26

On Thursday morning, Finney and the Swami did their earth, wind, fire, and water exercises and discussed the first few chapters of the book of John. The Swami was fascinated with the imagery of Jesus as the light of the world—he’d somehow missed that in the handful of television sermons he’d heard and his thorough watching of The Passion of the Christ. After Dr. Kline finished her run and cooled down, Finney excused himself and headed over for day two of sailing lessons.

Finney knew he wasn’t yet ready for the afternoon’s courtroom festivities, but sailing with Dr. Kline had to take priority. They decided to make this one as short as possible without tipping off the ever-watchful cameramen and security guards.

Due to time constraints, Victoria didn’t bother to head back to her condo and change from her running clothes into her bathing suit. Instead, she just took off her shoes and socks, rolled up the sleeves of her T-shirt, repositioned the elastic holding her ponytail, and pronounced herself ready. Finney liked this woman better every day. Not in a romantic sense, of course—she could have been his daughter. But the pretenses he had seen earlier seemed to be melting away under the heat of the tropical sun. The woman Finney found underneath that hard exterior was much more to his liking.

“Good run?” Finney asked as he shoved the boat into the water.

“Not quite as fast as yesterday,” Victoria said. “Hard to focus with so much going on.”

They chatted like old friends as Finney hoisted the sail and got them underway. After a few minutes, he asked Victoria to take the tiller. It seemed to be a signal to get down to business.

“I paid a visit to McCormack last night,” she said.

Finney expected her to continue, but she apparently needed some prompting. “And?”

“And it was awful. The man is disgusting.” Another thing the two of them had in common. Finney thought McCormack’s sleaze factor was off the charts. The long gray ponytail, tattoos on both skinny arms and who knew where else, the small gut that overhung his jeans—it all gave Finney the impression of a man going through a serious midlife crisis.

“I took a shower as soon as I got home,” Victoria continued. “It must have been an hour long.”

“He didn’t try anything, did he?”

Victoria laughed. “Not unless you count frat boy pickup lines. I would have broken his arm if he made any real moves.”

Finney watched her jimmy the tiller a little, her lean arms working effortlessly. His money would definitely be on Victoria in an even fight.

“Learn anything?”

“He’s divorced. Must have said that three times. He said that he thought I could have a career in acting.” She chuckled at the thought. Finney kept quiet, since he thought maybe McCormack had a point on that one. “I think he mentioned at least twice that directors make or break acting careers.”

“Wonder if he had any particular directors in mind?” Finney mused.

“I wonder.”

Kline made a small course adjustment, resulting in a fuller sail. It occurred to Finney that she’d better quit doing so well or the need for lessons would soon be over. He threw his legs over the side and let them trail in the water.

“I didn’t bother to tell him that I’m a thirty-six-year-old university professor who considers acting to be a step down,” Victoria said.

“Yeah,” Finney said. “That’s why I’m not going to pursue any acting offers after the show either. I’d much rather resolve nasty marriage disputes in Norfolk Circuit Court.”

This actually made Victoria smile—something that accentuated her made-for-the-big-screen features. “He did let me use his cell phone,” she said. “I told him I hired an agent when I was selected for this show and wanted my agent to talk with him about future projects.”

Finney loved it. How many times had he seen this happen in the hundreds of cases he’d handled—men getting suckered by beautiful women? “Did you get in touch with your agent?”

“No, but I didn’t want to. I called his direct line at work, knowing he wouldn’t be in. That way I could leave a message, and he would have an excuse to call me back.”

“Remind me never to tangle with you in court,” Finney said.

“Too late for that,” Victoria replied. “Anyway, I told McCormack I needed some privacy, so I slipped outside his condo to call. I left a voice mail telling my agent what I suspected. I asked him to investigate and then call me back on McCormack’s cell phone. After I left the message, I stepped back inside and told McCormack that I had to leave a message and that my agent usually took a day or two to return my calls. McCormack told me to get a new agent, but he promised he’d talk to the guy and let me talk to him as well when he returned my call.”

“Who’s your agent?” Finney asked. Then he pointed toward the barely visible shore of a distant island. “If you head in that direction, you’ll get a little more wind.”

Victoria pulled on the tiller and corrected course. “A Washington attorney named Preston Randolph—ever hear of him?”

“The guy who handles mass tort cases?” Finney knew Randolph. Who didn’t? But Finney had no idea that Randolph was in the agency business. Especially for someone as low on the food chain as Kline.

