66

Finney and Kareem showed up in the Paradise Courtroom at 5:00 p.m. They had been instructed to dress casually, which to Finney meant his John Deere cap, baggy shorts, a T-shirt, and docksiders. This time the cameras were not rolling.

“As you know, tomorrow you will be giving your closing arguments,” Bryce McCormack said. “It will be your last day on the island. Later tonight you’ll be given a videotape of Judge Javitts’s cross-examination of the other contestant from the first week on the island. Judge Finney’s tape has him admitting to negligence in the performance of his judicial duties. Mr. Hasaan’s tape shows the results of a polygraph test when he tried to deny having an affair.”

Finney glanced at his intense competitor. The man’s neck muscles strained, veins bulging, as he glared at McCormack. If they aired this stuff, Finney would help Kareem break the slimy director’s neck.

“You will decide whether to use your opponent’s tape in your closing argument,” McCormack continued. “If you decide not to use it, then the incident will not be aired on any of the Faith on Trial episodes.”

Finney knew immediately that he would never use Kareem’s videotape. That decision was a no-brainer. He had no doubt that Kareem would reciprocate. The show’s producers had underestimated how much the contestants had bonded.

“You will be spending this evening in a special spot on the island to prepare mentally and spiritually for your final day,” McCormack continued, turning first to Finney. “Judge, as you know, Jesus spent His last night before the Crucifixion praying in the garden of Gethsemane. We’ve prepared a rough replica here on the island where you will be going in just a few moments. You may spend as much time there as you would like.” He smirked. “Not that we expect tomorrow to be anything like Jesus’ last day.”

These guys are always looking for the melodramatic, Finney thought. He immediately disliked the idea. It seemed to cheapen the passion of Christ, duplicating events just to add drama to a reality show.

“Mr. Hasaan, as you know, Muhammad’s epiphany occurred in a cave outside his hometown where he went to meditate and pray for a vision of the one true God. He was sleeping in the cave when a voice commanded him to read the words on a brocaded coverlet. He began reciting scripture, and those words became the opening lines of the Koran.”

McCormack paused, and Finney found one more reason why he was content not to be a Muslim. He got a garden, while Kareem got a cave.

“We have found a reasonable facsimile of that cave here on Paradise Island,” McCormack continued. “That’s where you will spend the evening.

“This will be a one-camera shoot at each location. Gus, you’ll accompany Kareem. Horace, you’ll go with Judge Finney. Just get a few good cameo shots and then you can leave the contestants alone so they can prepare for tomorrow’s closing arguments and other activities.”

McCormack glanced back and forth between Finney and Kareem. “Gentlemen, you’ll want to be rested both spiritually and physically for what lies ahead.”

Horace unlocked a gate in the chain-link fence surrounding the resort property and pointed to a dirt path angling off to his left. “It’s up this way about a mile,” he said. Finney shrugged and followed along. If roly-poly Horace could make it, lugging that heavy camera, then Finney could surely make it too.

Fifteen minutes later, Finney decided that Horace was a lousy judge of distance. The trail climbed and twisted its way up the mountainside—tough climbing for a man whose lungs were spotted with cancer. Fortunately, Horace was in no better shape, so they would walk for a while and take intermittent breaks. At one point Finney started coughing, bending over with his hands on his knees as he struggled to catch his breath.

“You okay?” Horace asked, his voice tight with concern. “I don’t do CPR, you know.”

“No problem,” Finney answered. He cleared his throat. “Are we almost there?”

“Almost.” It was the third “almost” in the last few minutes, and Finney was getting tired of it. His lungs burned. His stomach kept cramping. And now he had a headache.

Finney hated being sick and getting old. He had been a fair athlete in his day but now had a hard time keeping up with a chubby couch potato like Horace. After his brief coughing break, Finney trudged on. Before long, it was Horace who needed to stop for a break, and Finney actually started feeling better.

I just needed a little warm-up, Finney thought.

When they reached the garden, it was almost worth it. Someone had cleared the underbrush from a small plateau carved into the side of the mountain. A rock wall rimmed the downhill side of the plateau, and bright orange and yellow flowers sprouted in clumps everywhere. The spot featured a spectacular view overlooking the small resort and miles of white sand beaches. Finney caught his breath and gazed out at the green ocean stretching endlessly toward the blue horizon. In an hour or two they would watch the sun paint the boundary where water met sky, creating a mural of orange and red.

