The Judge

by Randy Singer

  Nikki couldn’t believe she was hearing this. She suddenly remembered the miniature videocam and checked the angle of her purse. She casually moved it so the camera would point right at Randolph. He was so focused on the mike that he didn’t seem to notice.

  “Now, I realize that this information, in itself, is a story,” Randolph continued. As he did, he slyly reached over and turned Nikki’s purse back toward her. A sharp look from Randolph told her to leave it that way. “And under the First Amendment, I probably can’t stop you from airing it. But I’ll give you three compelling reasons to wait until the final show airs before you do so. The first, Mr. Waterman, is the lawsuit I’ll file against you and your station for defamation of character and invasion of privacy. I’ll own that station before it’s over.”

  He hesitated just long enough for the threat to sink in. This was Randolph the litigator trying to regain control. “The second is the lawsuit I’ll file against Ms. Moreno and her accomplice for stealing my e-mail messages. Oh, I almost forgot the additional lawsuit I’ll file against Judge Finney for violating his pledge not to communicate about the show with those outside the island. I think the stipulated damages for that are something like five million.

  “And third, I’m about to tell you something that might cause even a calloused reporter like you to hold off. If you do, I’ll give you an exclusive interview after the final show.”

  He pursed his lips and hesitated as if considering whether he should really take this plunge. It seemed to Nikki that the trial lawyer veneer suddenly melted away, leaving behind a more vulnerable man. “I don’t know you, Mr. Waterman, and I don’t know your station manager. But I know Nikki. And I’m going to take a risk here. Despite what you’ve done to me today, I’m going to assume that you people all have hearts—” he paused, stealing a glance at Nikki—“and that you sometimes use them when making your decisions.”

  The hard edge left Randolph’s voice as he continued. Nikki had to remind herself that he was a trial lawyer. Generating pity was part of the craft, like a rapper spouting rage.

  “I’ve got an incurable brain tumor, Mr. Waterman. I’m searching for the true God. I thought maybe this show would help.”

  Nikki felt the air flee her lungs. What? The man suddenly looked so vulnerable. Just moments ago she had looked into his dark eyes and seen flashing anger. But now there was uncertainty. Randolph’s.

  And hers.

  Half an hour after Preston left the truck stop, taking Nikki’s hidden mike and recorder with him, Nikki was still waiting for Wellington. She had been on the phone with Byron for nearly fifteen minutes, trying to talk him out of running an exposé on the evening news. She wasn’t afraid of the threatened lawsuits, but she actually believed Randolph’s story. Besides, would anybody try to hurt the finalists now, with the media all over this story?

  But Byron wouldn’t hear of it. He didn’t need Nikki’s permission to go with the story, he reminded her. Even without video footage or the audio from the hidden mike, he had the phone call and the e-mails. That was enough.

  After she hung up with Byron, Nikki tried calling Wellington several times. No answer. He was undoubtedly driving, and even though Nikki had talked him into breaking into a trial lawyer’s computer, he was nevertheless apparently unwilling to assume the fourfold increase in odds of a fender bender that might occur if he picked up the phone.

  A few minutes later, Nikki received another e-mail on Byron’s cell phone that made her think Byron might be right after all. As part of the “fix” for Randolph’s computer, Wellington had made sure that every e-mail received by Randolph would be automatically forwarded, without notification, to the e-mail address for Byron Waterman. Most of the e-mails were junk. But one from “Azrael” caught Nikki’s attention.

  Seeker:

  Things are becoming chaotic on the island. Will assume that the baptism is still a go for Saturday unless I hear from you. This will be my last communication unless you indicate concern.

  Azrael

  What could that possibly mean—“the baptism”? If it was just a harmless e-mail about Saturday’s show, why did the sender use a code name that Randolph claimed he had never heard before? Maybe this was just another part of the charade, Nikki reasoned. But why send another e-mail now? Maybe they were going to make sure the remaining contestants “accidentally” discovered this e-mail. But if Randolph and his accomplice were trying to use this e-mail to make the contestants think their lives were in danger, why would they use a coded message about baptism?

