The Judge

by Randy Singer

  “You do us proud,” Horace said, standing next to Finney. Then Horace picked up his camera, said, “See ya later, Judge,” and headed down the hill.

  Finney watched him go, turned back toward the horizon, and hit his knees in earnest.

  Byron Waterman was throwing a tantrum. He had a killer story—the best he’d ever produced—and the news director didn’t have the guts to air it. They’d been on the phone with their outside lawyers for half an hour, listening to all the various and sundry claims Randolph might make against them. Defamation. Invasion of privacy. False light. One creative lawyer even suggested larceny related to the theft of Randolph’s e-mails.

  Byron laughed out loud.

  By 5:30 the hand-wringing lawyers had convinced the news director to kill the story—or at least delay it so they could have more time for vetting. But Byron appealed that decision to the station manager with his most forceful argument: if WVAR didn’t run the story at 6:00, their sister station in Fredericksburg would scoop them.

  “It’s my story,” Byron whined. “The only reason the guys in Fredericksburg even know about it is because we had to use their uplink to transmit the video footage to us.”

  The wrangling continued for another ten minutes before the station manager decided. This was a national story with a great human interest angle. They had dynamite audio, passable video, and smoking-gun e-mails. They could unravel the empire of a billionaire trial lawyer. It wasn’t quite Watergate, but for a small-time station in Norfolk, Virginia, it was pretty close.

  Being scooped was not an option. At 5:55 the station manager made her decision. “Let’s run it.”

  67

  “Scandal rocks a popular reality show,” said the woman at the WVAR anchor desk. “More from reporter Byron Waterman, live outside the Norfolk courthouse, right after this break.”

  On Paradise Island they were pulling the live feed down from a satellite. Murphy, McCormack, and Victoria Kline hunched around one of the many monitors in the master control room. They had spent much of the last thirty minutes on the phone trying to calm down Preston Randolph.

  The news resumed with a shot of a serious-looking Byron Waterman. “Monica, WVAR has learned from confidential sources close to the show that several contestants appearing on the Faith on Trial reality show, including Norfolk’s own Judge Oliver G. Finney, have been put in fear for their lives on Paradise Island.” As Byron talked, WVAR ran video clips from prior Faith on Trial episodes, most of them involving Finney.

  “Just today, WVAR learned that this man—” Preston Randolph’s face flashed on the screen—“billionaire trial lawyer Preston Randolph, is behind many of those threats. Mr. Randolph, who has recently been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor, has apparently provided much of the funding for the reality show. In a WVAR news exclusive, we obtained confirmation of Mr. Randolph’s involvement through use of a hidden video camera.”

  The station cut to grainy footage of Preston Randolph sitting in the truck stop. Waterman provided a voice-over. “In a phone call that occurred during this videotaped meeting, Mr. Randolph admitted that it was his idea to fool contestants into thinking their lives were in danger. He claims that the real test of any faith is how well its adherents can deal with facing death.”

  They ran a short audio clip from Randolph’s phone call, the transcribed words scrolling across the bottom of the screen. Next, they cut back to Byron Waterman silhouetted against the Norfolk courthouse. He shook his head with a forlorn look, as if Randolph had lost his mind. “In addition, WVAR was able to obtain copies of e-mails sent to an account on Mr. Randolph’s computer from a person code-named Azrael.” B-roll of select e-mails ran while Byron continued talking. “Though the e-mails are vague, they do reference ‘the island’ and discuss a confidential plan that would culminate on Saturday, tomorrow, the final day of taping for the show.”

  The special report ended with a close-up of Byron. Of course. “Mr. Randolph does not deny that the show intentionally made contestants believe they were in danger. However, when we contacted Mr. Randolph after making our decision to air tonight’s segment, he emphasized again that in reality the contestants are not now and never have been in any real danger. He also pointed out that the contestants signed waivers at the beginning of the show where they assumed the risk that the show might mislead them about certain facts. Mr. Randolph said this is not at all unusual for reality shows, and he cited as an example My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiancé, where the show misled the family of a young bride by making them think she was marrying a total loser.” Waterman shook his head again. “Just when you thought you’d seen it all . . . Monica, back to you.”

  The picture went to a split screen with Waterman on one side and the anchor on the other. “Do we know if all the contestants are in fact okay?” Monica asked, looking concerned.

  “Yes, we do. I checked with the network that sponsors the show, and they assured us that every contestant is fine.”

  “Okay, thanks, Byron. Let’s hope it stays that way.” The anchor turned to the camera on her right as her headshot went full-screen. “In national news . . .”

  Murphy stepped away from the screen and pursed his lips. McCormack braced himself for the explosion. And judging from the look on Victoria Kline’s face, she expected the same.

  “Every news outlet in the country will be running that tonight at eleven,” Murphy stated, his words slicing the air with deadly intensity.

  “Probably,” McCormack said.

  “We can expect the usual storm to erupt over whether we’ve pushed the envelope too far,” Murphy continued.

  McCormack nodded. “We’ve weathered worse.”

  “And that publicity would be worth what? Five million? Ten million? Twenty?”

