The Judge

by Randy Singer

  “What did they say?”

  “Weird stuff, like ‘I assume the baptism is still a go for Saturday.’ Another one said, ‘Nobody suspects us.’ That type of thing.” Victoria shrugged. “We decided that if there was any hint of real danger, even the most remote hint, we ought to tell the contestants.”

  Finney tried to follow her reasoning. “So you’re thinking that maybe Randolph really is going to kill somebody.”

  “No,” Victoria answered, but before she could explain further, her logic dawned on Finney.

  “You’re thinking that somebody might be trying to make it look like Randolph is involved in murder in order to cover up the real killer?”

  “That sounds pretty dramatic,” she responded. “I’m just trying to touch all the bases. It has me a little worried—that’s all.” She tried to shrug it off, but Finney could see the apprehension etched in her elegant brow. He wanted to put her at ease. Plus, the fascination of an unsolved mystery had its usual allure.

  “All right,” he said, “I’ll bite. Let’s think about this. Do you have any idea which computer generated those e-mails? Is there any possible connection with the young lady killed by Antonio Demarco, the speedy-trial defendant they asked me about?”

  Kline’s face became determined, wearing the look Finney had seen on mothers forced to testify against their own sons. For some reason, he had hit a nerve. She swallowed and turned to face him. “They were signed under the code name Azrael, but nobody knows who—”

  “Azrael?” Finney interrupted. He felt the blood drain from his face.

  “Yes. And as for the young lady who died . . .” Victoria hesitated and looked past him, then sighed. “That’s a lie too, Oliver. Demarco sold drugs again, but he didn’t kill anybody.”

  Finney could have strangled her, but his mind raced on ahead. He would deal with his own emotions later. “Azrael?” he asked again.

  69

  Inside the cave, Kareem prepared for the Maghreb prayer, placing his prayer mat on the rock floor of the damp chamber. The cave itself was a labyrinth of similar chambers filled with limestone stalactites and stalagmites, connected by numerous entrances from one chamber to the next, some nearly closed from centuries-old rock formations. The producers of the show had left a torch at the entrance, but it was mostly for ceremonial reasons. The day before, Gus had explored the cave. This evening, he used the bright light from his camera to lead Kareem through a few openings and into a large chamber with a flat limestone floor next to a large subterranean pool.

  A bat flew overhead, startling Gus, who instinctively cursed. Kareem shot him a look. “Sorry,” Gus said. He swore again, but this time under his breath.

  Kareem walked around the chamber, touching the walls and exploring the crevices. “You ready?” he asked Gus.

  Once Gus gave him the thumbs-up, Kareem squatted next to the pool and began his ceremonial washing with the cold subterranean water while Gus recorded every move. First, Kareem washed his hands up to his wrists three times. Next, he used the bottled water he had carried with him to rinse out his mouth three times. He sniffed the clean water into his nostrils three times and then washed his face. Turning back to the pool, he washed his arms three more times, all the way up to his elbows. He passed a wet hand over his head, then washed his feet three times each, right foot first.

  “Exhausting,” Gus mumbled.

  Ignoring him, Kareem moved to the edge of his prayer mat. He faced Mecca and cried out in a loud voice, “Allahu akbar”—Allah is great. He repeated it four times, then folded his hands and quoted the opening of the Koran, feeling his skin tingle with the special significance of those verses tonight. Allah had chosen him for this task. Allah had blessed him as a finalist. His heart must be pure for the challenge awaiting him. He would not let Allah down.

  He bent over three times, repeating with all the intensity he could muster: “Subhana rabbiya al azeem”—glory be to Allah the Great. He had never felt those words more passionately than he did right now. He sensed that much would be required of him in the hours ahead. If he survived the upcoming test, Allah would be glorified.

