By Reason of Insanity

94
Before Quinn turned rosemarie mancini over to Boyd Gates, there was one final subject to cover. It was an area that Quinn knew precious little about: religion.
"Dr. Mancini, the Avenger of Blood left four different messages at four different crime scenes. How did those messages factor into your evaluation?"
Out of the corner of his eye, Quinn saw Boyd Gates begin to rise as if he might object but then sit back down. Maybe he didn't want to draw any more attention than necessary to this part of Mancini's testimony.
"The Avenger left four messages, all Bible verses, at four different crime scenes. The first two messages, left after the kidnappings of the Carver babies and the Milburn baby, deal with the consequences of generational sin, saying that God visits the iniquities of the fathers unto the third and fourth generation. The last two verses, conveyed in connection with the death of Paul Donaldson and the apparent death of Rex Archibald, talk about individual accountability and punishment for sin. For example, Ezekiel 18:20 states that 'a son will not be responsible for the sins of his father.'"
"Children being punished for the sins of their parents seems unfair," Quinn noted.
"That's just it," Dr. Mancini said, her voice animated. "The Bible doesn't say the children are being punished. It says the iniquities of the fathers are visited on the children. It's another way of stating a phenomenon that those of us in mental health care have recognized to be true for a long time--there are some addictions or actions of parents that inevitably affect their children and even grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Drug abuse, for example. Or sexual abuse. These are what we call generational chains. The children aren't being punished for what their parents did, but they're certainly being affected by those actions. And this is true, Mr. Newberg, until somebody comes along with the courage to break those generational chains."
It occurred to Quinn that Rosemarie's testimony might be aimed more at him than the jury. But right now, he didn't have time to process all the implications.
"I don't quite understand the significance of all this to my client's diagnosis," Quinn said, feigning confusion.
"In my sessions with Ms. O'Rourke, I discovered that she is not particularly religious. Nor was she raised in a home where she might have been exposed to a lot of Scripture verses. So I became curious. If she was in fact the Avenger, where did these verses come from?"
Rosemarie stopped and took a quick sip of water, basking in the attention of everyone in the courtroom. "You know where I found the answer?" she asked, then quickly responded to her own question. "I looked at her college transcript. I discovered that the same year she was raped, Catherine was taking a course called Comparative Religious Thought. I actually called the professor who taught the course, Dr. Frederick Channing, and scheduled a time to meet with him.
"Professor Channing was kind enough to dig up some old notes and try to piece together the topics he might have covered in this course when Catherine took it. It turns out he spent a fair amount of time contrasting the justice systems of ancient cultures. For example, he compared the legal system of the Hittites to the Babylonians' Code of Hammurabi, and the Mosaic law to the ideals of the ancient Greeks and Romans. Among other things, he looked at the issue of vicarious punishment, that is, punishing children for the transgressions of their parents, which was common in many ancient belief systems, though not in Judaism. He also looked at the notion of vengeance, and particularly at the issue of blood feuds or blood avengers--a concept found both in the Old Testament and in Greek mythology."
Quinn waited for a moment, hoping the information was sinking in. "Why is that significant? That class was eight years ago."
"That's precisely the point. The same year that Ms. O'Rourke was so severely traumatized that her personality fractured, she was also wrestling with the concept of justice under these ancient belief systems. She was exposed to the role of the blood avenger under Mosaic law and to the three female avengers in the Greek epic Eumenides. So eight years later, when her alter personality began to emerge, referring to itself as the Avenger of Blood, it came complete with the seared-on memories and mind-sets from Catherine's college days, including these concepts from her religion class. She merged these two notions together--the wrath of the female furies from Greek mythology and the verses describing blood avengers from the Old Testament."
"Couldn't Catherine have just made that up?" Quinn probed. "Couldn't she have just consulted some old notes and thrown in those verses to fool people into thinking she's crazy?"
Rosemarie smirked. "C'mon, Mr. Newberg. First, that question assumes Catherine O'Rourke knows enough about DID to realize that an alter personality will exhibit many of the attributes and mind-sets from the time when that personality came into existence, much like a snapshot freezes a moment in time. Second, it assumes she also consciously remembers minute details from a class she took eight years ago. And third, if she made that up, don't you think she might have given me some clues about that old class rather than hoping I would dig it out on my own?"
