The Judge

by Randy Singer

  “Judge Finney signed a release after the visit from the actor posing as William Lassiter,” Mitchell explained. “As for Mr. Hasaan, a signed release does not give someone the right to put a contestant through the trauma of thinking he’s got a terminal sickness. That’s the kind of malicious deception that goes beyond what the parties had in mind when the release was executed.”

  “You haven’t mentioned Victoria Kline.”

  “Ms. Kline has received immunity in exchange for her testimony. To my knowledge, she was not aware of the deception concerning Mr. Hasaan’s diagnosis.”

  “Do you have any comment on yesterday’s announcement by the prosecutors in the Virgin Islands?”

  Nikki sat forward at the question, curious to hear Mitchell’s response. The Assassin who called himself Gus had died in the cave on Paradise Island, but McCormack had survived. In the process of searching McCormack’s home, prosecutors had discovered videotapes of the death of Judge Lester Madison Banks III, who suffered a heart attack in his Jacuzzi after being threatened by this same Assassin. According to the papers, Judge Banks, who lived in Florida, ruled on a case nearly eight years ago in which he released a criminal defendant because of discrimination by prosecutors during jury selection. One of the defense attorneys in the case had been Kareem Hasaan. Two years later, the freed defendant raped McCormack’s daughter.

  “I am assuming that the question relates to the decision of the Virgin Island authorities to allow Mr. McCormack to be extradited to Florida so he can stand trial there first,” Mitchell asked.

  “Yes,” the reporter said. “In your view, how much is that decision impacted by the fact that Florida has the death penalty but the Virgin Islands does not?”

  “That’s a question you need to ask the Virgin Island prosecutors,” Mitchell said, and more questions were shouted. But this time Mitchell wasn’t through. Instead of pointing out the next question, he waited for silence. “I find it ironic, however, that even in Florida, if he is convicted and sentenced to death, Mr. McCormack will have the choice of the electric chair or lethal injection. That’s certainly more mercy than he was willing to show Judge Banks.”

  And so it went, back and forth, but eventually Nikki lost interest. Her mind wandered from the scene before her to thoughts of the past. It happened with alarming frequency these days. She would think of something Judge Finney had said or something he had done. She wished she could be with him one more time. Or just ask him one more question. Or even take one more of his sample LSAT tests.

  But she noticed recently, as she read Judge Finney’s Bible, that at times it almost felt as if she were speaking to him. She had seen so many of the words of Christ exemplified by Finney’s life that the words themselves had a familiar ring to them—an almost-eerie feeling of déjà vu.

  She glanced to her left, to the spot on the wall that so often drew her attention lately. It was a framed headshot of Finney, unveiled earlier in the week to a courtroom every bit as packed as it was today. She drew a fair amount of strength from the picture—the piercing eyes of Finney keeping watch over the justice being meted out before him. He had an intriguing look, and considerable debate had gone on about whether he was smiling or scowling. Nikki, who knew him best, had no doubt that it was a sly and thin-lipped smile, as if he knew something the rest of the world had not yet figured out.

  The key to what he knew was contained in the small plaque just under the picture. Because it smacked of Finney’s religious beliefs, it had created a small storm of controversy. But Nikki had been adamant about putting it up and, with the help of Mitchell and others, was able to get it approved. Other judges, whose portraits graced the walls, had personal tributes under their pictures. Why should a tribute describing a religious man have to be censored? When push came to shove, nobody was willing to tell the grieving friends of Finney they couldn’t do it.

  In a way, the verse was Finney’s idea, communicated in another Poe-like message from beyond the grave. But it was Wellington who had discovered it, when the kid couldn’t resist solving all the remaining ciphers contained in Finney’s Cross Examination of Jesus Christ. He had called Nikki when she was driving back to her apartment late one night, and this time she was pleased to listen to all the tedious details about how he had deciphered one of the hardest codes in the book.

  The last two chapters, Wellington explained, were encrypted using the Vigenère Cipher, a code so difficult to crack it was nicknamed the Unbreakable Cipher. But that couldn’t stop Wellington, of course, who couldn’t suppress his excitement as he told Nikki how he had deciphered the message for the penultimate chapter. Nikki made a note to look up the word penultimate later.

  “So what’s the message?” she asked.

  Just then a driver cut Nikki off and she gave him the horn, resisting the urge to throw in a piece of her mind along with it.

  “Are you driving?” Wellington asked.

  “No, I’m at a NASCAR race,” Nikki responded. And I don’t need another lecture about cell phones right now.

  “Right,” Wellington said. “Tell you what. Call me when you get home or wherever it is you’re heading.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Nope.”

  At first it frustrated Nikki. But almost immediately she felt a small burst of pride. It was the first time she had heard him stand up for himself. Maybe she was rubbing off on him. Maybe she could groom him for Finney’s job someday after all—a code-breaking, crime-busting judge for the next generation.

  “Okay,” she said, “I’m pulling over.” She continued driving and waited a few seconds, hoping that none of the vehicles around her used their horns. “Now, what does it say?”