  Byron called almost immediately. “Did you see that e-mail?” he asked. “Give me one possible innocent explanation for that.”

  Back and forth they went. But in the end Nikki knew she couldn’t take any chances if there was the slightest chance that Finney’s life was on the line. She could always ask forgiveness later.

  “Okay,” she said to Byron. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Have you watched the video?”

  “Yeah. The picture’s pretty grainy and you can’t really hear anything. Plus, Randolph turned it away from himself during part of the meeting.”

  “That’s okay,” Byron said. “We’ll use my recording of the phone call for audio. We just need the video footage for B-roll as soon as possible.”

  “How do I make that happen?”

  “We’ve got a sister station in Fredericksburg. Got a pen and paper?”

  After writing down directions, Nikki called Wellington one more time. After four rings, a minor miracle occurred. “Hello,” he said tentatively.

  “Good work on the e-mail,” Nikki said. She knew he was struggling with the legality of what they had done, so she didn’t bother telling him about the threatened lawsuits. She explained the rest of the events in detail, including her need to get to the television station right away.

  “I’ll be there in about twenty minutes,” Wellington said.

  “How fast are you driving?”

  There was a long pause. Nikki thought she heard the sound of her Sebring accelerating. “Over the speed limit,” Wellington said.

  “Drive faster,” Nikki said. She couldn’t wait to give her protégé a hug.

  65

  The helicopter arrived midafternoon on Friday, and the contestants started saying their good-byes. To Finney, the warm island breeze felt heavier and stickier than normal. He noticed the sheen of sweat on everyone’s skin except that of the enigmatic Dr. Ando. Was the man even human?

  Finney turned to Ando first, wished him the best, and expressed his great respect for the man. It was hard to think of the cruel fate that awaited this decent human being with the incurable bone disease. Ando shared his own respect for Finney.

  The judge turned next to the Swami.

  “My money’s on you, Judge O. And you know I’ve got good gambling instincts.”

  Finney smiled, thinking about how much he would miss this guy. So much for my strategy of avoiding friendships with the other contestants.

  “Come see me sometime,” Finney said.

  “Count me in, Judge O.”

  The two men shared an awkward moment of silence, the first time Finney had seen the Swami at a loss for words.

  “Well,” Finney said. He held out his Bible. “I wanted you to have this.” The pages were dog-eared and the black leather cover was nearly worn off. “We never did finish the Gospel of John. You might want to start there.”

  The Swami nodded his head slowly and seemed to be choking back a tear. Finney swallowed the lump in his own throat.

  “That’s quite an honor,” the Swami said.

  As they briefly embraced, the two card sharks took turns whispering their messages.

  “Pinprick cipher, Gospel of John,” Finney whispered. His final encoded message contained a note for Nikki, telling her where to find the tape. And a few personal things as well.

  “Everything’s going to be fine,” the Swami whispered in return. “There’s no real danger here.”

  Af
ter the two disengaged, the Swami moved over to shake hands with Kareem Hasaan. “No hard feelings, big man,” the Swami said.

  Finney turned to face Dr. Kline.

  “The sailing lessons were my favorite part of the show,” she said. Her face betrayed no emotion.

  “Mine too.”

  “Good luck,” she said, keeping her voice light.

  “Thanks.”

  She hesitated for a moment, then gave Finney a quick hug. He had so much to tell her, but the other contestants were watching, the cameras were recording, and the helicopter was waiting.

  She hesitated again, looking as awkward as Finney felt. “Well, better get going,” she said.

  Finney grimaced. He hated good-byes, but especially this one. “Make sure you follow up with Preston Randolph on that possible television career,” Finney said. “You’ll make a phenomenal actress.”

  As if to prove his point, Victoria Kline grew teary eyed, then nodded and turned away.

