49
Nikki called Preston Randolph and went through the usual number of screening secretaries and paralegals before she could talk to the great man. “I found out a few things about Cameron Murphy that weren’t in your investigators’ file,” she said. She paused a second for a compliment that never came. “Thought you might be interested.”
“Okay,” Randolph said.
“Abusive father,” Nikki said as if she had the court records to back it up. “When it was Murphy’s turn, he abused his wife.”
“How do you know this?”
“I talked to his ex-wife—something your investigators didn’t bother doing.”
“Good work, Nikki,” Randolph said, though he didn’t sound happy. She could see him in her mind’s eye, scowling at the thought that his prized investigators had been scooped by a law student.
“That’s just the beginning,” Nikki said. “Murphy’s old man is a certified fundamentalist. Used religion as an excuse to pound on Murphy. So now Murphy, the executive producer of Faith on Trial, hates anything to do with the Christian church.” Nikki tried not to let her tone reflect how much she enjoyed telling Randolph about the things his lazy investigators had missed.
“I still don’t understand why that would make him go after Dr. Kline. Seems to me that he ought to be trying to help her, not make her look bad.”
Randolph had a point, though Nikki didn’t want to admit it. “We haven’t seen the last show yet,” she said gamely. “Maybe he does.”
“Maybe.” Randolph didn’t sound convinced. “While you’ve been calling ex-wives, I did have some success in tracking down the location for Paradise Island. We called the director’s cell again and had the call triangulated while we talked. It’s not precise, but we think they’re on an island in the Galápagos chain.”
Impressive, Nikki thought. Even if Randolph did make it sound condescending—While you were talking to ex-wives . . .
“Well, between my shop and yours, we’re making progress,” Nikki said.
They sparred politely for a few more minutes, and then Randolph mentioned that Nikki’s job application must have gotten lost in the mail because he hadn’t seen it yet. That’s better, Nikki thought. Show some interest.
“Maybe you should have one of your investigators run it down,” Nikki teased. “But first, teach him how to use a cell phone.”
This brought a moment of uncomfortable silence on the line, and Nikki wondered if she had pushed too hard. “Did Sheila tell you about Murphy’s brief tryst with Buddhism?” Randolph asked.
What? The remark caught Nikki speechless. And it had been a while since that had happened. “You knew about that?”
Randolph laughed. “Of course.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“Nikki, when we first met you, we didn’t know if we could trust you or not. Since you’ve now shared this information with me, I felt I could be a little more open with you.”
“So your guys have talked to Sheila?”
“We talked to her. And we promised to pay her if she told us when somebody else called.” Randolph paused for a second so that Nikki would have plenty of time to feel stupid. “And based on your questions to her, it appears you’re planning to call Reverend Martin as well. Or maybe you already have. Good luck on that one.”
“Right,” Nikki said, realizing for the first time that she might be playing in the big leagues after all. “What else did you hold back about your investigation?”
“If you want to stop by the office again, I’ll let you read the full, unedited reports.” Randolph’s voice now had an edge of authority. “But they have to stay in our office. We can’t let those kinds of reports out of our sight.”
A few minutes later, a slightly less cocky Nikki Moreno hung up the phone and called Wellington. “We need some new search requests to send Judge Finney another message,” Nikki said. “Preston Randolph has established an approximate location for Paradise Island.”
“You want me to e-mail you the requests?” Wellington asked. “Or do you just want me to do it.”
Nikki sighed. It was exhausting playing private eye with everyone. Plus, Judge Fitzsimmons was breathing down her neck for some research. If she couldn’t trust Wellington, whom could she trust?
She gave Wellington the password and asked him to also tell Finney that Murphy, now an agnostic, grew up with an abusive and legalistic Christian father. She hung up the phone and started on her research for Fitzsimmons. Less than five minutes later, Wellington called back. “I sent the information,” he said. “There’s a new message from Finney.”
Nikki felt an adrenaline surge. Maybe this time Finney would send something meaningful. After all, time was running out. “What does it say?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Wellington replied. “I’m having some real difficulty figuring out the key for chapter 4.”
Bryce McCormack received a cell phone text message from New York while taping Kareem Hasaan’s cross-examination of a Shi’ite Muslim cleric. He cursed under his breath, turned the set over to an associate director, and stepped outside the courtroom to make a call.
They patched his call through to Zacharias Snyder, outside counsel for the network. It was Snyder’s job to vet every Faith on Trial show prior to airing and flag any potential legal issues. He had been getting increasingly gun-shy with each show.
“I’m pulling the promo on the Chinese water torture,” Snyder said. “You can’t do that segment.”
Bryce forced himself to remain calm. They had to run that segment. But he knew from past history that screaming at Snyder wouldn’t help. “What do you mean—you’re pulling it?”
“I’m pulling the promo, and I’m pulling the segment from future shows. I can’t believe you’re even suggesting we try this—you can’t torture people on the air.”
Bryce could feel the heat rising—the New York suits trying to ruin his show. “And you’re just now telling me?”
“They just sent me the piece,” Snyder responded. “It just left postproduction, which is another thing I wanted to talk—”
“We’re doing the piece,” McCormack snapped. “It’s a crucial segment for next week’s show.”
“But you can’t—”
“Let me finish!” Bryce interrupted. He lowered his voice. “This isn’t torture. The contestants will be within reach of a Kill button and can stop the test at any time. We’ve got a clinical psychologist monitoring their vital signs and asking them questions. We aren’t letting anybody go longer than twenty-four hours. Plus, we picked up the idea from the show MythBusters, and that show shackled the hosts and dripped water on them for hours.”
When Bryce stopped, there was silence on the line. “Are you done?” Snyder asked.
“Yes,” McCormack hissed.
“First, your promotion piece calls it ‘Chinese water torture,’ so how can you possibly tell me it’s not really torture? Second, if we were torturing our hosts, that would be different. But these are our contestants. They didn’t think this up, and they’re not getting paid for it.” Snyder’s voice was maddeningly calm and sanctimonious. The ultimate Monday-morning quarterback. “I’m not authorizing it.”
“Then get the program director for the network on the line right now,” McCormack demanded, “so I can explain to her why we need new outside counsel.”