8

“We lost the rabbi?” Cameron Murphy repeated in disbelief. The executive producer of Faith on Trial ran his fingers through close-cropped brown hair, then subconsciously rubbed the stubble of his beard. “How can we lose a rabbi?” He stood and shook his head. “What else can we mess up? This is our last preproduction meeting, folks. We’ve got one week. One week!” He cursed through clenched teeth.

Everyone around the table except Bryce McCormack winced. Bryce had known Murphy too well for too long. He had known the producer would explode when he learned the news. In fact, Bryce had secretly counted down the seconds as the casting assistant stammered through the news. Liftoff, he thought just as Murphy exploded.

Halfway down the conference table, the assistant casting director spoke softly. “The Anti-Defamation League got to him,” she said. “They’ve been making a lot of noise about how inappropriate this show is—fosters competition and hate among religions, the Jews have suffered enough from religious bigotry, that type of thing. Rabbi Demsky wanted some assurances we couldn’t give him.”

“Like what?” Murphy sputtered. “What was he asking?”

The young woman fumbled through her notes for a second. McCormack thought about bailing her out but decided against it. If she planned on being the lead director someday, she’d have to learn how to take the heat. “Not allowing the contestants to denigrate one another’s faiths. No proselytizing people of other faiths. Plus, he wanted a complete dossier on the Muslim contestant—”

Murphy strung together a creative string of curse words and then apparently remembered that a fair number of the folks around the table were Jewish. He shook his head and stood to get a refill on his coffee. “Why didn’t he just ask to direct the show? We could have given him Bryce’s job.” Murphy reached the counter and poured himself a cup. “This is reality TV, not a scholarly symposium at the Guggenheim.”

Murphy returned to his seat without further profanity (a minor miracle) and turned to the assistant casting director again. “Who’s the backup?”

“Rabbi David Cohen,” the woman said hopefully. She passed a file down the table to Murphy. “Rabbinical studies at Hebrew University. Law degree from Columbia.”

“And how do we know the Anti-Defamation League won’t get to him?”

“We don’t know for sure. But he doesn’t seem the type to be intimidated by anybody.”

Murphy took a sip of black coffee and glanced through the file. “I remember this guy,” he said tersely. “Too old. We’ve already got the judge and that Buddha dude. We don’t need another old guy.” He shot a look at Bryce, who stared back over wire-rimmed glasses. Bryce was two years older but hadn’t aged as well as Murphy, a fact that Murphy brought up whenever possible. Unlike Murphy, Bryce let nature take its course—no hair color, no plastic surgery, no LASIK surgery. The cumulative effects cost him the appearance of ten years. “No offense, McCormack.”

Bryce McCormack showed Murphy his middle finger. He was one of the few folks around the table who could get away with it.

The assistant slid another file toward Murphy. “Levi Katz is thirty-three and an up-and-comer in a big New York law firm. A little weak on religious studies but very camera friendly.”

Camera friendly. A euphemism for young and good-looking, words that nobody used for fear of getting sued. Except for Murphy. After all, he was the producer. Laws for mere mortals didn’t apply to him. Murphy glanced at the young Levi Katz’s picture.

“What’d you think of this guy?” he asked Bryce.

“Orthodox Jew,” Bryce said, sounding bored. “Serious about his faith. I don’t remember what skeletons he had in his closet.”

Murphy checked the file. “Fooled around on his wife,” Murphy said. “Don’t we already have one of those?”

Bryce hitched a shoulder. “It could still serve its purpose.”

Murphy didn’t look convinced. “What kind of medical condition does this Levi Katz have?” he asked, flipping through the file again. “All I see in here is a blood condition he’s taking medication for. How does that qualify as life threatening?”

This time the casting assistant was barely audible. “That’s all he’s got, Mr. Murphy.”

Murphy sighed, a signal that these people could never get anything right. “That won’t work,” he barked. “A life-threatening medical condition—we’ve had that requirement in place from day one.”

The table grew silent. The casting crew were apparently fresh out of Jewish candidates with life-threatening medical conditions, theological training, a shameful secret, and if possible, a legal background.

For the next half hour, they discussed whether to do the show with three older contestants or to conduct an expedited search for a suitable replacement. It was Bryce McCormack who finally came up with an idea that could turn this setback into ratings gold. The Passion principle, he called it—a lesson from the extraordinary success of The Passion of the Christ. “Embrace the controversy,” he lectured. “Tell the world that we won’t back down. We believe in a free marketplace of religion with no rules that would interfere with a robust debate. But just to show what great egalitarians we are, we will agree to give Rabbi Demsky five full minutes on our first show to tell the world why they shouldn’t watch us.”

Heads turned toward McCormack as if he’d lost his mind. Who had ever heard of such a thing? But they all had to admit that embracing the controversy had worked for Mel Gibson.

Before the meeting was over, they agreed to recommend it to the suits. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Murphy said to Bryce after the others had dispersed.

“Controversy,” Bryce said, smiling like a madman, “is a reality show’s best friend.”

The Assassin checked and rechecked the final punch list Friday night. Professional killers don’t operate on emotion or instinct. They plan. Then they check every detail of the plan. Twice. Then they execute, pushing aside every emotion. Otherwise, they don’t survive.

He had survived the last job better than most others in his profession would have. The coroner had ruled the death accidental. The Assassin had even thought about going to the funeral, but he knew investigators would be there surveying the crowd. The mental images of the old man croaking in the Jacuzzi had lasted only a few weeks. Soon the Assassin was consumed with planning his next job, sweating over every detail and developing backup plans for every contingency.

That’s why the Assassin’s services didn’t come cheap. The down payment for the Faith on Trial job had already been confirmed. He would get five hundred thousand dollars up front, wired to an offshore bank. The Assassin would transfer the funds at least three times before they reached their final destination. Another two hundred thousand would come once the Assassin reached the island. The rest of the money—eight hundred thousand—would be paid after the successful hit.

The total of one-point-five million dollars, though it might sound like a lot of money to most people, was actually low for a job like this. High exposure meant high risk. And what could generate more exposure than death on a high-profile reality show? A federal investigation would follow. After the job, the Assassin would have to undergo a complete makeover—nose, chin, eyes, hair, weight, everything. Plus, the expenses would be substantial.

But the Assassin wasn’t complaining about his fee. After all, one-point-five million dollars was more than the prize money for the winner’s charity of choice.

The Assassin would earn every penny.