"I see your point," Quinn said. "But it still seems strange that it would take this alter personality eight years to emerge. What could possibly have triggered it after all that time?"
"Ironically, one of your cases did," Rosemarie said confidently. "As a reporter, Ms. O'Rourke was assigned to cover your sister's murder trial." Rosemarie turned to the jury. "Most of you probably watched news coverage of Anne Newberg's case arising from her admitted killing of her abusive husband. I took the time to read dozens of newspaper articles written by Ms. O'Rourke about various murder trials. The articles about Anne Newberg's case are far more emotional and guttural than her normal reporting."
Rosemarie turned back to Quinn. "I believe that when Catherine first heard about your sister's case, she subconsciously saw Anne as the first of the female blood avengers--the furies--from the Eumenides. Shortly thereafter, this alter ego of Catherine's became the second. I think that's the reason she was so adamant about bringing you into the case. She saw you as the common link between her and Anne; you are the defender of the furies."
Quinn snuck a glance at the jury. They looked contemplative, as if weighing the merits of this bizarre theory that Mancini had proposed.
Bizarre, Quinn thought. Just one step away from crazy.
"No further questions," he said.


95
Gates was on his feet immediately, apparently trying to show the jury he was unafraid to take on Dr. Mancini.
"Since you're so familiar with the defendant's college record, I presume you know that she had a journalism major and a criminal justice minor?"
"That's correct."
"Meaning she would have studied cases involving the insanity defense."
"Presumably."
"In addition, for a number of years she covered the crime and courts beat for our local paper. Is that your understanding?"
"Yes."
"And in that capacity would have sat through numerous trials, including some dealing with the insanity defense?"
Mancini shrugged. "She would have attended numerous trials, yes. But the insanity plea is actually used far less frequently than most people think--"
"Just answer the question yes or no," Gates insisted.
But he was dealing with an experienced witness, one who knew her rights. "I thought I was allowed to explain where necessary," Mancini said to the judge.
"You are," Rosencrance ruled. "But keep it brief."
"Thank you," Mancini said. "As I was saying, Mr. Gates, the insanity plea is used so rarely that I would doubt Ms. O'Rourke ever covered a case quite like this one."
Gates glared at the witness. "She covered the case of Anne Newberg, who pleaded not guilty by reason of insanity, did she not?"
"Yes. And since I testified in that case, I can assure you that it was a totally different scenario than dissociative identity disorder."
Gates checked his notes, apparently deciding to move on. "Normally you can bring out an alter personality by bringing up memories of the triggering incidence either through hypnosis or other means; isn't that right?"
"That is normally the case, though not always."
"Did you try that here?"
"Yes. I don't use hypnosis, but we did dig deeply into the emotions of the rape and what Catherine remembers about that night."
"Did you ever trigger this alternate personality?"
"No, I didn't."
Gates looked puzzled--an act for the jury, no doubt. "You mentioned on direct examination that you expect to be paid a lot of money in this case for your opinions; is that correct?"
"That's correct, Mr. Gates. With emphasis on the phrase 'expect to be paid.'"
"Let's not be cute, Doctor. Twenty thousand dollars is a lot of money, isn't it?"
"To be precise it was nineteen thousand. But yes, it's a lot."
"And that's not the full extent of your bias, is it?"
Mancini knit her brow. "I'm not sure what you mean. Any professional wants to get paid. That doesn't make me biased."
Gates walked toward the front of the jury box, pulling the gaze of most jurors along. "Then let me make it real clear. Isn't it true that you and Mr. Newberg have formed quite a little team on these insanity cases? Isn't it true that you would do anything to help his cause? Isn't it true--?"
"Objection!" Quinn called out, jumping to his feet. He normally didn't object during Mancini's testimony, confident that she could fend for herself, but this was way over the line. "That's highly improper. Plus, it's about three questions in one."
"Judge, the bias of this witness is central to our case. I'm entitled to probe how tightly she is connected with defense counsel."
Standing there, it dawned on Quinn--he had been suckered. Gates wanted that objection. He wanted the jury focused on the question; he wanted the press on the edge of their seats. He wanted Quinn to make a big deal out of this, and Quinn had played right into his hands.
"You may ask about bias," Rosencrance ruled. "But one question at a time. And save your arguments for closing."
