The Judge Page 11

  Bryce braced himself for a serious Cameron Murphy eruption, but the producer surprised him. Murphy thought about the comment for a moment and then exhaled. He took a sip of water, and the whole room seemed to relax a little. “We aren’t going to dumb down this show just to get ratings,” he said. “But we do need to ratchet up the drama a few notches. Now, what kind of footage do we have in the hopper for our next show . . . ?”

  The contestants gathered in the Paradise Courthouse on Wednesday afternoon and took their seats at their counsel tables. The production crew performed its mike checks and lighting checks. Makeup assistants dabbed foreheads with powder. Finney’s forehead took a little more dabbing than the others. He gave Dr. Kline a knowing nod, but she was back to her old self, ignoring him like the snob he had pegged her to be on day one.

  Tammy made a few announcements, and then Javitts took the bench. The court clerk called the court to order, and Finney felt at home. He coughed a little, drawing dirty looks from the audio techs.

  “Two days ago, each of you was interrogated in the cross-examination room,” Javitts said, his voice authoritative as always. “In addition to being strong advocates for your faith, each of you also has another thing in common.” Javitts stopped and surveyed the contestants.

  He makes a pretty good television judge, Finney thought. Even if he hasn’t learned how to control belligerent lawyers like Kareem.

  “Each of you, with the exception of Dr. Kline, has been diagnosed with an incurable terminal illness,” Javitts said grimly. “In fact, though it may sound morbid, one of the reasons you were chosen is because you are bravely facing your own unique physical challenge. It was not a requirement for the advocate in Dr. Kline’s position, for reasons which will become clear momentarily.”

  As Javitts talked, Finney took the opportunity to scribble a few words on his legal pad. He made it look like he was taking notes. In fact, he was writing one.

  “One of the most important tests of any faith, if not the most important test of any faith, is how well it prepares you to face death. We will give you a chance to talk to our viewers about that in the days ahead. More important, they will get a chance to observe you as you continue to battle your health conditions.”

  As Finney finished his note, he found himself wondering what could possibly be wrong with Kareem and Hadji. They both seemed so healthy.

  “But the other thing our viewers will want to know is whether your gods have the ability to miraculously deliver you from life-threatening circumstances. Tomorrow night, viewers will see the video footage of each of you being asked about this issue. In particular, they will see Judge Finney and Mr. Hasaan each claim that their God can perform miraculous healings. Viewers will also hear Mr. Hadji claim that when you become absorbed in meditation you realize that self is separate from body, and you will not be affected by disease or death. Dr. Ando did not claim that his faith could deliver him from death, only help him through it.”

  Judge Javitts paused and sucked in a deep breath, while Finney took advantage of the moment to pass his note to Kareem.

  Strange stuff is going on here. Kline thinks she heard some of the producers talking about blackmailing us. Keep it quiet. I’ll tell you more as I find out more.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Finney watched Kareem slide the note over and casually glance down to read it.

  “Next week, each of you will be thoroughly examined by the best physicians available to see if your faith has indeed provided any miraculous healing during your time on this island,” Javitts continued. “Needless to say, that would greatly impact your chances of being named as one of the two finalists.”

  Kareem folded the note while Judge Javitts, like a seasoned pro, held his pose for the cameras. The producers were probably planning on putting some dramatic music in the background as they played this segment on Thursday night. Finney decided to rain on their parade.

  “May it please the court,” Finney said, rising to his feet. He decided not to wait for permission to proceed. “Of course, the Christian God can heal—that has been proven millions of times. But my God also says, ‘Do not test the Lord your God,’ and it occurs to me that asking God for healing so that I can win a reality show is exactly the kind of thing He must have had in mind in saying that.”

  Finney took great delight in the alarm he saw on Javitts’s face. This was certainly not in the script. “So I just wanted to put the court on notice that I won’t be submitting myself to any tests next week, nor will I be asking God to heal me on national TV.”

  Before Javitts could respond, Kareem stood next to Finney. “Allah is not to be tested either. And accordingly, his servant will not be tested by the producers of this show—not next week, not ever.”

  Hadji sprang up at the other table to join in the revolt. “You don’t schedule the healing that comes through meditation; it occurs as enlightenment occurs,” he said. “So don’t schedule any tests for me.”

  “Cut!” Bryce McCormack yelled, shaking his head ruefully.

  Cameron Murphy stormed to the front of the courtroom, his face flushed with anger. “This is wonderful. We’ve got all these hard-core believers in God, but none of their gods is big enough to heal them.”

  He scowled at the advocates and then cut his eyes back to McCormack. “Let’s just get started in the cross-examination room,” he said. He took a couple of breaths, turned back to the advocates, and seemed to calm down a little. “And by the way, we’re going to want to check your papers before you leave. We’ve been hearing some nasty rumors about communications with people outside the island.”

  Finney noticed, under the table, Kareem stuffing a folded piece of paper into the front of his pants.

  22

  This time Finney went last. None of the others said a word after coming out of the cross-examination room. They seemed to be operating under an unwritten “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. It was late afternoon by the time Finney took his turn.

