Epilogue

Two weeks later, Nikki sat in the second row of Courtroom 3—Judge Finney’s courtroom, though Fitzsimmons was now the presiding judge. On this day, however, the courtroom had been transformed into the venue for a high-profile press conference, with reporters and spectators jammed into every seat. A deadly serious Mitchell Taylor stood in the well of the court behind a mike-infested podium, facing the crowd. Television cameras recorded every word.

“This morning, a Norfolk grand jury returned indictments for criminal fraud against Preston Randolph, Cameron Murphy, and an actor named Phillip Haney for their roles in deceiving Judge Oliver Finney prior to the start of the Faith on Trial reality show. In particular, Mr. Haney impersonated a representative of the governor’s office under the assumed name of William Lassiter, and he did so under the direction and employ of Mr. Randolph and Mr. Murphy.

“At this moment the Fairfax commonwealth’s attorney is announcing similar indictments against Mr. Randolph and Mr. Murphy as well as indictments against Mr. Howard Javitts and three other defendants for their roles in deceiving Kareem Hasaan into believing he had a terminal liver disease. Jurisdiction in Fairfax is based on the fact that those deceptions, including the alleged diagnosis, occurred in Fairfax County.”

Mitchell paused and set his granite jaw so squarely that nobody could doubt his tenacity. “I have no intention of entering into plea negotiations on these matters. I do have every intention of prosecuting these cases to the full extent of the law. Am I trying to send a message? Yes. And the message is this: being a reality show producer does not give you a license to commit malicious acts of fraud.”

He paused again and seemed to drink in the calm before the storm. It was vintage Mitchell Taylor, Nikki thought. Short, direct, unequivocal. It was his public side—Mitchell the prosecutor.

But Nikki had recently experienced a deeper and more philosophical side when she approached him with questions about his faith. She knew that Mitchell was a Christian, and she knew how much Finney had respected him. It seemed natural to ask Mitchell the numerous questions that accosted her as she read through the Gospel of John. Mitchell impressed her with straightforward and sincere answers, admitting freely to things he did not know. She had been down this path before—searching for spiritual answers—but this time was different. She had not yet totally embraced the faith of Oliver Finney, but she was definitely on the journey.

“Any questions?” Mitchell asked, snapping Nikki out of her thoughts.

Several eager reporters jumped to their feet and simultaneously shouted their questions. Mitchell pointed to one in the second row. “Let’s start here.”

“What about the lies to the contestants on the island itself—making all the contestants think they were going to die, that type of thing?”

“The Department of Justice for the Virgin Islands will have to address that. Right now, they’ve got their hands full.”

More shouted questions led to another selection by Mitchell. “Didn’t the contestants sign a release and acknowledge that the show’s producers might mislead them?”

“Judge Finney signed a release after the visit from the actor posing as William Lassiter,” Mitchell explained. “As for Mr. Hasaan, a signed release does not give someone the right to put a contestant through the trauma of thinking he’s got a terminal sickness. That’s the kind of malicious deception that goes beyond what the parties had in mind when the release was executed.”

“You haven’t mentioned Victoria Kline.”

“Ms. Kline has received immunity in exchange for her testimony. To my knowledge, she was not aware of the deception concerning Mr. Hasaan’s diagnosis.”

“Do you have any comment on yesterday’s announcement by the prosecutors in the Virgin Islands?”

Nikki sat forward at the question, curious to hear Mitchell’s response. The Assassin who called himself Gus had died in the cave on Paradise Island, but McCormack had survived. In the process of searching McCormack’s home, prosecutors had discovered videotapes of the death of Judge Lester Madison Banks III, who suffered a heart attack in his Jacuzzi after being threatened by this same Assassin. According to the papers, Judge Banks, who lived in Florida, ruled on a case nearly eight years ago in which he released a criminal defendant because of discrimination by prosecutors during jury selection. One of the defense attorneys in the case had been Kareem Hasaan. Two years later, the freed defendant raped McCormack’s daughter.