  “‘This is how one should regard us, as servants of Christ and stewards of the mysteries of God.’”

  “That’s good,” Nikki said. “That’s so good it’s going on a plaque.”

  And four days later, it did.

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  The paramedics arrived with a speed that surprised Caleb Tate. He met them at the front door of his seventy-five-hundred-square-foot mansion, a house on a large hill in the middle of Atlanta’s illustrious Buckhead area. His friends called it “the house that murder built.” Caleb Tate was, after all, one of the most notorious defense attorneys in the city of Atlanta—a reputation he had carefully nurtured his entire professional career.

  He let the team in and breathlessly provided them with details as they followed him up the winding staircase, two steps at a time. The paramedics struggled to keep up, dragging their oxygen masks and defibrillators and other life-sustaining equipment. Adrenaline pumped through Caleb’s body, and he felt as if this whole thing were a nightmare, a scene from a horror movie.

  He rushed through the door of the bedroom and stepped aside, his body trembling as he took in the scene as if seeing it for the first time. His wife was sprawled in the middle of the floor, a scoop-neck sleepshirt twisted around her body.

  He had lifted her from the bed, placed her on the carpet, and started CPR, tilting her head back and blowing in a breath. She had gurgled and vomited, the night’s supper spilling down her cheek and matting her brown hair. He had cleaned her face with her sleepshirt, moved her head to the side, and used two fingers to clear out her throat. Then he’d tilted her head back again and resumed CPR, frantically pumping her chest with the heels of his hands and blowing deep breaths into her lungs. He’d counted out loud, slowing himself down. He kept checking for a pulse. He fought the urge to panic.

  When his efforts proved unavailing, he had called 911. He knew it would be too late.

  “You might want to step out in the hallway,” an older paramedic said. He was kneeling next to Rikki and had a calm and efficient way about him, as if he might simply be putting a splint on a broken leg.

  The team hooked
up the defibrillator, but the readout said, “No shock advised.” They stuck a tube down Rikki’s throat, and a machine began pumping breath into her.

  “You really need to wait outside.” The man was more emphatic this time. He was a big guy with receding gray hair.

  But Caleb couldn’t move. His feet were in concrete, and the room was starting to spin.

  “I need to stay,” he insisted, his voice soft and distant. He could hear the sirens from other vehicles pulling into the driveway. Blue strobe lights pulsed through the windows. Police officers rushed up the stairs, and another set of paramedics arrived. Before Caleb knew what was happening, the house was swarming with rescue personnel. Somebody gently led him into the hallway, and the questions started flying. When did you find her? Has she had any health problems? What medications was she taking? How long were you gone?

  Haltingly, Caleb explained that he had been at a friend’s house to watch a couple of March Madness games. He had crawled into bed next to Rikki and asked her a question, jostling her when he received no answer. He had reached over and touched her again and realized that her skin was cold and she wasn’t breathing. From there it was all a blur—jumping out of bed, doing CPR, calling for help.

  He didn’t know how long the paramedics worked on her before the older gentleman came into the hallway with a grim look. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We’ve done everything we can.”

  Caleb felt his legs start to buckle, and he grabbed a police officer’s arm. They helped him to the floor, and he placed his head between his knees to catch his breath.

  “This can’t be happening,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” one of the officers mumbled.

  After a few moments, Caleb managed to rise slowly to his feet and regain some semblance of the composure that made him such a formidable force in the courtroom. He glanced toward the bedroom door and headed for it.

  A female officer stepped in front of him. “I don’t think you should go in there,” she said.

  He pushed her gently aside. “It’s my house.”

  He stopped at the door—the room was littered with medical equipment. Police officers were taking pictures and milling around as if it were a crime scene. At least a half-dozen people froze and looked at him.

  “I need a moment alone with my wife.”

  The officers and paramedics looked at each other, and a senior officer nodded. “Please don’t disturb anything,” the man said. “It’s just routine, but we need to have things exactly as we found them.” The officers and paramedics left without shutting the door. Two of them stood next to the doorway, engaged in casual conversation. Caleb knew they were watching.

  He walked to his wife and straightened her sleepshirt, covering more of her exposed body. He pulled the comforter from the bed and laid it over her, tucking it in around her shoulders and underneath her heels. He pushed her hair out of her face and was shocked at how much she had already changed. The pallor of her skin. The lifeless stare of her eyes. Her mouth open in what seemed like an awkward grasp for a final breath. The paramedics had already removed the tubes.

  He thought about the pictures the police had taken, and he knew that the pictures would be leaked and would make their rounds on the Internet. But there was nothing he could do about that now.

  Rikki Tate, wife of infamous criminal-defense attorney Caleb Tate. A showgirl in life. She would also be a showgirl in death.

  Caleb felt a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Mr. Tate, but we need to ask you a few more questions.”

  Caleb stood and met the officer’s stare. He couldn’t remember the guy’s name, but he had cross-examined this man at least once or twice. Now the shoe would be on the other foot.

  Caleb was a realist. He knew he had enemies at every level of law enforcement in the city of Atlanta. And he also knew that as soon as the autopsy results came in, he would be their first and only suspect.