  He dropped his hands to his sides and cried out, “Sami Allahu liman hamidah”—Allah responds to those who praise him. His heart overflowed with gratitude, defying words. Then he knelt and touched his prayer rug, paying no attention to Gus as the cameraman circled around him to test different angles. “Subhana rabbiya A’ala”—glory be to Allah the Most High. “Allahu akbar—”

  Without warning, pain shot into his neck, like somebody had jammed a needle—a hundred needles—deep into his muscles, down his shoulder, surging with fierce intensity throughout his body. He groaned and fell facedown, fifty thousand volts of electricity from a stun gun crippling him. He felt as if his flesh were on fire, as if every muscle had been shredded, his central nervous system fried. A scream lodged in his throat.

  He realized immediately what had happened and scrambled to rise from the mat. His muscles wouldn’t respond, but still he struggled to his hands and knees, tried to stand . . . and felt another searing jolt. This time Gus kept the gun in place while Kareem suffered and twitched, flopping to the mat immobilized. Even amid the dank mildew of the cave, the smell of burning flesh grew pungent.

  “Move again, my brave friend,” Gus taunted. “Allah would be proud.”

  Azrael. The Arabic angel of death. Finney had read about him the day he prepared for his cross-examination by Kareem. It stuck with Finney because the angel seemed to symbolize the unyielding wrath of Allah. In Muslim theology the angel of death is forever writing in a large book and forever erasing what he writes. He writes the birth of a man and erases the man dispassionately when it is that man’s time to die.

  Azrael. Why didn’t he see it before?

  Finney’s first suggestion was to have Victoria call resort security. But she explained that the cell phones provided by the show worked only near the resort property. It was shortwave technology, like a cordless home phone, that hooked up to a central satellite phone. There were, of course, no cell phone towers on the island. Out here and at the cave, the phones would be useless.

  Out of options, Finney and Victoria started racing toward the caves—he in docksiders, she in sandals. Though adrenaline fueled Finney’s body, he struggled to keep up. He followed Victoria down this hill, around that corner, cutting a new path across shrubs and rock. He stopped once from sheer exhaustion and bent over for a minute to catch his breath. At least they were running downhill.

  “See that large set of rocks down there?” Victoria said, pointing to a spot about a mile in the distance.

  Finney nodded.

  “The entrance to the cave is about a half mile from there. Just keep following the path.” She pointed down a bank, and he saw it. “I’ll run ahead.”

  Finney started jogging again, but this time Victoria took off much faster. She was still in sight when he hit the path, but then he lost her as the vegetation grew dense. He veered off the path but then found it again. His lungs burned, but still he ran. A man’s life might be at stake. He prayed for strength.

  His thoughts focused on Kareem. In hindsight it seemed obvious. Kareem’s cross-examination for the so-called worst-case scenario had always bothered Finney. How could somebody know about a one-weekend affair that had happened ten years ago? That wasn’t reality show research; that was obsession. Plus, Kareem said they had first asked him questions about representing criminal defendants. The same type of thing they had hammered Finney about with regard to the speedy-trial defendants. But with Kareem, there had apparently been no specifics.

  Why? Maybe somebody wanted to confront Kareem about his past sins in a general way without providing a link to a particular person? Perhaps even a particular defendant Kareem had represented?

  Somebody on the show’s production team sure seemed to be fixated on the issue of guilty men walking free. He recalled the background materials Hadji had discovered about the persons of interest and knew imme
diately who it was.

  Finney could have kicked himself! He was so focused on his own cross-examination, his own humiliating history, that he didn’t focus on the others. Finney was right about one thing—ratings and religion were not the motive. This was far more personal.

  It explained one of the first things on the island that had really bothered Finney: the questions asked by Javitts right after opening statements. Is it right to kill? Is it right to commit suicide?

  Who wanted the answers to those questions? Who was contemplating an execution? Who was haunted by suicide?

  Pieces of the puzzle came to Finney quickly, like decrypting the first two letters of a code and watching the others fall into place. Only one man had control over who would be on this show. That same man knew early on that the producers wanted it to look like one of the finalists was going to die. Maybe he decided to take it one step further. Maybe he handpicked Javitts, a man who always wanted to be a television judge, on one condition—Javitts agreed to select Kareem for the finals. Maybe this same man found an imposter to diagnose Kareem with liver disease.

