The Judge

by Randy Singer

  It was the third time she had asked Wellington and the third time he promised that he did.

  Next, she tested the hidden camera Byron had stitched into the front of her Fendi Spy bag. “Can you tell he’s cut out a piece of the purse for the camera?” she asked Wellington.

  “You can hardly see it,” Wellington said.

  But the big problem was the hidden mike and the small battery pack. Byron said the mike wouldn’t pick up well from inside Nikki’s purse. But she couldn’t hide the mike in her sheer silk V-neck top or skintight jeans.

  She tried hiding it in her bra. “Can you see the mike?” she asked Wellington.

  “No,” he said, though he was too polite to look very hard.

  “Yes, you can,” Nikki said, checking it out in the window of the car. “This’ll never work.”

  Then she had another idea. “Is your ODU cap still in the backseat?” Nikki had thrown the hat in the back earlier, brushing her thick hair out as much as possible.

  “Sure,” Wellington said, fishing it out.

  “I’ll be right back.” Nikki took the hat and went into the truck stop to grab a large plastic coffee cup. She rolled the bill of the hat and stuffed it inside the cup, then placed the cup and hat under the rear tire of her Sebring.

  “Back up a little,” she told Wellington.

  He looked at Nikki as if she had lost her mind, but then he backed up anyway, running over the hat.

  Nikki retrieved it and put it on her head. This time, the bill curved like a normal hat, except it still looked brand-new. Not much she could do about that right now.

  Nikki handed Wellington the mike and the hat. “Will you attach the mike to the underside of the bill of that cap?” she said. “I’m going inside to get a T-shirt that will go better with my outfit. I look like a moron wearing this top and a baseball hat.”

  She returned a few minutes later with a pink Virginia Is for Lovers T-shirt. She hated pink and she hated the shirt, but it wasn’t exactly the Gap in there.

  She climbed into the back of the Sebring and changed while Wellington kept his eyes glued straight ahead. She put on the hat and checked herself out in the windows again. The mike was invisible on the bill, and the battery pack was nestled under the hat.

  Now her major concern was the petrified look on her partner’s face. “You can do this, Wellington,” she said, trying to sound confident. “A man’s life might depend on it.”

  “I know,” Wellington said. But his words came out with more of a squeak than usual. “I’ll try.”

  63

  Finney arrived at the library first. He took a seat at the large conference table and mentally rehearsed his lines—plan B, as he now called it. He forced himself to relax, focusing on his breathing and heart rate, closing his eyes to calm his nerves.

  McCormack arrived next and took a seat without talking.

  “Thanks for coming,” Finney said.

  “This better be quick.”

  A few minutes later, Murphy joined them. He stopped a few steps inside the door and crossed his arms. “What’s this all about?” he asked.

  Finney stood as well. “Have a seat,” he said.

  “I’ll stand,” Murphy replied.

  Finney looked at McCormack, who simply spread his palms.

  “Okay,” the judge said. “Have it your way.” Finney moved out from behind the table so he could pace the room and watch the reactions of both men. He had been jerked around on this island long enough. This afternoon it was his turn to uncork a few surprises.

  “I’m a judge,” Finney began, “and so I’m rather fond of facts. First, I’ll deal with the ones you already know about. After that, I’ll give you a few things to chew on as we complete our time together on this little slice of paradise.”

  Finney smiled at the men, who both wore serious masks. At least one of us is going to enjoy this, Finney thought. “First, there is a conspiracy afoot on this island for the alleged purpose of killing one of the finalists. Now, that may be part of the game or that may be real, but the existence of that conspiracy is a fact.” This brought no reaction from either man, but Finney didn’t expect it to.

  “Second, Preston Randolph is involved in that conspiracy.” McCormack’s pupils seemed to narrow ever so slightly when Finney dropped that bomb, though Murphy’s face remained a mask. “Third, one of the contestants has been assisting this conspiracy from the very beginning.”