Finney stood next to the rock wall and soaked in the sights that cascaded below him. He turned toward the camera. “How can anyone see something like this and not believe in God?”

“You got me,” Horace answered, still trying to catch his breath from behind the camera.

“Oh,” Finney said. “I thought we were filming.”

“Sorry,” Horace said. “You want to say that again?”

“Nah. Let’s just enjoy the view for a few minutes.”

The two men chatted for a while, and then Horace said he needed to get some video while the lighting held up. Finney took off his John Deere cap and knelt in strategic spots so that Horace could pick up the view in the background. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” Horace asked. “I mean, Jesus sweat drops of blood in the garden of Gethsemane. He probably prayed pretty loud.”

The man knows his Bible, Finney thought. “But Jesus didn’t have a TV camera following Him around, Horace. That’s just not my style—you know that. Praying for the cameras and all.”

“I know,” Horace said. “That’s actually one of the things I appreciate about you. Though it makes for boring TV.”

A few minutes later, Horace seemed to sense Finney’s desire to spend some time alone. “Well, I’ve got what I need, Judge. Think I’ll head back down to the resort before it gets dark.”

“I thought you were going to stay for some twilight shots.”

“I can play with the lighting on what I’ve already taken,” Horace said. “I’ve got some good silhouettes.” He paused and looked out toward the ocean, acting skittish. “Think it’d be okay if I prayed for you before I left?”

The request surprised Finney. He and Horace had always been loose with the no-fraternization rule. But Horace had never asked to pray for Finney before. “Sure.”

Horace put his camera down, and the two men knelt together. Finney felt Horace place his hand on Finney’s shoulder. “Lord, help this man know what an inspiration he’s been to Christians all over America. Give him strength and wisdom for tomorrow. Keep him safe. And, Lord, if it’s Your will, let him win.”

Finney felt the gratefulness rise inside him, spawning other feelings that were difficult to describe. It wasn’t just the sincerity of the prayer that moved him; it was the knowledge that hundreds, perhaps thousands or even tens of thousands, of Christians all over the world were praying for him. For him. In that moment he remembered why he was here and who he really represented.

And he coughed. Not badly, compared to a lot of his coughing fits lately, but enough to interrupt Horace’s prayer. Horace waited patiently, patting Finney’s back until the coughing stopped. “And if it’s Your will, God, heal him from the cancer.” A pause. A long pause. “Amen.”

Neither Finney nor Horace stood for a few seconds; then Finney placed his hat back on his head and thanked his friend. “You’re a good man, Horace,” he said, standing.

“You do us proud,” Horace said, standing next to Finney. Then Horace picked up his camera, said, “See ya later, Judge,” and headed down the hill.

Finney watched him go, turned back toward the horizon, and hit his knees in earnest.

Byron Waterman was throwing a tantrum. He had a killer story—the best he’d ever produced—and the news director didn’t have the guts to air it. They’d been on the phone with their outside lawyers for half an hour, listening to all the various and sundry claims Randolph might make against them. Defamation. Invasion of privacy. False light. One creative lawyer even suggested larceny related to the theft of Randolph’s e-mails.

Byron laughed out loud.

By 5:30 the hand-wringing lawyers had convinced the news director to kill the story—or at least delay it so they could have more time for vetting. But Byron appealed that decision to the station manager with his most forceful argument: if WVAR didn’t run the story at 6:00, their sister station in Fredericksburg would scoop them.

“It’s my story,” Byron whined. “The only reason the guys in Fredericksburg even know about it is because we had to use their uplink to transmit the video footage to us.”

The wrangling continued for another ten minutes before the station manager decided. This was a national story with a great human interest angle. They had dynamite audio, passable video, and smoking-gun e-mails. They could unravel the empire of a billionaire trial lawyer. It wasn’t quite Watergate, but for a small-time station in Norfolk, Virginia, it was pretty close.

Being scooped was not an option. At 5:55 the station manager made her decision. “Let’s run it.”