  The questions allowed McCormack to relax. There would be no explosion. Murphy had immediately zeroed in on the silver—make that the gold—lining of what they had just seen. Just when the controversy from the Anti-Defamation League and conservative Christians was dying down, they had been blessed with another firestorm. “I know Randolph is going ballistic,” Murphy said, a self-satisfied smile curling at his lips, “but he’s not looking at it logically. We were already planning a final show where he tells the audience about his brain tumor, why he financed this show, and who he thinks won. This just lets the cat out of the bag a little earlier.”

  “I agree with you,” McCormack said, “which worries me.”

  “The only reason Randolph is upset is because he’s been upstaged by a small-town reporter,” Murphy said.

  Kline had been noticeably silent, and both men turned to her at about the same time. “Who is Azrael?” she asked.

  Murphy motioned to McCormack as if he was supposed to know. “Don’t look at me,” McCormack said. “I figured it was one of the e-mails on your computer that Kareem was supposed to find that night they raided our apartments.”

  “Those e-mails were from me to Seeker,” Murphy said. “I’ve never heard of Azrael.”

  The unthinkable seemed to hit them all at the same time. “You don’t really think there’s anything going on,” Dr. Kline said. But it sounded more like a question than a statement.

  “Where are Finney and Hasaan now?” Murphy asked.

  “On their solos,” McCormack said. “They left about an hour ago.”

  Victoria’s face went pale. “Should we send the security guards to check on them?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” McCormack replied. “Nothing’s going on. If somebody on the island wanted to harm a contestant, he would have acted by now.”

  “Who vetted the security guards?” Kline asked, concern creeping into her voice. “They have access to every part of the island and carry weapons right under our noses.”

  Murphy and McCormack both shrugged.

  “We’re talking about two or three bogus e-mails,” Murphy said. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly plausible explanation.”

  “Why take any chances?” Victoria asked. “If
there’s even a slight possibility of any real danger, Finney and Hasaan are entitled to know.” She hesitated and sucked in a deep breath. “I came all the way back to the island just so I could be here to explain my actions to Finney when the show’s over. Why don’t I talk to him tonight? It’s not like it’s going to affect the finals.”

  After a brief discussion, they agreed that the point of making the contestants fear for their lives had been accomplished. Both Kareem and Finney had voted for themselves to make the finals, even if it meant danger and possibly death. Not knowing who else could be trusted on the island, they agreed that Victoria would check on Finney.

  “I’ll check on Kareem,” McCormack volunteered.

  “I’ll get some background on this security outfit,” Murphy said.

  “And handle Randolph’s irate calls while you’re at it,” McCormack said.

  As if on cue, Murphy’s phone rang. He hit Ignore. “Maybe he’ll call you next,” Murphy said to McCormack.

  Three minutes later, Azrael received a text message. Change of plans. Strike immediately.

  As Finney prayed, he felt the sweat beading his forehead and sticking his shirt to his back. A fever rose within him, accompanied by a sense of urgency, a strange foreboding about upcoming events. On his knees, he listened more than he talked, feeling the presence of the Holy Spirit and that still, small voice he had learned to recognize. And follow.

  This evening the voice was a distant siren, both warning him and drawing him forward. He felt fatigue deep in his bones, but he also sensed that this might be his most important hour. Maybe it was the tension of the week’s events, the death threats, the pressure of national television, the lack of food—who knew? But maybe it was something more. A chance to rise above the ordinary, to beat back the flesh and strike a final blow for the Kingdom of God that would be seen around the world.

  He tried to understand this dark premonition that haunted him in this beautiful place. He had done what he could to ensure the safety of every contestant. He had smuggled messages to Nikki. Confronted Murphy and McCormack. Befriended Horace and others. Yet still he felt the presence of danger.

  He asked God to forgive him for the pain he had caused Tyler. For putting work ahead of family too often. For not taking care of his own body, killing himself one cigar at a time. For failing to do his job properly when innocent victims were counting on him for justice—speedy justice. He asked God to comfort those who had been harmed because of one judge’s negligence.

  He looked up and saw the orange hues forming on the horizon—another brilliant sunset taking shape, the faithfulness of God. The sight calmed him and lifted his spirits, like a fresh gust of wind filling an open sail, pushing him forward. He steeled himself for the next twenty-four hours, said “Thank You, Lord,” and prepared to stand.

  Just before he did, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  68

  “Victoria.”

  “Are you okay?”

  Finney stood, blinking at the hallucination. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “I had to come back,” she said simply. She had her hair in a tight ponytail, the way she wore it when they sailed. Her beautiful eyes were wary, melting away some of Finney’s defensiveness. Still, she had misled him the entire time. He couldn’t just pretend it hadn’t happened.

  “More lies?” he asked.

  “How did you know?”

  “Are we alone?”

  “Yes.”

  Finney relaxed a little and moved to the stone wall. He had never learned to fear her and felt no trepidation even now. If she had wanted to harm him, she had just passed up an excellent chance.

  Victoria joined him at the wall.

  “It’s a reality show, Victoria. We signed a release that practically guaranteed deception. I immediately suspected every contestant. Then I narrowed it down to the two contestants who didn’t fit the mold—you and Kareem.”