  At this revelation, both men seemed to be working way too hard to remain unaffected. A surprise reaction could sometimes be telling, Finney knew. But lack of surprise, even more so.

  “Those facts you know,” Finney continued, enjoying his moment on the stage perhaps too much. “Now for some facts you don’t know.

  “I’ve been communicating throughout most of the show with a person or persons who are not on the island, providing them with all the evidence they need to prove this conspiracy and obtain arrest warrants. They’re prepared to go public if anything happens to me or the other contestants. They’ve already contacted the FBI, and the Feds are now investigating. I expect indictments soon.”

  Finney stopped pacing a few feet from Cameron Murphy and fixed him with the Finney stare.

  “You must be referring to Agents Rafferty and Flynn, who met with us at some length yesterday,” Murphy said calmly, returning the Finney stare with his own trademark—a maddening smirk. “They left the island convinced that it was all a big misunderstanding.”

  Finney furrowed his brow and tried to make sense of this latest piece of the puzzle. The FBI has already been here?

  “By now they should have communicated that to Nikki Moreno as well,” McCormack said. Finney spun around to look at him. “So I doubt she’ll be going public with these charges anytime soon.”

  At the mention of Nikki’s name, Finney was too stunned to respond. If anything happened to her . . .

  “Is there anything else?” Murphy asked.

  “Leave Nikki Moreno out of this,” Finney snapped.

  “There’s nothing for us to leave her out of,” Murphy said triumphantly. Finney resisted the urge to strangle him.

  “You’re lucky we didn’t disqualify you,” McCormack added. “And release the videotaped cross-examination about the speedy-trial cases in the process.”

  Finney’s head was spinning with this new information, but years of trial experience allowed him to quickly regain his composure. The FBI had paid these men a personal visit. Would they really dare try anything now?

  “If I’m smart enough to make the finals, then I’m smart enough to use somebody other than Nikki Moreno as my go-between,” Finney said, but the words sounded unconvincing even to him. Maybe Nikki had confided in Randolph after all. “If you think she’s involved, you’re badly mistaken.”

  “I’m sure we are,” Murphy said. “Now let’s get back to work.”

  So much for plan B, Finney thought. It felt like he was always one step behind.

  Sitting across from Preston Edgar Randolph in a grimy truck stop booth with vinyl seats, Nikki learned the hard way why the man was one of the top trial lawyers in the United States. The place smelled of grease and pancakes, but Randolph, who came straight from court wearing his starched white monogrammed shirt and red power tie, seemed right at home. When she told him that the real reason she requested this meeting was to confront him with the lies he had been telling her, it didn’t even knock him off stride.

  “You want anything to eat?” he asked, rolling up his sleeves and motioning to the waitress.

  Nikki took a pass on the food but allowed the waitress to fill her coffee cup with a black, gooey substance that looked like dirty car oil. “Can you bring out a Diet Coke, too?” Nikki asked.

  “I’ll take a regular Coke,” Randolph said, and the waitress disappeared.

  “I called the real FBI,” Nikki said dramatically. Her purse was on the end of the table near the salt and pepper shakers, the ketchup, and the syrup. She had aimed the camera right at
Randolph and prayed it was working. “There is no Agent Rafferty or Flynn assigned to this case.”

  “I know.”

  That’s it? Confessions aren’t supposed to be this easy. “You do?”

  “Yes,” Randolph confirmed. “I never said they were FBI, though I allowed you to make a few assumptions.”

  Nikki tried to replay the events in her mind. Is that the way it came down? Assumptions? Wait a minute . . .

  “They showed me FBI credentials,” Nikki argued. “You argued with them about FBI jurisdiction.”

  “My memory’s different,” Randolph said calmly. “And I’m pretty sure that Investigator Flynn and Investigator Rafferty will agree with me.”

  The man was slick—Nikki had to give him that. But also disgusting. “This is unbelievable,” she said, buying time to think. She no longer had any doubts about whether Finney’s message had been correct. Anybody who could lie this easily could be guilty of anything. Herself excluded, of course.

