24

Finney wasn’t sure who was in charge of enforcing the rules for the island, but he figured that he might as well go straight to the top. After dinner, he knocked on the door to Cameron Murphy’s condo.

A cameraman had followed Finney and was shooting over his shoulder. As usual, Finney had a small mike attached to his golf shirt with the ever-present battery pack snuggled in the small of his back.

Murphy answered the door shirtless, wearing a pair of baggy khaki shorts that sagged low enough to expose a two-inch band of boxers. The skin underneath the hair on his bony chest was at least two shades lighter than his tanned neck, face, and arms. He was holding a beer in his right hand.

“You got a second?” Finney asked.

Murphy shrugged. “What’s up?”

Finney motioned to the camera over his shoulder. “Can I ask you something in private?”

Murphy thought about this and frowned. “Okay,” he said. Then, to the cameraman, “Take a break. Come back in five minutes.”

Murphy turned and walked toward the wicker furniture in the TV room. “I’d offer you a beer,” he said over his shoulder, “but that would violate our no-fraternization policy.”

Finney unhooked his mike and the attached battery pack, dropping it all on the kitchen counter. “I don’t drink anyway.”

“I knew that,” Murphy said as he sank into the couch. “We know a fair amount about you.”

It was a subtle reference to the speedy-trial cases, an interrogation that Finney was certain Cameron Murphy had watched. And enjoyed.

“Actually,” Finney said, “that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Finney took a seat, coughed for a minute, and explained his dilemma. The interrogation earlier today had reminded him of another case he had left sitting on his desk. Finney told Murphy about the Terrel Stokes matter, knowing that Murphy’s goons could look it up if they wanted. Finney explained how Stokes had sent a letter to a gang member outside the prison, ultimately resulting in the bloody execution of a critical government informant. He explained how prosecutors had filed a motion to use the out-of-court confession of the witness at trial based on their theory that Stokes had ordered the killing.

Finney failed to mention that he had ruled from the bench on the same day as the hearing.

“My recollection is that Stokes has been in jail for nine or ten months already. If that motion filed by the prosecutors is not resolved in a timely manner, I may be looking at another speedy-trial problem. And, Cameron, I’d rather quit this show right now than allow a man like Stokes to go free.”

Finney waited in silence for an answer, looking Murphy dead in the eye.

Murphy took a healthy pull on his beer and studied the judge. “Two weeks is going to make a difference?”

“I’m not sure exactly how long he’s already served,” Finney responded. “But after today, I’m not willing to take any chances. You can’t just arbitrarily set a trial date without giving the defendant a few weeks’ notice so his attorneys can subpoena witnesses and get prepared. And as you undoubtedly know, I don’t set trials until motions like this one are resolved. Two weeks at this stage could make all the difference.”

“Okay,” Murphy said with an exaggerated sigh. “What are you proposing?”

“I’ve written a brief opinion resolving the motion. Can you just see that it gets sent to my law clerk, Nikki Moreno?” Finney pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “Here’s the opinion and her e-mail address.”

Murphy read the opinion while Finney watched in pained silence.

Murphy looked up when he finished, studying Finney again with suspicious eyes.

“I really shouldn’t do this,” Murphy said, and Finney knew he had him. “Don’t tell the others.”

“Thank you.”

“And don’t even think about asking again.”

“I understand.” Finney stood and reached out his hand.

Murphy rose and shook it awkwardly. “You ought to be a little more diligent with your cases, Judge Finney.”

Though he wasn’t in the mood, Finney hosted a poker party on his patio that night. It was part of the plan that he and Dr. Kline had cobbled together earlier on the Hobie Cat. Finney would yuk it up with the Swami and the two cameramen who had joined their poker game on the plane. Meanwhile, Kline would pay a visit to Bryce McCormack.

Finney chomped through two cigars and lost nearly a hundred dollars—no small feat in a dollar-ante game. The Swami was the big winner, but he was probably cheating again. Finney didn’t care. His body was on the patio, but his mind was elsewhere.

One of his concerns was whether Nikki would catch on to the code he had used. His first thought had been to employ the same code used by Terrel Stokes, but he soon realized that code wouldn’t work. Stokes’s code would have required Nikki to locate any dates, then count down the number of lines that corresponded with the month and then count to the word in that line that corresponded with the day part of the date. But that approach required that the message transmitted to Nikki would stay in exactly the same format as the handwritten message drafted by Finney. There was no way to guarantee that would happen. For example, the eleventh word on the fourth line after the date 4/11 in Finney’s handwritten message wouldn’t necessarily be the same as the eleventh word in the fourth line in whatever typed e-mail Nikki received.

Finney thought about possible ways to use the computer in his condo to overcome this problem, but he came up empty there as well. The game show’s producers had been explicit in their instructions about computer use. They had shown the contestants the computer center, where a bank of screens in front of production assistants displayed everything that appeared on the screens of the contestants’ computers. These assistants monitored every keystroke made by the contestants and had the power, using the keyboards in front of them, to take control of the contestants’ computers and override the contestants’ keystrokes. Any e-mails, instant messages, or other attempts by the contestants to communicate with the outside world were strictly prohibited. In addition, any attempts to access Internet sites with reports or news about the reality show would be blocked. If a contestant abused his or her limited Internet privileges, the computer would be taken away.

Finney’s other problem was the inability to print documents from his computer. Otherwise, he would have just printed out the document and asked the producers to fax it to Nikki. Any request by Finney to personally type and send the e-mail would have made Murphy and his staff suspicious.

In the end Finney decided to modify the code slightly from the version used by Stokes. To compensate, he dropped obvious hints to Nikki. He was pretty sure that anybody who could pass the LSAT puzzles and games section would have no problem with this.

Which was what worried him so much about Nikki. He said a prayer for her as he lost another poker hand and chomped harder on his cigar. The key would be the name of Wellington Farnsworth. If she just picked up on that, she would be fine.

But as much as he hoped Nikki would figure it out, she was not the main focus of his thoughts as the cool ocean air blew through the back patio of Finney’s condo.

“You aren’t very talkative tonight, Judge O,” the Swami said.

“Just thinking,” Finney replied.

“About what?”

“A bunch of stuff.”

It was a lie. He was really only thinking about two things. The code-breaking capacity of Nikki Moreno was a passing concern. But what really weighed him down was the family of a young woman in Youngstown, Ohio, on whom he had inflicted inconsolable grief.

What kind of judge am I?