7

Oliver Finney felt ridiculous. A grown man, sitting in a big New York conference room straight off the set of The Apprentice. He was the only one wearing a sports coat and tie; these television folks all dressed like a bunch of burglars—black on black. At the time he applied for a slot on Faith on Trial, it had seemed like a good idea. But he never really dreamed he’d be sitting here . . .

“We really like the idea of a judge on this show representing the Christian faith,” said the man in the middle on the opposite side of the table. In Finney’s mind the guy fit to a T the stereotype for a director—like maybe this guy had himself been selected by central casting. The man pulled his gray hair back in a ponytail and looked over wire-rimmed glasses at Finney. He had on a ratty black T-shirt that covered a soft, little gut but exposed two skinny arms and one forearm tattoo. He wore a left earring so everybody would know he wasn’t completely out of touch with the younger culture. The others in the room all nodded vigorously when he spoke, as if their jobs depended on it.

“Christians are always complaining about the judges who run this country,” the director continued. What was his name? Something McCormack—Bruce or Barry or one of those B names—but a little different. Finney had never been good with names. “Now they’ll be cheering for one.”

The room became quiet for a moment as the production team considered the delicious irony they were about to foist on Christians everywhere. A young woman at the end of the table practically smacked her lips while McCormack finished shuffling through Finney’s application. He put the papers down and stared at Finney for a moment—a director’s feeble attempt at intimidation, Finney supposed.

“You’re my first choice, Judge. But I’ve got a couple of concerns. My first has to do with your reasons for being on this show. Your application is not entirely clear.”

“Other than a million dollars for my favorite charity?” Finney asked. But they both knew that wasn’t the reason.

“Yes. Other than that.”

Finney slid forward in his seat. The situation called for blunt honesty, his specialty. “When you sit where I sit and see what I see, you get concerned about the next generation.” Finney surveyed the group, practically daring somebody to give him one of those patronizing media-elite smirks, the kind that try to make you feel stupid for defending traditional values. “Gang rapes. Crackheads. Last week I sentenced a fifteen-year-old kid for stabbing another kid thirty-seven times with a Phillips head screwdriver. The victim was fourteen.”

Finney let out an exasperated breath. Even talking about this could be depressing, the relentless march of wasted lives. “You know how many of the kids that I’ve sentenced in the past two months have fathers living at home?” he asked McCormack.

The director shook his head. “Not many?”

“Try none,” Finney said. “Not one time did I have a father come to court and stand up for these fifteen- and sixteen-year-old kids. So what do I do? Hand down long prison sentences. Warehouse more and more of these kids in places where they learn how to become career criminals. Somehow we’ve got to break this chain. Somehow we’ve got to reach these kids. Maybe a few of them will watch this show. God knows, most of them will never set foot in church.”

Finney realized he had silenced the room with his sanctimonious lecture, but he didn’t care. McCormack had asked the question. Finney was too old and too sick to worry about what other people might think.

McCormack jotted a few notes while the silence hung in the air. “Fair enough,” he said when he had finished. “Which leads me to the second issue.” He paused, apparently at a loss about how best to phrase this. “It says here you’ve got metastatic lung cancer.”

The “c” word sucked the remaining air out of the room. Though they all knew the facts, McCormack’s saying it out loud made the youngsters stare at Finney as if he were already a ghost.

So Finney decided it was time to loosen things up a little. The last several months had taught him how awkward it could be for healthy people to be around a cancer patient. “Oh,” Finney said, glancing around, “I must have the wrong show. I didn’t know I’d stumbled into the WWE studio.”

Nobody grinned. “It’s not championship wrestling,” McCormack said matter-of-factly, “but it’s not Jeopardy! either. Faith on Trial will test you spiritually, intellectually, emotionally—” he paused so the point would not be lost on Finney—“and physically.”

“Such as?”

“You know I can’t provide details.”

Finney was tired of playing games. He wasn’t accustomed to meetings he didn’t control. And he felt another coughing fit coming on.

“Is it something a fifty-nine-year-old cancer patient can do or not?” he asked.

The director hesitated for a second or two, just long enough to convey his concern. “I think so.”

“Then where do I sign?”

McCormack looked to his left and his right. Nobody registered an objection. “Congratulations, Judge Finney,” he said, sliding a sheaf of papers across the table. “It looks like the future of Christianity is resting squarely on your shoulders.”

“Thanks,” Finney said, though the word was cut short by a cough. He put his fist over his mouth and hacked away while the others watched wide-eyed as if he might kick the bucket at any minute.

“I think it’s getting better,” Finney said.

The paperwork was preposterous. According to the documents, Finney released the show, the producers, and anybody associated with the enterprise from any and all claims of whatsoever kind or nature. There was a full page listing all the dire consequences that would develop, including lawsuits for injunctions and a two-million-dollar liquidated damages payment, if the contestants divulged any information about the show’s results before all of the episodes had aired.

The release went on for pages, explaining all the dangers facing the participants and all the reasons they couldn’t sue the show—not for injury or death or fraud or deception or breach of contract or loss of consortium. Finney laughed out loud at the last one. “Loss of consortium” would be the loss of a spouse’s companionship and physical affections due to an injury. Some New York lawyer obviously had too much time on his hands. Finney had been a widower for several years.

“Is this a reality show or a POW camp?” Finney asked.

“Lawyers,” McCormack said as if that explained everything.

Finney skimmed quickly through the boilerplate, content in the knowledge that most of this stuff wouldn’t hold up in court anyway. He flipped to the end and found the place for his signature.

“You don’t want to read it?” McCormack asked.

“I know what it says,” Finney responded. Actually, he was rushing to sign because he felt yet another coughing spell coming on. “Basically, I’m signing my life away.”

McCormack’s mouth formed a thin line, and he didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. Finney had spent the last twenty years reading the eyes of witnesses. Compared to the cons Finney dealt with on a daily basis, McCormack was an open book.

You have no idea, McCormack was saying.