  Twenty minutes later, Kline and the other contestants climbed off the helicopter and onto the hot asphalt landing pad on St. Thomas. A few of the islanders loaded the contestants’ belongings into a taxi that resembled a double-decker tour bus, and the contestants climbed aboard. After a ten-minute nail-biting ride on the left side of the road, the contestants arrived at a luxury resort hotel for the night, compliments of the show.

  Fifteen minutes after she checked in, Dr. Kline returned to the front of the hotel, checked both directions, and caught a cab to a nearby marina. The speedboat captain was waiting for her. He helped her aboard, exchanged a few pleasantries, and started the motor. He drove slowly through the no-wake zone but within minutes had the boat skimming across the ocean at an exhilarating speed.

  “How long?” Victoria yelled, straining to be heard.

  “Thirty minutes, max,” the captain yelled back.

  “Some people just can’t stay away,” she mumbled to herself.

  66

  Finney and Kareem showed up in the Paradise Courtroom at 5:00 p.m. They had been instructed to dress casually, which to Finney meant his John Deere cap, baggy shorts, a T-shirt, and docksiders. This time the cameras were not rolling.

  “As you know, tomorrow you will be giving your closing arguments,” Bryce McCormack said. “It will be your last day on the island. Later tonight you’ll be given a videotape of Judge Javitts’s cross-examination of the other contestant from the first week on the island. Judge Finney’s tape has him admitting to negligence in the performance of his judicial duties. Mr. Hasaan’s tape shows the results of a polygraph test when he tried to deny having an affair.”

  Finney glanced at his intense competitor. The man’s neck muscles strained, veins bulging, as he glared at McCormack. If they aired this stuff, Finney would help Kareem break the slimy director’s neck.

  “You will decide whether to use your opponent’s tape in your closing argument,” McCormack continued. “If you decide not to use it, then the incident will not be aired on any of the Faith on Trial episodes.”

  Finney knew immediately that he would never use Kareem’s videotape. That decision was a no-brainer. He had no doubt that Kareem would reciprocate. The show’s producers had underestimated how much the contestants had bonded.

  “You will be spending this evening in a special spot on the island to prepare mentally and spiritually for your final day,” McCormack continued, turning first to Finney. “Judge, as you know, Jesus spent His last night before the Crucifixion praying in the garden of Gethsemane. We’ve prepared a rough replica here on the island where you will be going in just a few moments. You may spend as much time there as you would like.” He smirked. “Not that we expect tomorrow to be anything like Jesus’ last day.”

  These guys are always looking for the melodramatic, Finney thought. He immediately disliked the idea. It seemed to cheapen the passion of Christ, duplicating events just to add drama to a reality show.

  “Mr. Hasaan, as you know, Muhammad’s epiphany occurred in a cave outside his hometown where he went to meditate and pray for a vision of the one true God. He was sleeping in the cave when a voice commanded him to read the words on a brocaded coverlet. He began reciting scripture, and those words became the opening lines of the Koran.”

  McCormack paused, and Finney found one more reason why he was content not to be a Muslim. He got a garden, while Kareem got a cave.

  “We have found a reasonable facsimile of that cave here on Paradise Island,” McCormack continued. “That’s where you will spend the evening.

  “This will be a one-camera shoot at each location. Gus, you’ll accompany Kareem. Horace, you’ll go with Judge Finney. Just get a few good cameo shots and then you can leave the contestants alone so they can prepare for tomorrow’s closing arguments and other activities.”

  McCormack glanced back and forth between Finney and Kareem. “Gentlemen, you’ll want to be rested both spiritually and physically for what lies ahead.”

  Horace unlocked a gate in the chain-link fence surrounding the resort property and pointed to a dirt path angling off to his left. “It’s up this way about a mile,” he said. Finney shrugged and followed along. If roly-poly Horace could make it, lugging that heavy camera, then Finney could surely make it too.