Gates paused, thinking. He spoke slowly, thoughtfully, theatrically. "Isn't it true that you and Mr. Newberg are so close, so willing to do anything for each other, that you're even helping him raise his niece?"
Quinn couldn't believe it! How dare Gates drag Sierra into this! Even Rosemarie seemed stunned into silence.
"Dr. Mancini," Gates insisted, "isn't it true that Quinn Newberg's niece is living with you right now?"
"Yes," Mancini answered.
Quinn stared at Gates in disbelief. Poor Sierra had nothing to do with this case. Nothing! She was just starting to get her legs back under her.
And with one insensitive question, Gates had blown it all away.
During the subsequent break, Quinn rose and walked over to Boyd Gates's counsel table. The prosecutor had his back turned and was talking with Jamarcus Webb.
"This case has nothing to do with my family," Quinn said. He placed a hand on Gates's elbow, and the prosecutor turned to face him. "Leave my family out of this."
Quinn's words caused a hush in the courtroom; spectators and press members gawked at the two.
"Your client killed five people, three babies, in cold blood," Gates said, thrusting out his jaw. "Everything's fair game in this trial, Newberg. Everything."
Quinn inched closer, his fury boiling over. "Not my family. My family stays out of this."
"Or what? Is this some kind of threat?"
A split second before Quinn could respond with a shove or a fist, Marc Boland edged between the two men, taking hold of Quinn's arm. "C'mon, Quinn," he said, nudging his co-counsel back from the brink. "It's a low blow. That's what he's known for. We've still got a case to try."
Quinn shot one last menacing look at Gates as he shook his right arm free from Boland, feeling the pain as he did so, then straightened his suit coat. He walked with Bo back to their counsel table "That guy's an idiot," Quinn said.
Bo looked at the reporters. "Show's over," he announced.
As Quinn sat down to cool off, the deputy who had escorted Catherine into the holding cell reentered the courtroom. Seeing him reminded Quinn.
"My client wants to meet with me," Quinn said to the deputy.
"You know the drill," the man said.
Bo decided to go make nice with the press, and Quinn headed toward the chamber where he could meet with Catherine, separated by about six inches of steel door.
He passed Mancini on the way.
"You need me to make an appointment?" she asked.
"For what?"
"For you. Anger management."
"Sorry, Rosemarie. The guy just knows how to get under my skin."



96
After the break, the tension level in the courtroom had increased noticeably. There was none of the idle chatter and hustling into seats that usually occurred as Rosencrance took the bench.
Quinn sat numbly as the judge told everyone to be seated. He watched as she jotted a few notes. He knew he should be preparing himself for a tongue-lashing over his altercation with Gates, but he was still trying to process what Catherine had told him just moments ago.
Rosencrance had the bailiff bring Catherine into the courtroom. "Before I bring in the jury," she said, "I would like counsel to approach the bench."
Here it comes. Quinn noticed that Marc Boland stayed on his right, physically separating him from Boyd Gates.
The judge put her hand over her mike and leaned forward, her eyes dissecting Quinn. "I've about had it with your conduct in this courtroom, Counselor. My bailiff told me what happened during the break. I want you to know that I'll be filing a complaint against you with the Nevada state bar after this case. I would revoke your pro hac status right now, but then Mr. Boland would just ask for a continuance."
"I understand," Quinn said, thankful that she hadn't tried to make him apologize. A man had to have standards.
"And, Mr. Gates, as many cases as you've tried in my courtroom, you should know better than to pull a stunt like that on cross-examination."
Gates mumbled an apology.
"Now, gentlemen, we have a case to finish. Let's try to act like professionals for a change."
All three attorneys mumbled appropriate "Yes, Your Honors," and Gates started back to his seat.
"Wait a minute," Quinn said. "I have a motion I need to make."
Gates returned to the bench, giving Quinn a sideways look. Quinn leaned in and lowered his voice. "Your Honor, with respect, I move for a one-day recess."
"What?" Gates said.
"Let him finish," snapped Rosencrance.
"Thank you, Your Honor." Quinn felt the nerves tingle up his spine. Once he made this motion, there would be no turning back. "We've discovered evidence that may require us to change Ms. O'Rourke's plea."
Rosencrance nearly pulled an eyebrow muscle, and Quinn could understand why.