  The room was the same as it had been two days ago—sweltering hot, close to ninety degrees in Finney’s estimation—with the harsh spotlight focused on the single black wooden chair in the middle of the room. This time, however, there was no polygraph machine, no Dr. Zirconni. It was just Finney, Judge Javitts, two security guards, and a cameraman.

  “Have a seat,” Javitts said.

  Finney carried bottled water with him, compliments of the well-stocked refrigerator at his condo. Javitts stood in the shadows by the door so that, from where Finney sat, he could hardly see the man’s face.

  “We’re going to be filming a segment now that we have no present intention of using,” Javitts said. “But sadly, in the reality show business, pieces like this have become something of a necessity.”

  There was something about the way Javitts said the words “present intention” that hung with Finney and made him suspicious. He looked toward the wall of mirrors, thought about making a face, and decided against it.

  “This is a worst-case-scenario segment,” Javitts continued. “We tape it, in part, because so many reality show contestants in the past have shown an inability to play by the rules. There are millions of dollars invested in this production. Producers need some assurances that contestants aren’t going to improperly receive outside help, divulge results before the final episode airs, or perhaps even file suit after the show is over because they’re disgruntled with the results. Ever since the allegations that an American Idol judge got involved with one of the contestants, smart producers have been taping segments like this one so that contestants will think twice before they put their credibility on the line by making allegations like that.”

  “In other words, blackmail,” Finney said.

  “Judge, you of all people should know better,” Javitts lectured with an edge to his voice. “Blackmail is a legal term with such nasty connotations. What we’re about to do, on the contrary, is bend over backward to show you some leniency. We would be well within our rights to air the segment w
e’re about to film immediately. Faith is about forgiveness and overcoming past mistakes, and our viewers are entitled to know if you’ve experienced that. But we’re not going to do that. In fact, there’s a good chance this segment will never air—”

  The door opened and the voice of Bryce McCormack chimed in. “Let’s get this segment taped already. Every other contestant did this, including Mr. Hasaan. Judge Finney, do you want to stay in this game or not?”

  Finney shrugged. “I never said I wasn’t going to do it. I just wanted to call it what it is.”

  “Have you ever heard the name Antonio Demarco?”

  “It sounds familiar.”

  “Would it help refresh your memory if I told you that Mr. Demarco’s was one of the cases you dismissed approximately five years ago because of the speedy-trial statute?”

  “I said the name sounded familiar. I don’t need my memory refreshed.”

  “What is the Virginia speedy-trial statute?”

  “It codifies the rights of alleged criminals in Virginia to receive a speedy trial. Under its terms, any case not brought to trial within one year of arrest has to be dismissed, unless the delay was at the request of the defendant.”

  “Have you ever dismissed cases under the Virginia speedy-trial statute?”

  “You obviously know that I have. Several years ago I had to dismiss six cases that weren’t prosecuted in a timely manner.”

  “There was a fair amount of newspaper coverage about that, wasn’t there, Judge Finney?”

  “Yes.”

  “Blaming the prosecutors for not having a better case management system to move those cases forward, right?”

  “Yes, and also a particular defense attorney who happened to be a member of the Virginia House of Delegates. Under Virginia law at the time, a member of the House of Delegates can get an automatic continuance if the case is scheduled for trial on the date of one of his committee meetings. This guy would get a couple of continuances and then the prosecutors would let the case slip through the cracks.”

  “That lawyer did not represent Antonio Demarco, did he?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Demarco was facing a third felony that would have brought substantial jail time under Virginia’s three-strikes law, isn’t that right?”

  “If you say so; I really don’t remember.”

  Javitts paused for a moment as if he didn’t believe the answer. Finney could tell the man had tried a few cases in his day—he had a methodical way of zeroing in on the damaging information, creating a crescendo as he did so.

  “Now, Judge Finney, isn’t it true that, although the newspaper never figured this out, the delay in the Demarco case was not really the fault of the prosecutors?”

  Finney took a swig of water, wondering how Javitts knew this stuff. Denying it would only make Finney look worse. “I never blamed that case on the prosecutors.”

  “Did you ever tell the press why that case didn’t get tried within one year?”

  “I had no obligation to tell the press anything.”

  “Isn’t it true that you had a rule in your courtroom prohibiting cases from being set for trial until all major pretrial motions were resolved?”

  “Yes. It was a way to make sure we didn’t waste everybody’s time.”

  “And isn’t it true that you allowed a motion to suppress filed by the defense attorney in the Demarco case to sit on your desk for three months without a decision, causing the case to go past the speedy-trial deadline?”

  Finney felt the intense heat from the spotlight as his mind flashed back to that dark period of his life. Eighteen months after losing his wife to a heart attack, his only child, twenty-four-year-old Tyler, had died when he lost control of his motorcycle. Demarco’s wasn’t the only case that got neglected.

  “Judge Finney, is it true?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know that eight months ago, just outside Youngstown, Ohio, Mr. Demarco was arrested again?”

  “No.”

  “Would it surprise you to learn that Demarco was selling crack and meth to fourteen- and fifteen-year-old kids?”

