The Judge

by Randy Singer

  Finney laced his fingers behind his head but appealed to McCormack with his eyes. He saw the flash from Gus’s gun out of his peripheral vision, ducked instinctively, and heard the bullet ping off the wall behind him. He rose cautiously back to his full height. His heart felt like it would pound out of his chest.

  “Hurry up!” Gus commanded. “Next time we don’t miss.”

  Finney locked his fingers behind his head again and walked deliberately to the prayer mat, eyeing Gus warily. Two captors with guns. Kareem in wrist shackles. Victoria in the shadows. Finney didn’t like his chances.

  He knelt slowly next to Kareem, keeping one eye on Gus, the other on McCormack. He tried to read the dark eyes of a man blinded by a six-year quest for revenge. He had no trouble interpreting the ruthless eyes of Gus. The man played cards without emotion; he apparently killed that way too.

  Finney quickly calculated the angles, the odds, the risks.

  McCormack still had his gun leveled at Kareem, but he appeared anxious, almost hyperventilating. Events were spinning out of control. Finney was still breathing hard himself, but otherwise he felt surprisingly calm. It was time to exploit the dissension between Gus and McCormack. “He’s going to kill you, too,” Finney said to McCormack.

  “Shut up,” Gus hissed. He pistol-whipped Finney across the forehead, opening a gash that spewed blood. Finney fell facedown on the mat but managed to get back to his knees, the blood dripping over one eye and down his face. He glanced up at Gus, standing a few feet away from his right shoulder. He saw McCormack take a step away from the men, backing closer to the wall.

  “What about Victoria?” Finney asked Gus. “You going to kill her, too? She’s already heading back to the resort.”

  Gus pressed the barrel of his gun against Finney’s temple. “One more word, Judge Finney. One more word.”

  “Finney’s right,” McCormack said, his voice showing the initial signs of panic. “What do we do about Victoria?” He took another step back as if distancing himself from the escalating situation. Victoria crouched in the shadows behind him. Fifteen feet, maybe twenty. Finney’s head throbbed with pain so great he wondered whether he would stay conscious.

  Gus spoke in a monotone. “First we execute these two. Then we chase her down.”

  McCormack nodded, his breathing still uneven. He took aim at Kareem, holding the gun with two hands, both trembling. Maybe Finney’s unexpected appearance had temporarily caused McCormack to lose his lust for revenge. McCormack had never shot a man before, Finney realized. They would need only a moment’s hesitation.

  But then the eyes narrowed, and McCormack seemed to refocus on Kareem. His face grew determined. Six years of hatred. Six years of thinking about his daughter’s death. His own life had lost meaning, except for the purpose of exacting revenge. And Finney knew instinctively that he was out of time.

  In the next fraction of a second, quicker than Finney could think rationally, he caught Kareem’s eye and gave his friend the signal. Finney the code maker, the cryptologist, the man who prided himself on creating and solving the most complex puzzles and codes. With his life on the line, in that briefest period of eye contact, he resorted to a code that had never failed him before.

  Oliver Finney winked.

  Kareem ducked down and to his left. Finney spun hard toward Gus, knocking the gun away from his own temple as it discharged. Finney then grabbed Gus’s wrist and lunged at the killer with every ounce of strength his tired legs could muster, yelling “Go!” at the same time. As he pounced, he heard the pop of McCormack’s gun and felt the bullet graze his shoulder, causing a brief streak of pain that shot up his neck and across his brain. Finney slammed into Gus like a linebacker and, aided by the element of surprise, drove him backward and onto the floor, jarring the gun loose as Gus’s skull bounced on the unforgiving limestone.

  Behind him, Finney heard a dull thud and loud grunt as Victoria Kline drove her rock into the back of Bryce McCormack’s head.

  Finney’s tackle and the blow to the head stunned Gus for a split second, but Finney had underestimated the sinewy man’s strength and agility. When Finney scrambled for the gun, Gus drove a powerful fist into Finney’s face, shattering the cheekbone and knocking Finney to his side, the gun just out of reach. Gus quickly grabbed the gun and staggered to his feet, while Finney found just enough strength to rise to one knee, a hand on the floor to steady himself as the cave spun, bright stars popping before his eyes. Out of his blurry peripheral vision, Finney saw Victoria grab McCormack’s pistol.

