By Reason of Insanity

101
Quinn realized he was probably sitting in the same chair used to electrocute Paul Donaldson. He flashed back to the court testimony--Donaldson fighting against the restraints, his skin bright red, eyes bulging out, sparks flying from the electrodes on his skull like a scene from a horror movie.
Quinn's mind paraded out other images as well--the most gruesome executions described in the death penalty cases he had studied. The electrical current literally cooked internal organs and heated skin to temperatures that required fifteen minutes of cool-down before guards could touch the executed prisoner. Blood literally boiled. Soon, that could be him.
Quinn used every ounce of willpower to banish those thoughts. Survival would require focus and clear thinking, not panic. There would be time enough to dwell on the pain once Marc Boland started the current. For now, Quinn needed a plan.
A few minutes later, Boland entered the office and sat at the desk, his boyish face stern and judgmental. He raked his hand through his hair and gave Quinn a disapproving shake of the head.
"Don't look at me that way," he told Quinn. "You know the system sucks."
Quinn made a noise, indistinguishable because of the gag. Don't I even get a chance to defend myself?
"You were never supposed to get caught up in this, Vegas. This wasn't about you. You're actually a darned good defense lawyer. Too good, maybe."
Boland placed his gun on the desk, and his expression softened, like a father reluctantly scolding a wayward son. "Sherri McNamara was a beautiful woman, Quinn. Full of life--the kind of person who makes you feel more alive just hanging around her. And yes, I did love her."
Bo looked straight at Quinn now, but really beyond him, years into the past. "We kept our relationship private--people would have considered it inappropriate for a member of the commonwealth's attorney's staff to be carrying on with someone he met in the victim assistance program.
"I sat through every day of that trial. It was like they raped her a second time, the way Archibald ripped her apart on the stand.
"A week after Sherri's suicide, I was having a drink with a couple of detectives on the Richmond force. Conversation turned to the Donaldson trial, and I found out that Billy Long had a prior run-in with Archibald as well. Archibald had sprung a drug dealer on the basis of an illegal search. He accused Billy of lying on the affidavit to obtain the warrant. The judge agreed and crucified Billy in a written opinion.
"That incident, combined with a prior allegation of police brutality by another defendant, pretty much consigned Billy Long to desk-jockey status. Anyhow, Billy and I got together. We figured if the system was too corrupt to exact justice in these cases, then we probably needed to give it a little help."
Bo stopped, studying Quinn as if seeing him for the first time, fixing his gaze on the blood dripping down Quinn's cheek. "Billy can get a little violent, Quinn. But he's not in charge of the sentencing phase. I am. For that you should be grateful. I save the electric chair for the rapists."
Quinn found scant comfort in the words. He felt like a death-row prisoner, exhausting one appeal after another, sometimes winning a delay but having no chance at acquittal. A gun might be less painful, but it would be equally final.
"I didn't want any collateral damage," Bo continued, his voice calm, almost compassionate, the same tone he used on juries. "I just needed a little misdirection. The babies were unharmed and were placed in homes through the black market--untraceable to us, I can assure you. That's why I had Billy 'discover' one of them--the first step toward getting them back with their original families. Once Catherine's case was over, we would have leaked that info to the cops. The Carvers and Clarence Milburn may have suffered a little emotional trauma in the meantime, but they deserved it.
"As for you, my friend, I'm actually glad you bared your soul about shooting your brother-in-law. That may be the one thing that allows me to live with myself when this dirty little business is finished. Makes me think I might just be doing the Lord's work after all."
Bo stood and walked around his desk until he was standing directly in front of Quinn. "I'll give you a chance to write out your confession exactly as you told it to me. You have my word that I'll deliver it to the Vegas district attorney."
Bo began untying Quinn's gag. "Sorry, Vegas, but that's the best I can do--a relatively painless death, a bullet to the forehead, just like your brother-in-law. We'll bury you at the bottom of the Atlantic and send a note to the authorities from the Avenger along with your confession. Just think--by dying, you might actually save your sister's life."
Quinn spit out the gag. "If there's a God," he said, "I hope you rot in hell."
Bo unhooked Quinn's right arm and wrenched it next to his left wrist, causing pain in Quinn's rotator cuff. "A mouth like that, and I can see why Billy got a little carried away." Bo handcuffed Quinn's wrists together, put leg-irons on his ankles, and undid the leather restraints.
"I'm going to let you go to the head right across the hall," Boland said. "Wash the blood off your face. Get ready for your final meal on deck. A good man like you is entitled to one last meal."
Bizarre, thought Quinn. But he wouldn't refuse this small act of decency. Anything to buy a little more time.
"What about Catherine?" Quinn asked. "A rape victim. How do you live with yourself, putting this whole thing on her?"
"Catherine will be fine," Boland said sternly. "Her only mistake was dragging you into this. Go clean up. I'll tell you the plan while you write your confession."
Quinn shuffled across the hall, followed closely by Bo, and appraised himself in the bathroom mirror. He washed some blood from his swollen face, wincing in pain as he dabbed at his cheek with a washcloth. The gash continued to seep new blood, looking like it might require half a dozen stitches to sew it shut. But Quinn's mind was elsewhere. If he could just get to the deck, maybe even dive overboard . . . could he even swim with handcuffs and leg-irons on? Would he stand a chance of getting rescued in the dark waters of the Atlantic?
Probably not, but what were his options?
Still at gunpoint, Quinn returned to the converted guest suite. Bo snapped on some rubber gloves, removed a sheet of paper from a package on the desk, and broke a new pen out of its plastic container.
"Start writing," Bo ordered. "Nothing cute or I won't deliver it."
His mind racing ahead, Quinn slowly printed his confession. If nothing else, at least Sierra might be reunited with her mom.
Bo stood behind Quinn, watching carefully. "You're a showman, Vegas; you would have loved this final piece of the operation. There's still one person who hasn't paid for the life of Sherri McNamara--life for life, as the Scripture says. Know who that is?"
Quinn paused in his writing. Another murder?
"The jury forewoman who freed Paul Donaldson, believing him instead of Sherri," Bo said. "The Avenger will take her out in a very dramatic fashion at the precise moment I'm giving my closing statement. Time of death will be easy to verify. Catherine will no longer be a legitimate suspect, and I'll have an airtight alibi if anybody is ever inclined to look in my direction."
Quinn didn't turn to look, but it almost sounded like Boland was smiling.
"Billy Long has no connection to the McNamara case," Bo continued, "so no one will ever suspect him. These crimes will remain unsolved forever."
Quinn felt the barrel of the gun against the back of his neck.
"Hurry up, Vegas. You're stalling and I'm getting hungry."