"And a second development that may require me to withdraw as counsel," he added.
At that claim, Marc Boland joined the others in looking at Quinn as if the Vegas lawyer had just turned into a toad.
"This better not be one of your gimmicks," Rosencrance said.
"It's not, Judge." Quinn swallowed his nerves and hoped he was doing the right thing. "We need a day to confirm this evidence. If it checks out, Judge, it could blow this case wide open. As an officer of the court, I would not be able to proceed with an insanity plea. In fact, I would have to withdraw so I could take the stand and testify."
Quinn could tell that Rosencrance wasn't buying it, but he couldn't provide specifics. Not yet. "I would be glad to submit a written proffer first thing tomorrow morning," Quinn said.
Rosencrance still looked skeptical.
Quinn knew he needed to emphasize the one thing trial judges feared more than anything else: appellate courts. Reversible error. "Judge, I don't want to try this case a second time. If this evidence proves out, requiring us to move forward with an insanity defense would be a guaranteed reversal. At the very least, you need to carefully consider this."
Rosencrance turned to Gates and, to Quinn's surprise, the prosecutor shrugged. "As long as you instruct Dr. Mancini that she can't talk to defense counsel between now and tomorrow morning, I'm okay with it."
Of course, thought Quinn. Now that Gates has heard the entire direct examination of Mancini, he wants more time to prepare for the remainder of her cross. Plus, he wants the jury thinking about his last question during the overnight recess.
"I want a written proffer of this alleged evidence first thing in the morning," Rosencrance ordered Quinn. "And it better be good. I'm not inclined to let a defendant change her plea in the middle of the trial absent some overwhelming reason. You don't get to take a trial run at the case and then change your strategy if things don't work out. Is that clear?"
"Absolutely, Your Honor."
"Bring in the jury," Rosencrance told the bailiff. "We're going to give them the rest of the day off."
"What the heck was that?" Marc Boland slammed the door of the conference room adjacent to Courtroom 7. Boland and Quinn were alone in the room, but the way Bo was shouting, Quinn was pretty sure the press contingent in the hallway could hear every word. "I thought we agreed to keep that evidence out of the case."
Boland stormed back and forth on his side of the table, opposite a seated Quinn. "You just destroyed our client's insanity plea," he complained. He bumped into a chair and kicked it for good measure. "You sold her out! What were you thinking?"
"Are you done?" Quinn asked.
Boland stopped and put both palms on the table, leaning toward Quinn. "Heck no, I'm not done. And I won't be done until I get some answers. I worked hard on this case--worked my tail off! And you just flippantly flush the whole thing down the toilet with your Las Vegas showmanship crap."
Boland cursed and slammed the side of his fist into the plasterboard wall. "What were you thinking?" he repeated.
"If you'd sit down and shut up for a second, I'll try to tell you," said Quinn.
Bo sat, his face tight with rage.
Quinn gave him a few more seconds to calm down. "I need to hire you as my lawyer." He kept his voice low and reasonable. "I need to tell you something in absolute confidence. And I need a lawyer who is thinking rationally as opposed to freaking out on me."
This seemed to blunt Bo's rage a little. Nothing flattered a lawyer like another lawyer seeking advice.
"Okay?" Quinn asked.
"I don't understand you," Bo said. "But okay."
Quinn took another few seconds to collect his thoughts. "Our mutual client had another vision last night," he began. "Actually a dream. I'll spare you all the details, but she basically saw the jury verdict. The forewoman was Marcia Carver. Reverend Pryor was ranting away from the back of the courtroom. The jury delivered a guilty verdict on first degree murder but when Rosencrance started to sentence Catherine, the forewoman protested. She said the verdict wasn't against Catherine after all."
Quinn stopped abruptly, barely able to maintain eye contact. He sighed, it was too late to turn back now.
"Cat said she almost fainted when she saw where Marcia Carver was pointing. Cat said she felt so betrayed, like somebody had slid a knife in her back and cut out her heart."
"Why?" Bo asked, narrowing his eyes.
"Because she was talking about me, Marc. The forewoman in Catherine's dream was pointing at me."



97
"I killed my brother-in-law," Quinn said.
He took a deep breath, and the facts came out in a torrent.