  Fifteen minutes later, Finney decided that Horace was a lousy judge of distance. The trail climbed and twisted its way up the mountainside—tough climbing for a man whose lungs were spotted with cancer. Fortunately, Horace was in no better shape, so they would walk for a while and take intermittent breaks. At one point Finney started coughing, bending over with his hands on his knees as he struggled to catch his breath.

  “You okay?” Horace asked, his voice tight with concern. “I don’t do CPR, you know.”

  “No problem,” Finney answered. He cleared his throat. “Are we almost there?”

  “Almost.” It was the third “almost” in the last few minutes, and Finney was getting tired of it. His lungs burned. His stomach kept cramping. And now he had a headache.

  Finney hated being sick and getting old. He had been a fair athlete in his day but now had a hard time keeping up with a chubby couch potato like Horace. After his brief coughing break, Finney trudged on. Before long, it was Horace who needed to stop for a break, and Finney actually started feeling better.

  I just needed a little warm-up, Finney thought.

  When they reached the garden, it was almost worth it. Someone had cleared the underbrush from a small plateau carved into the side of the mountain. A rock wall rimmed the downhill side of the plateau, and bright orange and yellow flowers sprouted in clumps everywhere. The spot featured a spectacular view overlooking the small resort and miles of white sand beaches. Finney caught his breath and gazed out at the green ocean stretching endlessly toward the blue horizon. In an hour or two they would watch the sun paint the boundary where water met sky, creating a mural of orange and red.

  Finney stood next to the rock wall and soaked in the sights that cascaded below him. He turned toward the camera. “How can anyone see something like this and not believe in God?”

  “You got me,” Horace answered, still trying to catch his breath from behind the camera.

  “Oh,” Finney said. “I thought we were filming.”

  “Sorry,” Horace said. “You want to say that again?”

  “Nah. Let’s just enjoy the view for a few minutes.”

  The two men chatted for a while, and then Horace said he needed to get some video while the lighting held up. Finney took off his John Deere cap and knelt in strategic spots so that Horace could pick up the view in the background. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” Horace asked. “I mean, Jesus sweat drops of blood in the garden of Gethsemane. He probably prayed pretty loud.”

  The man knows his Bible, Finney thought. “But Jesus didn’t have a TV camera following Him around, Horace. That’s just not my style—you know that. Praying for the cameras and all.”

  “I know,” Horace said. “That’s actu
ally one of the things I appreciate about you. Though it makes for boring TV.”

  A few minutes later, Horace seemed to sense Finney’s desire to spend some time alone. “Well, I’ve got what I need, Judge. Think I’ll head back down to the resort before it gets dark.”

  “I thought you were going to stay for some twilight shots.”

  “I can play with the lighting on what I’ve already taken,” Horace said. “I’ve got some good silhouettes.” He paused and looked out toward the ocean, acting skittish. “Think it’d be okay if I prayed for you before I left?”

  The request surprised Finney. He and Horace had always been loose with the no-fraternization rule. But Horace had never asked to pray for Finney before. “Sure.”

  Horace put his camera down, and the two men knelt together. Finney felt Horace place his hand on Finney’s shoulder. “Lord, help this man know what an inspiration he’s been to Christians all over America. Give him strength and wisdom for tomorrow. Keep him safe. And, Lord, if it’s Your will, let him win.”

  Finney felt the gratefulness rise inside him, spawning other feelings that were difficult to describe. It wasn’t just the sincerity of the prayer that moved him; it was the knowledge that hundreds, perhaps thousands or even tens of thousands, of Christians all over the world were praying for him. For him. In that moment he remembered why he was here and who he really represented.

  And he coughed. Not badly, compared to a lot of his coughing fits lately, but enough to interrupt Horace’s prayer. Horace waited patiently, patting Finney’s back until the coughing stopped. “And if it’s Your will, God, heal him from the cancer.” A pause. A long pause. “Amen.”

  Neither Finney nor Horace stood for a few seconds; then Finney placed his hat back on his head and thanked his friend. “You’re a good man, Horace,” he said, standing.