  Caleb would cooperate fully. He followed the officer into the hallway and down the stairs to the dining room. He answered every question, fighting off the numbness and fatigue as the reality of the night’s events began to sink in. Rikki was dead, and she was never coming back. So young. So much potential. So relentlessly determined to make something of her life. So committed to her newfound faith.

  None of that would matter now. It would all be lost in the swirl of rumors surrounding the drugs they would find in her body. It was an American tragedy, plain and simple.

  Marilyn Monroe. Anna Nicole Smith. And now, Rikki Tate.

  The debate took place in the Milton High School auditorium. It was less than half-full, and I sat next to my friend and mentor, Regina Granger, the senior assistant district attorney for Milton County. Regina, a large and loud woman, had a boisterous belly laugh that made you think she was warm and cuddly. She was not. Regina was one of the toughest people I knew, an African American woman who earned her stripes thirty years ago in Milton County’s good-ole-boy system.

  If you were accused of a crime in our county, the worst news you could get was that Regina Granger was handling your case. In my three years at the prosecutor’s office, I had never seen her lose.

  We were watching the Republican candidates for attorney general of Georgia debate. I would rather have been getting a root canal or watching an opera. Regina and I were both there for the same reason—our boss was one of the candidates.

  District Attorney William Masterson filled every inch of his chair in the middle seat at the table of candidates and a little more. He was the John Madden of the Milton County Courthouse—demonstrative, gruff, and down to earth. Everyone in the DA’s office loved him or at least respected him. But he was also mired in third place in a five-candidate race with four months left before the primary.

  The leader was the current chief assistant AG, a man named Andrew Thornton. In contrast to Masterson, Thornton was thin, bookish, and deadly serious. I had watched him argue twice before the Georgia Supreme Court, opposing Antoine Marshall’s appeals, though he never returned my phone calls. Instead, he had junior members of the AG’s office deal with bothersome victims like me.

  Toward the end of the debate, the moderator asked a question about the death penalty, and Masterson pounced on it. “I will never apologize for seeking the death penalty for those members of our society who show such callous disregard for the lives of others. We hear a lot about the rights of defendants, but I can tell you this. . . .” Masterson paused and made sure he had everyone’s full attention. “In every case where I’ve sought the death penalty, the victim suffered far more than any defendant executed by the state. I could tell you some gruesome stories about how these victims were tortured, raped, and killed. And unlike the defendants, the victims had no choice in the matter.”

  There was a smattering of applause from the archconservatives who had shown up for the debate. I found the whole thing a little unseemly.

  “My biggest problem with the death penalty is that we allow these cases to drag on for years, costing the taxpayers millions,” Masterson continued. “In the audience tonight is one of my assistant district attorneys, Jamie Brock.”

  I felt my face redden, and I knew what was coming next. I hated playing the victim card, and I hated having others play it for me.

  “As many of you know, her mother was killed by a three-time felon named Antoine Marshall more than ten years ago. He’s still sitting on death row, attacking everyone and everything involved in the process, even though Jamie’s father, whom this man also shot, survived that night and ID’d him at trial. That’s why Jamie is a prosecutor today.”

  Masterson motioned toward me in the audience. “Jamie, would you stand for a moment?”

  I shot him a quick look to let him know that I wasn’t happy, then stood and forced a smile. The crowd applauded politely.

  “For me, being a prosecutor is not just a career,” Masterson said. “I feel the same way Jamie does—what we do is a calling. Victims have rights, and they’re entitled to justice.”


  When the debate was over and Masterson had finished glad-handing every person who’d stuck around, he gave me a hug. “Hope I didn’t embarrass you,” he said.

  “You did,” I said. “But you can make it up to me. We need to talk.”

  Masterson raised an eyebrow. “This can’t wait till tomorrow?”

  “I only need five minutes.”

  He grunted his approval and then decided that if the conversation couldn’t wait, we might as well get coffee and ice cream. Fifteen minutes later, we were sitting in an Applebee’s, and Masterson was replaying the debate, asking for my perspective. When his ice cream finally came, he had two questions. “You sure you don’t want some?”

  “No thanks.” I was sticking with just coffee.

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Rikki Tate.”

  “So talk.” He took a bite of ice cream.

  I had already formulated my negotiating strategy. I wanted to work on the Tate case. I knew it was the kind of high-profile case where Masterson would want someone from the DA’s office working with the major felony squad detectives right from the start. I also knew Masterson would say I was too busy. I would tell him that I would work overtime and still handle my normal caseload. He would then say that I didn’t have enough experience to handle the case, and I would offer to ride second chair. He would claim that I was too emotionally involved, and I would quote one of his answers from earlier that night when he said that, as prosecutors, we ought to be personally involved in every case. Like I did with every cross-examination, I had scripted the conversation in my head a hundred times and had a response for every objection, a counterpoint for every argument.

  “I’d like to work on the Tate case,” I said.

  “I’m handling that one myself,” Masterson responded, going for another bite. “But I could use a good second chair.”