"Annie didn't shoot Richard Hofstetter; I did. Afterward, we decided she should confess to the crime because she'd have a better chance of getting acquitted. If the jury found her guilty, I'd admit the truth. The judge would have to grant a retrial, and I'd take the stand and confess. At worst, Annie might get hit with obstruction of justice, and I'd get convicted of murder. But this plan also gave us the best shot at both of us walking away scot-free."
Boland listened, his face unreadable.
"Annie called me a few days before the shooting and said she suspected Hofstetter was sexually abusing Sierra," Quinn continued. "She decided to confront him about it. The night of the shooting, she sent Sierra to a friend's house. She called and told me about her plans while she waited for Hofstetter to come home.
"He got there late, drunk and verbally abusive, but Annie confronted him anyway. He flew into a rage, cursing Annie and telling her how repulsive she had become. He threatened to divorce her and file for visitation with Sierra. The way he said it, the way he sneered, Annie knew her suspicions were correct."
Quinn paused in his narration, stared at the wall, and sucked in a breath. "When Hofstetter stumbled off to the bathroom, Annie called me again. I was actually sitting in my car a block or two away. I figured there might be trouble, and I wanted to be close by in case Annie needed me. I brought a gun I'd bought a few days earlier after talking with Annie. Got it at a gun show, undocumented. After the second call from Annie that night, I drove to the house and entered without knocking. I heard Annie call my name when I opened the door. She sounded panicked. I hustled back to the living room and found Hofstetter kneeling on the floor with Annie in front of him as a shield, his knife at her throat. Later, Annie told me that he was threatening to rape her just before I got there."
Quinn stopped, feeling the heat of the conference room. "I aimed my gun at Hofstetter's forehead and started inching my way toward him. 'Even if I miss on the first shot,' I said, 'I won't miss on the second.' I stopped about ten feet away and told Hofstetter to drop the knife. When he did and Annie scrambled away, I put a bullet through his forehead.
"It was Annie's idea to take the rap. We both knew that a battered wife would have a better chance at acquittal. At first, I wanted to put together a case for self-defense, but I realized the forensic evidence wouldn't justify it. I shot Hofstetter from ten feet away while he was kneeling on the floor. I knew that the angle of entry and lack of stippling around the bullet wound would show that Hofstetter was shot from that distance. Plus, I knew it would be virtually impossible to quickly fabricate evidence of a fight to make it look like Annie had acted in self-defense without her getting tripped up in her story.
"That's why we decided to go with the insanity defense. It could be consistent with a shot from ten feet away. I put on a pair of plastic gloves Annie had in the house and wiped down the handle of the gun. I squeezed Hofstetter's hand around it so his fingerprints would register, then handed the gun to Annie. As soon as I left, she called the police.
"Later, I secretly typed up a confession that I was ready to submit to the court in case we lost. I never intended for Annie to spend any time in jail."
Quinn rubbed his face, exhausted from telling his tale. "When Catherine told me about her latest dream, it was like God had pointed a finger at my chest and pronounced me guilty. Bo, our client clearly has some kind of supernatural gift. Combine that with what we know about the Carver baby, and I think she's innocent." Quinn paused. "The problem is that proving her case means I would have to testify."
Quinn swallowed hard as he stared into Marc Boland's contemplative eyes. In the few minutes it took Quinn to tell his story, Boland had totally transformed--from roaring beast to seasoned counselor.
"I need some advice," Quinn said.
Bo squinted past Quinn, as if the wisdom of the ages might be written on the conference room wall. He shook his head slowly and blew out a breath. "I'm not even sure if I can give you advice," he said. "Seems to me that I'd have a terrible conflict if I tried to represent both you and Catherine."
"That may be true," Quinn said. "But I don't know who else to ask. And I know we really don't have much of a choice. If I don't testify and the prosecution finds out the Carver baby is still alive, we don't stand a chance of winning."
Boland furrowed his brow. "You really think she got set up?"
"I know this much," Quinn said. "Those visions are real. And that Carver baby is still alive. You can take it from there."
"I need some time to process this," Bo said.
The two lawyers agreed to meet at 9 p.m. on Bo's yacht. In the interim, Quinn needed to meet Billy Long at the airport and prepare him to testify. Bo wanted to do a little research.