  Next to Finney, Gus regained his footing just as the second member of the contestant tag team delivered his blow. As Gus was struggling to his feet, Kareem had charged, hurling himself like a battering ram into the Assassin. The Muslim’s head landed squarely on Gus’s chin, blood spurting from the Assassin’s mouth while he staggered back, tripped, and caught himself as he fell, less than an arm’s length from Finney. Gus whirled around, his body in a crab-walk position, left arm braced against the floor as he swung his pistol in one smooth, quick motion up toward Kareem. Impulsively, Finney dove at Gus, throwing himself into the pistol just as the gun discharged—his torso absorbing the point-blank impact from the .22 caliber slug.

  Above him, Finney thought he saw another flash, heard a slug hit bone, and saw the side of Gus’s face explode, inches from Finney’s own. Then there was silence, as if somebody had freeze-framed the entire scene.

  When things started moving again, they seemed to go in slow motion, and the voices sounded like echoes from the end of a long tunnel. Through the fog, Finney felt Victoria rolling him onto his back, away from Gus, and shouting directions at Kareem. He heard the whoosh of his heartbeat in his ears, and the words of his friends faded further into the distance, though he could still feel their touch.

  His stomach felt as if someone had disemboweled him. The pain only increased as Kareem pressed his shackled hands onto the wound to stanch the bleeding. Finney still had knifelike pain in his shoulder from the first gunshot wound, exacerbated by the pressure on his body being exerted by Kareem.

  Victoria knelt over him and tried desperately to resuscitate him. She pinched his nose and pumped breaths into his mouth, forcefully, methodically, as if she could will him back to life with the precious air from her own lungs.

  “Don’t leave us, Judge. You’re going to make it,” she gasped between breaths, her voice nearly hysterical. “Don’t you dare die.”

  He wanted to fight; the flesh wanted to obey. But he could feel the blood seeping from his body and he heard another voice—softer yet infinitely stronger. He saw a brilliant white light.

  “Stay with me, Oliver,” Victoria pleaded. Another breath. A tear dropped on his cheek. “We’ve got to stop his bleeding, Kareem.” She stripped off her shirt and handed it to Kareem. He stuffed it into the wound.

  “Keep fighting, Oliver.” Another breath. The tears falling faster. “C’mon, buddy.”

  “Oliver,” the second voice whispered. The light grew stronger and the pain started to fade. “It’s time.”

  In response, Finney tried to whisper the name of his Savior. He thought briefly about the ones he would leave behind—Victoria, Kareem, Hadji, even Nikki—they would all understand. Maybe one day they would follow. He floated toward the light, the voice, the outstretched hands. Nail scarred.

  “No,” Victoria said. She cupped his head in her hands. Placed her cheek against his battered face to feel for breath. “Don’t leave.”

  But the other voice grew stronger, the image clearer. “Well done, good and faithful servant; you were faithful over a few things. I will make you judge over many.”

  The pain was gone. He ran to the light. Arms embraced him. And Oliver Gradison Finney knew that he was home.

  72

  For Nikki, the next few days blurred together. She walked through life in a haze, too numb to appreciate the outpouring of love and grief at the passing of her judge. It was almost as if her own soul had detached from her bod
y the day Oliver Finney died, as if she now floated above events, observing them from a distance.

  She felt like a zombie at the viewing—a somber affair where she waited in line for two hours just for a glimpse of Finney’s lifeless body.

  “He looks good,” she heard someone whisper, and Nikki almost went off on the woman. Finney had hated flattery, and to be honest, he looked terrible—the piercing eyes now closed, the ornery smile gone forever. His face looked like a wrinkled Halloween mask, and Nikki could detect the touch-up job on his cheek and forehead. She determined on the spot that her funeral would be a closed-casket affair.

  The next day Nikki slipped into the funeral late, dreading the emotions it would conjure up. A pew near the front was reserved for Finney’s clerks, but she didn’t want to join the others. Somehow it felt as if her relationship with Finney was much more than that. Nikki had lost a father, not just a judge.