“Yeah. I’ve served as an expert witness for him a few times. He said his firm would handle any offers that came out of this show for free.”

Now it made sense. A little quid pro quo for a professor who helped Randolph fleece millions from corporate America. Kline might have a soft smile, but Finney bet she could be hard as onyx.

“At least we’ve got a line of communication open to the outside world,” Finney said. He said it with no guilt about keeping his messages to Nikki quiet. Every code maker knows that you never broaden the circle of knowledge any further than absolutely necessary. But the way Victoria looked at him—it was almost like she knew.

“Let’s head back in,” Finney suggested. He had the information he needed. “On the way, I’ll teach you a foolproof method for passing coded messages to our colleagues in court right under the noses of the cameras.”

“You should have worked for the CIA,” Victoria said.

“I’ve got it!” Nikki Moreno blurted out, pumping her fist. She laughed out loud. “I’m a genius!”

Heads swiveled all over the courtroom. The judge, the ancient female deputy sheriff who provided security, the lawyers seated at their counsel tables arguing the motions—all turned toward Nikki in unison.

The judge filling in for Finney was a thirty-five-year-old divorce attorney named Miranda Fitzsimmons. In Nikki’s humble but correct opinion, Fitzsimmons tried too hard to show everybody how tough she was, and the chip on her shoulder sometimes interfered with her better judgment. Plus, she was too young to be a judge—unlike Finney, who was the perfect age.

Right now Fitzsimmons was doing her best imitation of an Oliver Finney glare.

“Sorry,” Nikki said.

“Anything you want to share?” Fitzsimmons asked.

Just that I’m the baddest, coolest, and most gorgeous code buster in the history of private-eyedom. “No, Your Honor.”

Fitzsimmons looked displeased but soon turned back to the mundane business at hand, leaving Nikki free to gloat over her accomplishment. Nikki had arrived at court a few minutes late (shocker) and therefore had to slip into court without looking at Judge Finney’s contact list. But an hour into the hearing, it hit her—Wellington Farnsworth. He was a local college geek whom Finney used as a guinea pig for Finney’s proposed LSAT questions. If Wellington couldn’t figure out the answers, Finney would know they were too hard. In other words, Wellington was the anti-Nikki. Though Nikki had never met him, she had heard Finney talk about Wellington on more than one occasion—the same way proud parents talk about their honor-roll son or daughter.

But did Nikki even need his help anymore? Like James Bond or, more precisely, one of the sizzling Bond girls, she had cracked the impossible code.

Once she remembered who Farnsworth was, Nikki realized that his name must be a part of the message generated by the code. She stared for nearly five minutes at the first sentence in the code that contained his name: “The 4/5 letter, addressed to Wellington Farnsworth by the defendant, contained coded language presumably understood by Farnsworth to authorize the 4/11 hit.” When the lightbulb finally turned on, Nikki felt like an idiot for not having seen it sooner. Instead of the month and day working together to designate a single word, like they had in the code created by Stokes, they worked independently so that each number generated its own word. The words Wellington Farnsworth, for example, were the fourth and fifth words after the date 4/5. Duh, Nikki thought. Could it be any simpler?

Smiling, she counted words and carefully generated the rest of the message. She wanted to announce to the world what she had done, but the message itself cautioned against it. Judge Finney apparently knew her too well.

things are tense I may need help enlist Wellington Farnsworth and no others use Westlaw account for coded communication

Now she was pumped! Judge Finney was obviously more focused on winning this reality game than Nikki had originally thought. It seemed out of character for the judge to bend the rules so much, but then again, there was a lot on the line.

Nikki could hardly wait to check Judge Finney’s Westlaw account. But after the initial high of solving the code dissolved, Nikki started to get worried. Things are tense, the judge had written. Yet she had seen Finney defuse the most nerve-racking situations in court without batting an eye. If Judge Finney said things were tense, there had to be some pretty serious stuff going down.

Nikki couldn’t sit still a minute longer. She weighed her options and decided that a wet skirt was a small price to pay. She took a deep breath and knocked over her bottled water, grateful for once that Fitzsimmons didn’t allow soft drinks in court.

She emitted a small curse word for authenticity and looked at her judge in embarrassment. “Sorry, Your Honor,” she said as she wiped off her papers. She frowned at the water that had spilled on her lap. “I’ll be right back.”

She walked through the wooden courtroom door and turned left, as if she were headed to the restroom. Once the door swung shut, Nikki did an about-face and headed back to Finney’s chambers.