“No. Are you?”
Finney sighed. The man was not without his skills, but he could be so damn exasperating sometimes.
I don’t need to explain myself to you, Sebastian an impulsive, undisciplined part of him wanted to say.
Oh, but on the contrary, his rational side replied. He very much did. Sebastian was judging him. Judging his actions. Judging his decisions. Finney couldn’t have that, couldn’t abide it. Sebastian very much needed to know why Finney had pursued this particular course of action.
“Have you heard of the Code of Hammurabi?” Finney asked.
“Sure. King Hammurabi of Babylon. An ancient set of laws, inscribed in a language called cuneiform on a large stone pillar about 2,000 B.C.”
“Yes.” Even after working with the man for almost a year, Sebastian still managed to surprise him, now and again. How could a man in Sebastian’s … well, unsavory line of work demonstrate such familiarity with topics as esoteric as ancient Middle Eastern history and culture?
“Oldest written law on record,” Sebastian said.
“Technically, no—not the oldest.” Finney took some measure of satisfaction in one-upping Sebastian on this point. “There are reports of at least two others, both from ancient Sumer, with a similar content of laws that predate Hammurabi’s by at least two centuries.”
Finney turned to the horizon, on which black clouds were tumbling angrily. “Nevertheless. Remarkable achievement, Hammurabi’s Code. I’ve seen the original surviving record, carved into a diorite stele—or, as you say, stone pillar—on display in the Louvre. I traveled to Paris just to see it.” Right after Jenny’s burial. I had to see it. I had to see the Code with my own eyes. To burn it like a brand into my brain. “Over seven feet tall. Remarkable.”
Sebastian folded his arms and waited.
“Steles with the code were, it’s believed, placed on prominent display in Mesopotamian cities so that their citizens would be familiar with the laws. Laws covering every aspect of human civilization and behavior. Murder. Marriage. Trade. Sex. They’re all there.” He turned away from the horizon and fixed Sebastian with a cold stare. “Including the penalties for breaking them. For meting out punishments for transgressions, Hammurabi’s Code was built on the basic principle of lex talionis. Do you know what that is?”
“Law of retribution. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. That sort of thing.”
Finney’s eyes narrowed. The man could be simply exasperating. “Yes. Rather grim, some of the punishments in Hammurabi’s Code. Looking back, we might even say barbaric. But I would counter that they corresponded to both the nature and the severity of the crime. If a son struck his father, for example, he had his hands cut off.”
Finney gripped the railing with both hands. “It’s very detailed, you know. There’s even a section covering what was to happen if someone caused the death of a pregnant woman. Do you know what was to happen then? In that particular case?”
“Something that involved death, I would imagine.”
“Yes. Death.” Finney twisted his hands back and forth on the railing, like he was gunning the accelerator of a motorcycle.
“Boss. We don’t live by Hammurabi’s Code.”
“Don’t we, though? Don’t we exist in a criminal-justice system whereby we exact punishments in proportion to the crime? What about the death penalty? Isn’t that a form of lex talionis? Eye for an eye? She killed my wife and unborn child, Sebastian.”
“Not intentionally.”
“No. Not intentionally. But through her negligence. Criminal negligence, since she’d been drinking that night. The system allowed her to walk away from it. But Jenny did not walk away from it.” He felt the veins along the back of his hands pop into sharp relief as he clutched the railing. “I’m a man of my conviction, Sebastian. And I abide by the spirit of Hammurabi’s Code.”
Finney now made a decision. He let go of the railing and pulled his leather notebook from his pocket.
Sebastian looked at it curiously. “What’s that?”
Finney had never before shown his notebook to anyone. Not even Jenny. Had never told her of its existence; had sealed it in his safe-deposit box, shortly after their engagement.
For good, he’d thought at the time. He’d almost destroyed it, in fact: went so far as to turn on the propane-fueled fireplace in his living room one morning for that very purpose. Twice that morning he’d thrust the book over the flames, his hand trembling; and twice he’d changed his mind. In the end, he’d decided to keep it as a reminder of his past life. Of his past self. Of what he had been before Jenny.