  Maybe he was used to orchestrating people and events, creating illusions to make the pretend seem real. Maybe this man was doing it even now, directing his most impressive show ever. But this time he was making the real seem fake.

  A father loses a daughter to suicide, triggered in part by a rape. But why was the rapist free in the first place? Who was responsible for putting him on the street?

  And what would a father do to avenge such a loss?

  The answers, Finney believed, were in a cave that was now less than a mile away. He picked up the pace despite his screaming lungs. Victoria Kline had no idea what she was walking into.

  70

  Finney ran most of the way, taking short breaks to catch his breath. It seemed to take forever, though it was probably no more than fifteen minutes. He was still a few hundred yards from the entrance when he met Victoria, running back toward him, breathless.

  “They’ve got Kareem in there,” she gasped. “They’re going to kill him.”

  “McCormack?” Finney asked, jogging beside her.

  “Yes.” Victoria was so shaken that she didn’t seem surprised about Finney’s knowing. “And Gus, too. They’ve both got guns.”

  Gus? Finney kept jogging, though his body was numb from fatigue. His legs began to cramp. “What did you see?” he managed.

  Between ragged breaths, Victoria filled him in. She followed the voices she heard from the mouth of the cave and crept through a couple of openings that led to a large chamber. She crouched in the shadows at the entrance to the chamber, aghast at the scene in front of her. McCormack and Gus had bound Kareem’s wrists behind his back using the same shackles that had been used during the Chinese water torture. They apparently didn’t want to leave any marks on Kareem that couldn’t be explained. The two captors made Kareem kneel on his prayer mat while they argued about what to do next.

  They had apparently put together an initial plan to drown Kareem on Saturday night and make it look like an accident. As a backup alibi, they had framed Randolph so it would appear that he had ordered the hit on Kareem to avenge the loss of his cousin in the World Trade Center.

  “Gus is apparently a paid hit man,” Victoria whispered. They slowed down a little as they approached the mouth of the cave. “I’m guessing that Gus is Azrael. He was probably going to disappear after the drowning, and his e-mails to Randolph would divert attention away from McCormack if the authorities didn’t buy the accident scenario. He seems upset that McCormack even came to the cave tonight—like Gus was supposed to handle this on his own.”

  Chaos, Finney thought. Planning gone awry. Maybe I can use that to my advantage.

  They were now just a few yards from the entrance, and they slowed to regain their breath. “I can’t believe McCormack is part of this,” she whispered.

  “I’m not surprised,” Finney said softly.

  The opening to the caves could be easily missed by a casual visitor. Three large rock structures jutting out of the ground partially shielded the jagged entrance. Victoria stopped and listened for a moment before she ducked inside. Finney had to bend over as he followed her into the first chamber.

  “I hope Kareem’s still alive,” she said, struggling to catch her breath. “I wanted to do something but knew I needed help.”

  Finney followed her through a few openings and turns until they reached the chamber where the three men were located. Finney and Kline crouched down and peered around the stalagmites. Kareem was still kneeling on his prayer mat, his face dimly illuminated by the kerosene torch and the light from a camera sitting on the cave floor. Behind him stood Gus, looking disdainfully at the Muslim. Bryce McCormack stood with his back to Finney and Kline, pointing a gun at Kareem.

  “Let me hear a new prayer chant,” McCormack taunted. “Something like ‘Allah is weak; praise be to Bryce McCormack.’”

  “Never,” Kareem said.

  “Hurry up,” Gus snapped, looking at McCormack. “We don’t have time for this.”

  Finney inched closer to Victoria. “Run back to the resort and get help. I’ll stall them.”

  Her eyes hardened, and she shook her head. “I’m not leaving,” she whispered.

  “Victoria, think this through—”

  She put her finger on his lips. “Forget it, Oliver. Think of a new plan.”

  McCormack took a step closer to his victim. “You need to bow when I say bow.”