  She squeezed into the back row of the balcony, away from the people she knew, preferring to deal with her emotions alone. She had seen many people cry these past few days, but she hadn’t shed many tears of her own. She felt guilty for not crying more, as if she couldn’t even mourn Finney properly.

  The pastor handled the service masterfully, refusing to preach a sermon or even deliver a eulogy. Finney’s life, he said, was its own sermon. Through it Finney spoke so powerfully that words could never do it justice. The pastor sat down, soft music started, and the large screens were filled with images of the judge Nikki loved.

  Whoever put the video together knew Finney well. It started with a court clerk calling the court to order (“The Honorable Oliver G. Finney presiding”), and Nikki almost stood out of instinct. Next, Finney banged a gavel, and the highlight film began. It made everyone laugh and most everyone cry. It ended with Finney’s compelling opening statement on Paradise Island—the story of Peter’s martyrdom. “O thou, remember the Lord,” Finney said, quoting the apostle’s last words.

  And then the screen faded to black.

  The pastor opened the mikes for impromptu testimonies about the judge, and lines formed down both aisles. The Swami made everybody laugh. Lawyers talked about a man of justice. And Victoria Kline shocked the audience when she promised everyone that she would see Finney again someday. “He taught me how to sail on Paradise Island,” she said as she swallowed back the tears. “And he restored my faith in God.”

  The irony was not lost on Nikki. Kline, the show’s handpicked atheist, was so moved by Finney’s sacrifice that she testified about a newfound faith. But Randolph, the self-proclaimed Seeker who had sponsored the show, was largely unaffected by the events that cost Finney his life. “I’m still trying to decide where I come out on all this,” Randolph reportedly told the press. “The prize money for the show will be split among all the religious groups represented.”

  It was Kareem Hasaan, however, who affected Nikki the most. He walked stoically to the podium, dressed in his finest black custom-fit suit. The entire room fell silent as he took a deep breath and stared out over the heads of those who had gathered. “The Bible says that ‘no one has greater love than this, that someone would lay down his life for his friends.’ On this point, the Bible is right. I loved Oliver Finney. And there is no question that Oliver Finney demonstrated his love for me.” And that was it. Simple. Direct. And Kareem Hasaan returned to his seat.

  After the service, Nikki climbed into her Sebring and followed the entourage to the cemetery, the emptiness gnawing at her wounded heart. She fought back tears as she approached the entrance, the road lined on each side with lawyers of all stripes, standing like soldiers in the ninety-degree heat, wearing their black and dark-blue suits, hands over their hearts.

  She stayed on the fringes at the grave site as the pastor read a few verses of Scripture and spoke comforting words that Nikki was too far away to hear. Somebody sang a stirring rendition of “Amazing Grace,” and eventually the crowd began to disperse. Nikki politely accepted the condolences of friends and shuffled away to a spot under a nearby tree. For some reason, she couldn’t bring herself to leave yet.

  The crowd had thinned considerably when he started walking toward her. He had a bounce in his step and a quick smile even as others walked slowly with their heads down.

  “You must be Judge O’s beautiful and brilliant law clerk.” The Swami extended his hand. Nikki couldn’t help but blush—this guy was a celebrity. “He talked about you all the time,” the Swami added. And then, with a mischievous grin, he said, “And I can see why.”

  The blush intensified, but Nikki ascribed it to the heat. What were the rules for flirting at a funeral? She settled for an uncharacteristically demure “Thanks.”

  “Can you hold on for a second?” the Swami asked. “I’ll be right back.”

  And before Nikki could tell him that she had voted for him, the Swami jogged off toward his car. A few minutes later, he returned.

  “Judge O gave me this,” he said, extending Finney’s worn Bible toward Nikki. “But I wanted to give it to you.”

  “I couldn’t take that. It’s—”

  “Nikki,” the Swami interrupted, “let me explain first and then you can decide.”

  Over the next few minutes, the Swami explained the pinprick cipher and the way Finney had given the Swami this Bible the last time they were together. The Swami placed a ribbon at the beginning of the book of John so Nikki would know where to start.