  “Kareem?”

  “The rest of us had terminal illnesses before we were selected. During the first few days on the island, they explained that those illnesses were part of our qualifications. But Kareem told us his liver failure was only diagnosed about a month ago, after he got a call from a plaintiffs law firm that had obtained a list of patients taking an antidepressant. My guess is that the show selected each of us a few months prior to the show, before they even told us. That’s how they orchestrated my temptation. Kareem’s illness didn’t fit the mold. I’m not even sure he’s sick.”

  Finney could tell by the puzzled look on Victoria’s face that she hadn’t considered this before. She had been looking down the mountain, avoiding eye contact with him. But now she turned to him, squinting into the setting sun. “How did you know it was me?”

  “The Galápagos, Victoria. During our first conversation on the island, you said that you thought we were somewhere near the Galápagos. But when I read Darwin’s journal, I realized that couldn’t possibly be right. The direction of the breezes, the prevailing trade winds—here we have warm trade winds blowing from the equator; in the Galápagos they have cool trade winds blowing in from the Arctic. A sailor notices those things. The vegetation, the color of the sand—it was all wrong. A scientist would have to know that, Victoria. Especially after I highlighted it in open court.”

  She gave Finney a thin and apologetic smile. “Guilty.” She looked down and nudged a small rock with her sandal. “Yet still you sailed with me.”

  “I figured you wouldn’t shoot me in broad daylight on the ocean,” Finney said. “Plus, it was the best way to gain information.”

  “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?”

  “No,” Finney admitted. He found a small rock from the wall to keep his hands occupied. “I actually valued the time together.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly.

  “It was a reality show. You’ve got nothing to apologize for.”

  She looked at him again. “Yes, I do. And I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Finney took a deep and awkward breath. “What are you doing here now?”

  “I came to tell you what’s really going on,” she said. “And to make my apologies.”

  “Apology accepted,” Finney said, glancing over his shoulder. “But I can’t believe you’re going to unveil for me the great mystery behind the Faith on Trial show and they’re not even going to film it?”

  “It’s just us, Oliver. I promise.” Victoria thought for a moment, looking at the horizon. “The threats have all just been a reality show setup,” she continued, and Finney wanted to believe her. “Just to see if the contestants would try to make the finals even if they faced danger.”

  “Fake death threats,” Finney said, more to himself than Victoria. On the one hand, he was relieved to hear Victoria say that. But on the other hand, if it was true, it was an arrow to his pride. How could Finney the code specialist be so wrong? “I thought that myself for a while.”

  “Until?”

  “Our clever little escape plan,” Finney explained. “I knew by then that you were lying to me, and I figured that you would tell your partners about our plan. If it was just part of the show, I expected both the Swami and Kareem to find something on the computers they checked. When Kareem found something on Murphy’s computer, but the Swami didn’t find anything on McCormack’s, I figured that Murphy had been set up. And why do you need a fall guy if there’s not some seriously bad stuff getting ready to happen?”

  Finney turned the rock over a few times in his hand and tossed it down the cliff. He noticed a sly smile worm its way onto Kline’s face.

  “Actually, that was a mistake,” she said. “The Swami was supposed to find e-mails on McCormack’s computer too, but Bryce forgot that the password protection for his Outlook folder kicks in ten minutes after the machine is dormant. Murphy was smart enough to remember that, so he made his machine hibernate, which doesn’t generate password protection.”

  The irony of it struck Finney.
He knew of hundreds of stories of cryptanalysts who had been thwarted because the person writing the code had made a mistake. It was an eternal problem—how could you factor in the endless variations caused by human error?

  Victoria allowed him to think for a moment and then spoke softly, her voice matching the warm hues of the disappearing sun. “Can I ask you another question?”

  “You can ask,” Finney said in a tone that made it clear he had no obligation to answer.

  “Did you somehow tip off Nikki Moreno about Preston Randolph’s involvement?”

  Finney mulled this question over, and his suspicions kicked in. Was he really out of danger? Or was somebody still out to get him and just needed to know how much he had communicated with Nikki? Could he fully trust Victoria? Or was she on a scouting mission for his enemy?

  “Why do you need to know?”

  “Nikki Moreno went to a television station, and they ran an exposé tonight on the show, including Randolph’s involvement,” Victoria explained. “How did you know about Randolph’s part in this?”

  Finney’s mind flashed to the coded message he had received from Wellington and Nikki about the location of the island. Randolph had supposedly triangulated a phone call to McCormack that proved the island was near the Galápagos chain. That’s when Finney knew.

  “Your question assumes a fact not yet in evidence,” Finney said. “It assumes I communicated with Nikki.”

  “No, it is in evidence,” Victoria said. “Nikki told Randolph you had communicated with her using codes. But that’s really not important. I only asked because there was something in the exposé that didn’t make sense, and it’s one of the reasons the show’s producers allowed me to talk with you tonight.”

  Finney raised an eyebrow. Could things get any more convoluted on this island? “Which was?”

  “Some of the e-mails to Randolph about this fake plot to eliminate the contestants weren’t written by any of us who were part of the plot.”