  Randolph leaned forward, and Nikki instinctively slid back. She tilted her head down slightly, worried about Randolph somehow seeing the hidden mike. “Nikki, I feared for Dr. Kline’s life. And I wanted to protect Judge Finney. Have you ever dealt with the FBI before? They’ve got so much red tape and bureaucracy that we’d still be filling out forms. We needed quick results.”

  The waitress reappeared with their drinks, silencing Randolph. When she left, Randolph lowered his voice and continued. “They’re private investigators. They’ve already been to the island and investigated. The FBI would still be opening the file.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I should have.” Randolph admitted. “But it seemed you were determined to go to the Feds, and I knew that once you did that, the private investigators would have to back off. So instead of telling you, I just let you assume these guys were the Feds.”

  That’s not how it happened, Nikki knew. But either Randolph realized she might be wearing a mike or he had convinced himself of his own story. He took a sip of Coke, eyeing Nikki the whole time.

  Why is Wellington taking so long? If he found anything, I should have heard from him by now. Maybe he got cold feet.

  “So all this stuff about being contacted by television reporters—none of that is true?” Randolph asked. Somehow he was the one who managed to sound indignant.

  Nikki wished she could turn the recorders and cameras off while she took her turn at shading the truth. “No. That was just a ploy to get a meeting.”

  “You haven’t talked to any reporters about this?” Randolph creased his forehead in disbelief, the way he would for a hostile witness.

  A sip of coffee—she nearly gagged. Who was questioning whom? I haven’t done anything wrong, Nikki reminded herself. “That’s not the point. The point is that you misled me about the FBI and who knows what else. I’m the one who should be asking the questions here, not you.”

  “Then you did talk to reporters?”

  “I told you, I’m not answering that.”

  “Meaning that you did.”

  That did it. Now he’d made her angry enough to slap him. She was the victim, not him! But before she could move, he reached over and grabbed her hat by the bill. The mike stayed attached, but the small battery pack and cord dropped on the table.

  “Which is where you got this,” he said accusingly. He picked up the battery pack for a moment and studied it. “This illegal recording is over now,” he said into the mike before turning it off.

  Nikki crossed her arms and felt her face flush. This was not the way she had scripted it in her mind. “What did you want me to do?” she asked. “You were lying to me.”

  “You have any more recording devices in the purse?” he asked.

  “No,” she said emphatically. It was part of the Moreno philosophy—the bigger the lie, the more confident you must act when telling it.

  Except that Wellington picked that moment—the worst timing possible—to start sending e-mails. The purse vibrated and Nikki looked as startled as she might have been if the purse had actually talked. “Uh . . . I do have my cell phone in there.”

  Randolph’s eyes went hard, and for the first time it dawned on Nikki how dangerous this man might be. Even in a truck stop. Even in broad daylight.

  It vibrated again. “You might want to get that,” Randolph said.

  She knew she would have to figure out a way to look at these messages, so Nikki decided to play it casually. She pulled the smartphone out of her purse. “It’s e-mail,” she said, sliding the screen into position.

  “I know,” Randolph said. “I don’t recall that you had that at our last meeting.”

  64

  Standing outside the one-way mirror of the cross-examination room, Murphy and McCormack watched the events unfolding inside with great interest. Javitts fired questions at the Swami, who handled them with the same casual confidence he had exhibited the last two weeks. Ando and Kline had already endured their last turn in the room.

  “I notice you didn’t vote for yourself as one of the finalists,” Javitts said.

  “You noticed correctly.”

  “Was it because you were afraid that one of the finalists might die?”

  The Swami stared impassively at his questioner as if the Swami didn’t know how much of his own hand he should reveal. “What do you mean?”

  Javitts smiled condescendingly. “You know exactly what I mean, Mr. Hadji. The rumors among the contestants that one of the finalists would die. Rumors planted by the producers of the show. Did they affect your decision?”

  This brought a big smile and shake of the head from the Swami. “You mean we’ve basically all been punk’d this week? It’s all a big sham, this stuff about a finalist dying?”