  “I decoded the message,” the Swami said. “It’s a message for you. Part of it tells you where Finney stashed a tape that could be evidence of the murder conspiracy on Paradise Island. But the rest of it is a personal P.S., though you should probably ignore everything in chapters 7 through 11.” He held it toward Nikki again, and this time she reached for it. “I thought you should have it—” but the Swami didn’t let go when Nikki tried to take it—“in exchange for your phone number, of course.”

  “The judge warned me about guys like you,” Nikki said with a half smile. But she gave him her phone number anyway. And then, after the Swami had left, Nikki sat down on the ground and began deciphering the message.

  As the Swami had explained, the first part was mainly logistical, Finney the judge making sure the evidence all lined up. But starting in John 5, he plotted out a personal message for Nikki. She could barely finish deciphering the text as the tears began dripping down her cheeks.

  Years ago I prayed for a daughter. You have been the answer to those prayers. I’m so proud of you. Love, Oliver

  Her heart bursting, Nikki continued to turn the pages. And then, in the verses between chapters 7 and 11, Judge Finney’s code produced a P.S.:

  One more thing. Whatever he says, don’t fall for the Swami. You can do better than that.

  Though the tears didn’t slow down, she couldn’t beat back the smile. And in her mind’s eye, she could see Finney plotting out the letters.

  The judge, of course, was winking.

  Epilogue

  Two weeks later, Nikki sat in the second row of Courtroom 3—Judge Finney’s courtroom, though Fitzsimmons was now the presiding judge. On this day, however, the courtroom had been transformed into the venue for a high-profile press conference, with reporters and spectators jammed into every seat. A deadly serious Mitchell Taylor stood in the well of the court behind a mike-infested podium, facing the crowd. Television cameras recorded every word.

  “This morning, a Norfolk grand jury returned indictments for criminal fraud against Preston Randolph, Cameron Murphy, and an actor named Phillip Haney for their roles in deceiving Judge Oliver Finney prior to the start of the Faith on Trial reality show. In particular, Mr. Haney impersonated a representative of the governor’s office under the assumed name of William Lassiter, and he did so under the direction and employ of Mr. Randolph and Mr. Murphy.

  “At this moment the Fairfax commonwealth’s attorney is announcing similar indictments against Mr. Randolph and Mr. Murphy as well as indictments against Mr. Howard Javitts and three other defend
ants for their roles in deceiving Kareem Hasaan into believing he had a terminal liver disease. Jurisdiction in Fairfax is based on the fact that those deceptions, including the alleged diagnosis, occurred in Fairfax County.”

  Mitchell paused and set his granite jaw so squarely that nobody could doubt his tenacity. “I have no intention of entering into plea negotiations on these matters. I do have every intention of prosecuting these cases to the full extent of the law. Am I trying to send a message? Yes. And the message is this: being a reality show producer does not give you a license to commit malicious acts of fraud.”

  He paused again and seemed to drink in the calm before the storm. It was vintage Mitchell Taylor, Nikki thought. Short, direct, unequivocal. It was his public side—Mitchell the prosecutor.

  But Nikki had recently experienced a deeper and more philosophical side when she approached him with questions about his faith. She knew that Mitchell was a Christian, and she knew how much Finney had respected him. It seemed natural to ask Mitchell the numerous questions that accosted her as she read through the Gospel of John. Mitchell impressed her with straightforward and sincere answers, admitting freely to things he did not know. She had been down this path before—searching for spiritual answers—but this time was different. She had not yet totally embraced the faith of Oliver Finney, but she was definitely on the journey.

  “Any questions?” Mitchell asked, snapping Nikki out of her thoughts.

  Several eager reporters jumped to their feet and simultaneously shouted their questions. Mitchell pointed to one in the second row. “Let’s start here.”

  “What about the lies to the contestants on the island itself—making all the contestants think they were going to die, that type of thing?”

  “The Department of Justice for the Virgin Islands will have to address that. Right now, they’ve got their hands full.”

  More shouted questions led to another selection by Mitchell. “Didn’t the contestants sign a release and acknowledge that the show’s producers might mislead them?”