Bo apologized for losing his cool earlier, and Quinn apologized for not talking to Bo before he made his motion.
Bo even managed a smile before he left the conference room. "You Vegas guys sure know how to mess things up," he said.


98
"No!"
Catherine bolted upright on her cot, her hair matted with perspiration. Her breath came in short, hard bursts. The other visions had terrified her, but they were nothing compared to this.
She grabbed the bars of her cell and shouted for a guard. Other inmates cursed at Catherine or told her to shut up, but she kept right on yelling. Finally a young female deputy appeared.
"I've got to talk with my lawyer," Catherine gasped. "It's an emergency."
"You're in solitary confinement," the guard said. "If your attorney wants to talk with you, he needs to come here." She turned and started walking away.
"Come back!" Cat yelled, pounding the bars in frustration. "Get Jamarcus Webb on the phone! I'm ready to confess!"
The guard stopped. "You've got lawyers," she said. "Talk to them tomorrow."
"Forget about lawyers," Catherine shouted. "I waive my right to lawyers! I need to confess! My conscience is killing me! Killing me! Get Detective Webb--now!"
The deputy left without another word, leaving Catherine calling out after her.
Three minutes later, the deputy returned with the head of the evening shift. This time, Catherine tried to act a little more sane.
"I understand you're ready to confess," the woman said.
Cat nodded.
"We'll need you to sign some forms waiving your right to counsel."
"I thought you'd never ask."
Quinn walked down the pier of the Cavalier Yacht and Country Club, his steps illuminated by foot lamps mounted on each side of the wooden planks, his mind weighed down with the life-altering decisions in front of him.
The August night was hot and muggy, the quarter moon hidden by a bank of clouds, the sky as dark as Quinn's mood. He had changed into shorts, an oxford shirt, and boat shoes. He'd left his briefcase in the rental car but carried two beers that dangled from a plastic six-pack holder in his left hand. He finished off the beer in his right hand and threw the empty into the Lynnhaven River, stumbled, then climbed aboard the Class Action. He circled around to the sliding doors in the back and saw Bo in the lighted salon area, hunched forward on the soft leather couch, reams of trial documents spread around the room and covering the coffee table in front of him.
Bo waved Quinn inside and managed a half smile. "I was going to ask if you wanted a drink," he said.
Quinn held the remainder of his six-pack aloft. "BYOB." He slid into the easy chair on the opposite side of the room from Bo, his legs sprawled out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He popped another beer.
"I'm not testifying tomorrow," Quinn announced. "I'm not testifying ever. Not about my brother-in-law's death anyway."
Bo regarded Quinn with curiosity, as if trying to figure out whether this was the beer talking or Quinn's actual decision.
"And that stuff I told you in the conference room--" Quinn halfheartedly motioned toward Bo--"that's attorney-client privilege. Take it to your grave."
"Not necessarily," replied Bo, his face stern and indecipherable. "I told you I couldn't represent you and Catherine at the same time. My first obligation is to her. I never agreed to be your attorney."
Quinn sat up a little straighter in the chair. "Meaning what?"
"I've got to do what's best for Catherine." Marc Boland spoke slowly, condescendingly. "My duty to the client comes first." He picked up a black remote and pushed a button. Blinds started descending on the tinted windows all around the salon. "But don't worry, Quinn; I'm not going to put you on the stand. Our client is insane. This bizarre vision that triggered your guilty conscience doesn't change that."
Quinn took another swig. "You're quite the actor, Bo. All that sanctimonious, high-sounding lawyer talk; your self-righteous sneer. You think you're better than me?"
Bo narrowed his eyes but didn't answer.
"I think we're a lot more alike than you'd care to admit," Quinn said. He set his beer down and straightened up in his chair, his feigned intoxication instantly gone. It was time for some real cross-examination.
"Did you love her, Bo? Did you love Sherri McNamara?"



99
Quinn sucked in a breath, stood up, and put his hands in his pockets. He started pacing as he zeroed in on the man sitting on the couch, his former co-counsel, now prime suspect number one.
Quinn shook his head in scorn. "I must be slipping, Bo. It took me too long to see it. You worked in the Richmond Commonwealth's Attorney's office when Paul Donaldson was prosecuted. You were young and idealistic, assisting victims who testified. You and Sherri McNamara got to know each other, maybe even became lovers." Quinn spoke with the sharp edge that characterized his cross-examinations.