  “Yes,” Javitts replied sternly. “We wanted to see how you would react.”

  “That’s awesome, dude,” the Swami said, chuckling. He looked at the mirrors and gave a thumbs-up. “You guys had me going.”

  “And you decided your faith wasn’t worth dying for?” Javitts asked.

  The Swami jerked back and gave Javitts an are-you-crazy? look that nearly made McCormack laugh. “That’s not it at all, man. I decided this show wasn’t worth dying for. My faith—now, that’s an entirely different matter.”

  Nikki scrolled through a few messages while Randolph looked on, burning holes in the top of her head with his intense stare. Right now she didn’t care. Her partner had come through! It was time to go back on the attack.

  “Who is the Seeker?” she asked Randolph.

  “What are you talking about?” Randolph’s voice was as steely as his eyes.

  “Who is Azrael?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  She held the phone in front of her as she dialed Byron Waterman’s office number, keeping one eye on Randolph the entire time. He glanced casually around the restaurant as if contemplating his next move.

  Answer! Hurry!

  Randolph stood and Nikki slid back in the booth. A sneer crossed his lips. “A little jumpy, aren’t we?”

  “Nikki?” Byron asked, finally answering the phone. Thank God.

  “Did you get the e-mails?” Nikki asked. Wellington had been instructed to send any incriminating information to Waterman’s personal e-mail address. Those messages would show up on both his smartphone and his computer.

  Randolph tensed, towering over Nikki, listening to the phone conversation. She felt the goose bumps of her own excitement. Mixed with fear.

  “Did I get them?” Byron asked, the excitement obvious in his voice. “This is unbelievable. Huge!”

  Nikki placed the phone down on the table. “Can you hear me?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” she heard Byron say, though it wasn’t very clear. “But not as good as before.”

  “The phone’s in the middle of the table,” Nikki explained. “I’m here with Preston Randolph.” He eyed her quizzically but didn’t make a move. “If you get cut off, call the police immediately.” Ni
kki provided the address of the truck stop while Randolph listened impassively, still towering over her.

  “Who is that?” Randolph asked.

  “An investigative reporter for WVAR,” Nikki said. “A Norfolk television channel.”

  “This belong to him?” Randolph detached the mike from the hat and picked up the mike and battery pack from the table. He wrapped the small cord around the battery pack and put the device in his pocket.

  “Yes.”

  “And you somehow managed to get copies of my e-mails?” And then, as if in answer to his own question, Randolph’s eyes flashed in recognition. “The virus.”

  Nikki nodded.

  Randolph settled back down into the booth. “You’re good,” he said. “But unfortunately, you’ve played a little fast and loose with the law in the process.”

  Before Nikki could respond, Randolph leaned forward, closer to the phone, his attorney instincts kicking in. “As Nikki’s accomplice . . .” He motioned toward the phone. “What’s his name?” he whispered to Nikki.

  She hesitated. This was so strange. “Waterman,” she said softly.

  “As Nikki’s accomplice, Mr. Waterman, there are a few things you ought to know. And I want you to record every word of this conversation and make sure you play it for your station manager before you get any big ideas about being a hero by breaking a story about me.”

  He paused and pulled the mike back out of his pocket. He turned it on and placed it next to the phone. “And if the battery on your recording device wears out, Mr. Waterman, just let me know because I’ll have a backup recording.”

  “Are you still there, Byron?” Nikki asked.

  “Yes,” he answered, the noise muffled but audible. “And I’m recording every word.”

  “Good.” Randolph slid forward so his mouth was less than a foot from the mike. “You may have some e-mails to or from my computer indicating that one of the finalists for Faith on Trial is going to die—quote, unquote—accidentally. But relax, Mr. Waterman; it’s all just part of the game. I financed the show. The whole thing was my idea. I believed at the time, and still do, that the best test of any faith is how well it helps you deal with death. This was a reality show. Therefore, we tried to make the threat of death seem very real . . . and very immediate.”