicopter would pick them up at four.
The Feds should have been here by now, Finney thought. Something is very wrong. He was sure that Wellington would have decoded the message about getting the Feds involved. But the message pointing to Preston Randolph was far more difficult. If Wellington and Nikki hadn’t figured that message out, if they had somehow confided in Randolph about the coded messages . . . no, that wasn’t possible. Finney wouldn’t let himself entertain those thoughts. One of Nikki’s messages had assured him that Randolph didn’t know about their code talking. Surely she would not have involved Randolph when she went to the Feds.
Maybe the Feds had already arrested Randolph. Maybe they were preparing to swoop down on the island at this very moment. And even if they weren’t, Finney was
pretty sure that the only contestants in danger now were the two finalists. He still thought it all came down to the speedy-trial cases somehow, though he couldn’t quite make that final link.
But he also knew that being pretty sure wasn’t good enough, not when the price for being wrong could be the lives of his fellow contestants. He believed that Kareem had been set up when he searched Murphy’s computer. The message Kareem had found—containing scenarios in which all the contestants were killed—was therefore fraudulent. Or perhaps, as Hadji suggested, Kareem had made it all up.
But one thing that didn’t neatly fit into Finney’s theory was the fact that Kareem had made the finals. And if Finney was wrong about his theory, the other contestants could still be in danger, and the consequences would be dire. It could happen in a thousand different ways. A staged helicopter accident. Food poisoning. A plane accident.
Unless Finney could prevent the possibility with one bold, preemptive stroke . . .
He found McCormack setting up for another shoot at the courthouse. Finney demanded a meeting in the library. Immediately. Bring Cameron Murphy. No cameras.
“Why should we agree to that?” McCormack asked.
“Because you want me to stick around for the finals. And if this meeting doesn’t happen, I’ll quit.”
Nikki pulled her Sebring into a spot on the side of the truck stop where she had agreed to meet Randolph. The location had been her idea. Always keep your opponent off-balance by meeting on unfamiliar turf. What could be more unfamiliar to Randolph than a truck stop?
She handed Wellington the keys. “Randolph won’t be here for another hour or so,” she said. “He didn’t know I was already on my way when I called him, and I wanted to give you time to get to his office and send me copies of any juicy e-mails.”
Wellington climbed into the driver’s seat, speechless.
Nikki checked to make sure Byron’s smartphone was in her purse. It gave her Internet access, e-mail access, and cell phone all in one. She double-checked to ensure it was on vibrate. “You’ve got Byron’s e-mail address, right?”