  Kareem spit. McCormack kept the gun leveled on Kareem but spoke to Gus. “The stun gun,” he hissed.

  Gus narrowed his eyes and pressed the weapon against Kareem’s neck, forcing Kareem down on his face, his body twitching in spasms of pain. His moans curled Finney’s stomach. Finney noticed that Gus now kept his angry eyes fixed on McCormack.

  “We’ve got to help,” Victoria whispered.

  “I’ll distract them,” Finney whispered as he watched Kareem try to recover. His brave friend rolled to his side, hands shackled behind his back, and struggled to his knees. “You sneak in behind McCormack and get as close as possible. Grab a good-size rock. Move on my signal.”

  “Which is?”

  “The word ‘Go!’” Finney said. “Let’s keep it simple.”

  “You believe in an eye for an eye? A family for a family?” McCormack asked Kareem.

  “Enough of this,” Gus said.

  “I’m not talking to you,” McCormack responded. Though Finney could see only the man’s back, he could imagine the look of cold hatred in McCormack’s eyes. Vengeance against Kareem had taken the place of reason.

  Finney quickly patched together a plan, premised on the apparent ill blood between McCormack and his paid assassin.

  Finney crawled through the opening and crouched in the shadows next to the wall. He was now in the same cave as McCormack and the others, though still fifty feet away.

  “My daughter is dead. She’ll never return,” McCormack said.

  “I am truly sorry,” Kareem responded. His eyes locked on his tormenter’s.

  “You are sorry,” McCormack sneered. “You put a rapist on the street based on a technicality. And you’re sorry. But sorry will not bring my daughter back.”

  “Nothing does,” Kareem answered. “This won’t either.”

  Finney started inching along the wall, moving closer. If he stayed in the shadows, he could perhaps move within twenty feet of McCormack before being noticed. He signaled for Victoria to begin making her way along the opposite wall. If Finney could just move close enough and make a rush at them, Victoria could possibly come in from behind.

  McCormack leveled his gun at Kareem’s forehead. “You have a choice. Deny your god or destroy your family, Mr. Hasaan.”

  Finney slid a few more inches, kicked a loose rock by accident, and froze. McCormack never turned. But Finney had another problem. He felt a cough rumbling in his chest, forcing its way up his windpipe. The running had aggravated his lung condition
. He wheezed as he sucked in air. He closed his mouth and tried to choke it back. The urge grew irresistible . . .

  “If you don’t deny your faith, then Azrael will have another assignment. A year from now, he breaks into your home. Shoots your kids. Helps your wife commit suicide. If you deny your faith right now and curse Allah, I may decide to show you some mercy.

  “Justice requires a family for a family, Mr. Hasaan. But I might just let your family live.”

  Finney couldn’t hold out any longer. He was too far away to lunge for McCormack. Instead, he quickly crawled back toward the opening of the chamber. Fighting back the cough, praying for control . . .

  “There is no god but Allah, and Muhammad is his prophet,” Kareem said, his face trembling with rage and determination. “Praise be to Allah.”

  McCormack laughed scornfully. “See if Allah spares your wife. See if Allah saves your children.”

  At that moment, still a few feet from the entrance to the chamber, Oliver Finney coughed. Knowing he had blown his cover, he quickly rose to his full height and coughed loudly—a raspy, forceful, phlegm-producing cough that echoed throughout the chamber.

  McCormack and Gus swung their guns in his direction, while Finney covered his mouth with his fist and kept on coughing as if his life depended on it.

  And maybe it did. After all, who had ever shot a man while he was coughing?

  71

  “What are you doing here?” McCormack demanded. The director’s worried eyes flashed back and forth between Finney and Kareem.

  Finney raised his hands and took a couple of steps forward. He finished coughing and tried to stay as calm as possible. “What’s going on, Bryce?” he asked. “Was Gus trying to harm Kareem?” Finney knew it was a long shot, but he wanted to see if McCormack might try to turn on his partner.

  “Nice try,” Gus said, his voice all business. “Hands on your head, Judge. Get over here next to your buddy.”