  The dark shroud of that news seemed to cover the room. But did it surprise Finney? “No,” he said. “Unfortunately, I would be surprised if Demarco ended up being one of the rare dealers who actually turned things around after getting a break like he did.”

  “A break,” Javitts repeated sardonically. “Is that what you call it?” He walked toward Finney and handed the judge a picture. It showed an attractive young woman with a broad smile.

  “Would it surprise you to learn that Demarco shot and killed this young woman in a convenience store robbery?” Javitts asked.

  Guilt stabbed Finney, ripping at his gut. He stared silently at the picture in his hand. A judge’s worst nightmare. An innocent woman killed because Finney hadn’t done his job. The one thing he had always prided himself on—being a fair and conscientious judge—was blown away in the time it took for the devastating implications to sink in.

  “Somebody’s daughter,” Javitts said. “Somebody’s friend.”

  “I’m sorry,” Judge Finney said softly. “I had no idea.”

  He was hardly coherent for the rest of the interrogation—a series of questions about how his faith would help him deal with this kind of failure. Javitts asked about forgiveness and confession and absolution, and Finney answered like a zombie, all the while thinking about the young woman in the picture. She looked to be about the same age as Tyler had been at the time of the accident.

  Bryce McCormack listened intently on the other side of the one-way mirror, flanked on one side by Cameron Murphy and on the other by a small string of a man who served as the lead postproduction editor.

  “When you edit Finney’s cross-examination, make sure you cut the part where Javitts shows him that picture,” Bryce said as soon as Finney had answered his last question.

  The editor mulled this over for a minute. “What are you saying? Demarco didn’t commit that murder?”

  Bryce continued staring through the glass, watching Finney leave the room. “Javitts never said he did,” Bryce replied. “He just asked a carefully worded hypothetical question.”

  “Yeah, but the way he said it—”

  “Look,” Bryce interjected, “we all know that these guys Finney put back on the street have been doing some pretty nasty stuff. We know Demarco was still selling. Did he commit murder? Maybe not with a gun, but the drugs do the same thing; it’s just slower. Javitts showed him that picture as an example of the kind of damage his actions have caused. Now Finney will wrestle with the issue of forgiveness, a point driven home by a memorable face, and we’ll have the leverage this session was intended to create.”

  The editor’s silence signaled that he still wasn’t convinced.

  “Just edit the tape,” Cameron Murphy said.

  Finney left Paradise Courthouse under an overcast sky without saying a word to the other contestants. He flung his suit coat over his shoulder and walked around the resort property two or three times, praying as he shuffled along. He didn’t really care if the information became public—it would probably serve him right. But he was sick to his stomach about what had happened.

  As a judge, Finney was used to making tough rulings that sometimes upheld constitutional rights by setting felons free. And he had made his peace with the consequences of that. But he was tortured by the thought that his own negligence, not the Constitution, had turned Demarco loose so he could kill this woman. “Somebody’s daughter,” as Javitts had said. “Somebody’s friend.”

  Finney’s grief was doubled by thoughts of his own son—all the words left unspoken, the relationship that had never been what Finney hoped for. Tyler had always been closer to his mother, and her death seemed to drive Finney and Tyler further apart. The son was as stubborn as the father. Tyler, a law-and-order type who had joined the police force right after college, could never understand how Finney could release felons based on
things Tyler called technicalities.

  But it was so much more than that. For all practical purposes, while Tyler was growing up, Finney had been an absentee father, serving the jealous mistress of the law day and night. When Finney discovered a vital faith late in life and reordered his priorities, he and Tyler had already drifted too far apart. It was the “Cat’s in the Cradle” phenomenon—the busy son no longer had time for a prodigal father doing his best to reunite.

  Tyler’s death had shaken Finney to the core.

  He wondered now about the young woman in the picture. Was she an only child? Was she close to her parents? What had been her hopes and dreams?

  When he got off this island, he would find out her name. He would pay her parents a visit and ask forgiveness. It was one more thing to put right while he still had time.

  Suddenly, he didn’t really care whether he won this game show or not. In the real world, five years ago, he had performed like a loser. Nothing on Paradise Island would change the results of that.

  23

  The contestants were a somber bunch at dinner. Under the watchful eyes of the cameras, nobody talked about their afternoon sessions in the cross-examination room. From the looks on their faces, the others had endured interrogations every bit as tough as Finney’s. Even the Swami wasn’t his normal vivacious self as he and Finney shared a table with Kareem.

  As the food was served—custom orders the men had submitted earlier—the discussion turned to their medical challenges. It shocked Finney to learn that the Swami suffered from acute Hodgkin’s lymphoma, a disease that attacked the lymph nodes and, in the Swami’s case, other nearby organs. He was in stage IVA, meaning that the disease had led to widespread tumors in the lungs, liver, and bones. But the Swami hadn’t experienced the fever, exaggerated sweating, and weight loss that afflicted some patients.

  Finney was having a hard time wrapping his mind around the fact that a guy with as much energy as the Swami could have a terminal illness. “You seem so healthy,” Finney said.