"When your colleagues lost that case and Sherri killed herself, you started plotting your revenge."
Bo leaned back on the couch and chuckled. "You're pathetic, Quinn. Representing insane clients has made you start to think like them."
Quinn ignored the comment. "You waited. Months turned into years, but you could never get her out of your mind. You finally decided the time was right. You picked some random victims first, just to throw police off the trail: the Carvers, defense lawyers who represented rapists--something you'd never do--and Clarence Milburn, a rapist who beat the rap. But all you really cared about was Paul Donaldson and his lawyer, Rex Archibald."
Quinn spoke faster now, watching for a crack in Bo's unnerving veneer. Quinn took his hands out of his pockets and began gesturing. "You didn't have the heart to actually kill the Carvers or Milburn, so you kidnapped their kids and placed them on the black market, making sure the kidnappings coincided with times and places when Reverend Pryor was in town. He was your first scapegoat. And then, a stroke of luck."
Quinn smiled, placing a palm on the back of the easy chair, a pose he might strike in the courtroom. It was classic Quinn Newberg--disguise gut-wrenching nervousness with a show of false bravado. "Catherine O'Rourke had visions. Maybe she picked up some vibes from you; I don't know. But you used it as an opportunity to frame her. You planted DNA evidence on the envelope and the bloody paper towels and methohexital in the trash." Quinn paused, frustrated that Boland showed absolutely no sign of concern. "How am I doing so far?"
"Sit down, Quinn," Bo said. "Have another beer. You're starting to lose it, my friend. Too much pressure. Too much work." He stood and took a step toward the sliding doors that led to the deck, placing himself between those doors and Quinn. Bo seemed larger than he did in court, his neck muscles tightening.
Quinn needed him to crack. Just one incriminating statement. The miniature microphone taped to Quinn's chest was capturing every word, transmitting it to Billy Long, waiting out on the pier.
"I gave you a chance to save Catherine's skin by putting me on the stand," Quinn said, "but you refused to jump at it. Why? Because the last thing you want is for Catherine O'Rourke to change her plea to not guilty and actually get acquitted. If that happens, the cops will reopen the investigation and look for the real killer."
Boland didn't flinch. The face of stone was frozen in a half smirk, as if he knew something Quinn didn't know--a pair of aces for his down cards. Quinn looked Boland over again, searching for any bulges that might signify a gun. Quinn's only hope was to keep talking, to somehow draw Boland out.
"The ironic thing is that the person you set up as the scapegoat is the one who nailed you," Quinn said, forcing his own half smile. "I told you that Catherine saw a vision of Marcia Carver pointing at me, but that's not what she saw. Marcia Carver was actually pointing at you. How long do you think it will be until Catherine sees another vision with the location of Rex Archibald's body or the electric chair you used on Donaldson? You can't explain away these visions, Bo. You know it as well as I do. The woman has a gift."
Instead of reacting, a very composed Marc Boland started slowly approaching Quinn, a linebacker just before the blitz. "All that time in the Vegas sun has fried your brain," he said.
"The problem you didn't anticipate," Quinn replied, taking a small step back, "was that Billy Long would figure this out by squeezing some folks who are involved in the seedy business of selling babies. I talked to him less than two hours ago at the airport. We've got you dead to rights."
Even this did nothing to knock the confident look from Marc Boland's face.
"So here's the deal," Quinn said. "You've heard my confession about shooting my brother-in-law. But you've got your own issues."
Boland took one last ominous step, bringing him an arm's length away.
"We swear each other to secrecy," Quinn continued. "Get the women declared insane. They get a little treatment, we get--"
Bo lunged, and Quinn ducked to his left, sliding away from his attacker's grip. Quinn grabbed the first thing he could get his hand on, a glass bottle at the bar, and cracked it against the side of Boland's head.
The blow staggered Boland, but the big man didn't go down. Desperate now, Quinn scrambled up the steps to the pilothouse area. "Get in here, Billy! Now!?"
He headed for another set of steps that would lead to the upper deck. From there he could leap to the dock, maybe dive into the water. But Boland grabbed Quinn's leg and dragged him back down to the pilothouse. He spun Quinn around and drove a right fist into his ribs, knocking the air out of him, doubling him over. A left uppercut to the jaw sent Quinn crashing into the galley sink.
