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 we’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.