“I am assuming that the question relates to the decision of the Virgin Island authorities to allow Mr. McCormack to be extradited to Florida so he can stand trial there first,” Mitchell asked.

“Yes,” the reporter said. “In your view, how much is that decision impacted by the fact that Florida has the death penalty but the Virgin Islands does not?”

“That’s a question you need to ask the Virgin Island prosecutors,” Mitchell said, and more questions were shouted. But this time Mitchell wasn’t through. Instead of pointing out the next question, he waited for silence. “I find it ironic, however, that even in Florida, if he is convicted and sentenced to death, Mr. McCormack will have the choice of the electric chair or lethal injection. That’s certainly more mercy than he was willing to show Judge Banks.”

And so it went, back and forth, but eventually Nikki lost interest. Her mind wandered from the scene before her to thoughts of the past. It happened with alarming frequency these days. She would think of something Judge Finney had said or something he had done. She wished she could be with him one more time. Or just ask him one more question. Or even take one more of his sample LSAT tests.

But she noticed recently, as she read Judge Finney’s Bible, that at times it almost felt as if she were speaking to him. She had seen so many of the words of Christ exemplified by Finney’s life that the words themselves had a familiar ring to them—an almost-eerie feeling of déjà vu.

She glanced to her left, to the spot on the wall that so often drew her attention lately. It was a framed headshot of Finney, unveiled earlier in the week to a courtroom every bit as packed as it was today. She drew a fair amount of strength from the picture—the piercing eyes of Finney keeping watch over the justice being meted out before him. He had an intriguing look, and considerable debate had gone on about whether he was smiling or scowling. Nikki, who knew him best, had no doubt that it was a sly and thin-lipped smile, as if he knew something the rest of the world had not yet figured out.

The key to what he knew was contained in the small plaque just under the picture. Because it smacked of Finney’s religious beliefs, it had created a small storm of controversy. But Nikki had been adamant about putting it up and, with the help of Mitchell and others, was able to get it approved. Other judges, whose portraits graced the walls, had personal tributes under their pictures. Why should a tribute describing a religious man have to be censored? When push came to shove, nobody was willing to tell the grieving friends of Finney they couldn’t do it.

In a way, the verse was Finney’s idea, communicated in another Poe-like message from beyond the grave. But it was Wellington who had discovered it, when the kid couldn’t resist solving all the remaining ciphers contained in Finney’s Cross Examination of Jesus Christ. He had called Nikki when she was driving back to her apartment late one night, and this time she was pleased to listen to all the tedious details about how he had deciphered one of the hardest codes in the book.

The last two chapters, Wellington explained, were encrypted using the Vigenère Cipher, a code so difficult to crack it was nicknamed the Unbreakable Cipher. But that couldn’t stop Wellington, of course, who couldn’t suppress his excitement as he told Nikki how he had deciphered the message for the penultimate chapter. Nikki made a note to look up the word penultimate later.

“So what’s the message?” she asked.

Just then a driver cut Nikki off and she gave him the horn, resisting the urge to throw in a piece of her mind along with it.

“Are you driving?” Wellington asked.

“No, I’m at a NASCAR race,” Nikki responded. And I don’t need another lecture about cell phones right now.

“Right,” Wellington said. “Tell you what. Call me when you get home or wherever it is you’re heading.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope.”

At first it frustrated Nikki. But almost immediately she felt a small burst of pride. It was the first time she had heard him stand up for himself. Maybe she was rubbing off on him. Maybe she could groom him for Finney’s job someday after all—a code-breaking, crime-busting judge for the next generation.

“Okay,” she said, “I’m pulling over.” She continued driving and waited a few seconds, hoping that none of the vehicles around her used their horns. “Now, what does it say?”

“‘This is how one should regard us, as servants of Christ and stewards of the mysteries of God.’”

“That’s good,” Nikki said. “That’s so good it’s going on a plaque.”

And four days later, it did.