Quinn crumpled to the floor. Boland stood over him like a raging bull.
But instead of trembling, Quinn managed a painful smile. In the shadows behind Boland, gun drawn like a pro, stood the rounded silhouette of a man who had been recording every sound tonight, every word that had been spoken.
"I thought you'd never get here," Quinn gasped.
Breathing hard, Marc Boland stepped aside. "Neither did I."
Billy Long's gun stayed leveled at Quinn's forehead.
"I'd like you to meet an old friend of mine," Boland said, signaling toward Billy. "From the Richmond police department."
Quinn fought to catch a breath, struggling to understand what was happening. He had been transmitting this conversation to an ally of Marc Boland's?
"Known to some," Boland continued, "as the Avenger of Blood." Boland's face lit up with a demonic grin. "I'm not the Avenger you thought I was, Vegas. I'm the judge and jury."


100
Billy Long steered Quinn down the narrow steps that led below deck; Boland stayed in the pilothouse area. Billy pushed Quinn into the guest suite, which had been converted into a small study with an ornate desk in the middle of the room and bookshelves along the wall behind it. While holding Quinn at gunpoint, Billy pushed a button on a remote, and a mirrored wall in front of the desk slid aside, exposing a solid wooden chair bolted to the floor. The chair had metal handcuffs built into the ends of both armrests and ankle shackles at the bottom of the chair legs, one thick leather strap for a seat belt, and another for a neck restraint.
"You guys are sick," Quinn said.
"Have a seat," Billy responded, shoving Quinn toward the chair.
Quinn considered his options--all bad--and reluctantly did as he was told.
"Slide your right wrist into the handcuff," Billy said.
Long had the gun trained on Quinn's forehead and stood just out of arm's reach. The man had an unstable look in his eyes that made him seem like a different person from the one Quinn had met at the airport just hours earlier. Quinn knew he couldn't make a play to escape right now, but if he put his wrist into the handcuff and cinched it down, the game would be over.
"Billy, you're in deep on this, but I know you're not the mastermind here. Work with me, and I'll take your case to the authorities--"
Whack!
In a movement too quick for Quinn to avoid, Billy pistol-whipped Quinn across the cheek, opening a gash with a blow that felt like it shattered the cheekbone. Shards of pain engulfed Quinn's face, spreading like the spiderweb pattern of a cracked windshield. Dazed, Quinn turned back toward Billy and felt warm blood dripping down his cheek. He touched the spot with his left hand.
"Put your wrist in the handcuff," Billy demanded.
Quinn did so, cinching down the handcuff with his free hand. Then, at Billy's order, Quinn placed his bloody left hand in the other handcuff, and Billy locked it down. After Billy had locked both ankles into the metal shackles, he pulled the leather straps around Quinn's waist and neck and cinched them tight. Quinn felt blood oozing in small rivulets down his neck and soaking into the collar of his shirt.
"Do I get a last cigarette?" Quinn asked.
"Always the comedian," said Billy. "The judge will be back soon. Let's see how good your sense of humor is then."
Quinn heard the engines on the big yacht begin to rumble. They would be leaving the dock soon. This might be Quinn's last chance.
"Hey!" he yelled at the top of his voice. The pain from his cheek intensified. "Down here! Somebody call the police! They're going to kill me!"
Billy shook his head and pulled a gag out of the closet, jamming it into Quinn's mouth as the lawyer yelled. Billy tied a bandanna tight around the back of Quinn's head, holding in the gag and putting more pressure on the cheekbone, while Quinn resisted with all his might.
"Nobody can hear you anyway, Quinn," Billy said after he had tied the gag tight. "This is more for my own peace of mind."
With the gag in his mouth, Quinn stopped trying to make noise. He could tell from the cold look in Billy's eyes that the man was determined to complete his task.
Billy checked Quinn's restraints one last time, surveyed his captive with something that approached disdain, and left the room. Quinn sensed movement beneath him, the maneuvering of the boat as it left the dock, and then the acceleration that signaled the beginning of the trip toward the wide expanse of the Chesapeake Bay, maybe even the Atlantic Ocean. His cheek and shoulder throbbed with pain. Soon, that would be the least of his worries.