102
Without warning, everything went dark.
Quinn had no idea what had just happened. A blown fuse? The engine was still powering beneath them, the boat gliding forward. Quinn could barely make out the contour of objects in the study--the darkness broken only by a dim light that seemed to be filtering down the hallway from the main deck.
This might be his last chance.
He flung his handcuffed fists back and to his right, like a double-fisted backhand, connecting with what felt like the face of Boland. Pain shot through Quinn's injured right shoulder.
Crack! Boland squeezed off a shot as he fell backward, and Quinn felt the bullet breeze past his head.
Bo crashed into the wall, and Quinn dove at him, landing on top of Bo and grabbing his right wrist with both hands. Quinn slammed Bo's gun hand against the wall, trying to dislodge the gun, but Bo held on. With surprising speed, Bo locked onto Quinn's arm, lowered his own shoulder, and rolled, his weight carrying him on top of Quinn. He jammed his left elbow into Quinn's gut, a blow that caused Quinn to release his grip on Bo's wrist as the air fled from Quinn's lungs.
Bo exploded to his feet, then whirled and towered over Quinn, the gun pointed at his chest. "Nice try, Vegas," Bo gasped. "I like your spunk."
He took a step or two backward, out of Quinn's reach. Not that it mattered. Quinn was in excruciating pain and had no fight left in him.
"Billy!" Boland yelled. "What happened to the fuse?"
Getting no answer, Bo back-stepped to the door and flipped the light switch a few times to no avail. He raised the gun slightly so it pointed directly at Quinn's forehead. Though Boland's hand was steady, Quinn could tell that the darkness and the lack of response from Billy Long had him worried.
"Billy!" Bo yelled again.
He glanced into the narrow hallway and apparently saw nothing. Breathing heavily, he took a step toward Quinn. "You just forfeited your last meal, Vegas. Any last words?"
Surprisingly, looking down the barrel of the gun, Quinn felt no fear. In that final split second, his life reduced itself to a series of images, past and future, flashing across Quinn's brain in nanoseconds, producing a final collage of intense emotions. Annie and Sierra embracing again. Sierra's wedding. Annie's grandchild. Law partners in solemn mourning one second and at their desks the next. Snapshots of clients and friends. And one final picture freezing on Catherine O'Rourke, her compassionate eyes comforting Quinn, her lips mouthing his name. . . .
A shot rang out. Quinn flinched, anticipating the impact.


103
At first, Jamarcus Webb was skeptical. The last six months had been among the hardest in his life. His friend Catherine O'Rourke had gone to jail to protect him as her source. But when the evidence began mounting against her, Jamarcus did what he had to do.
Even at the time, he knew how much it would cost him.
He told the police chief everything he knew about Catherine, revealing his own status as Catherine's inside source and bringing down the wrath of the entire department on his head. A disciplinary board would ultimately decide his fate. In the meantime, he had been reassigned to administrative duty. He cursed the day he had first met Catherine O'Rourke.
So it didn't make sense when he accepted her collect call from jail. It made even less sense when her supposed confession turned into a plea for help. She had seen another vision. Quinn Newberg was in trouble. This time the handwriting was not a Scripture verse but a location. Class Action.
"Marc Boland is the Avenger of Blood," Catherine said, pleading with Jamarcus to believe her. "It all makes sense. Please, Jamarcus, I'm begging you. Go check it out."
Against his better judgment, he did.
He watched from a perch on the deck of a neighboring boat as Quinn Newberg climbed onto Class Action, carrying what was left of his six-pack. He saw Quinn's investigator, Billy Long, appear a few minutes later, silently waiting in the shadows on deck. Through the tinted glass of the salon area he could see Quinn and Marc Boland engaged in tense conversation until the shades came down and covered the windows. A minute or two later, he watched Billy Long scramble inside the pilothouse, gun drawn.
Five minutes later, the engines of Class Action started, and then Marc Boland began unmooring the boat from the dock.
Questions raced through Jamarcus's head. Why had Billy Long been sneaking around the boat? What had happened to make the man hustle inside the pilothouse, gun drawn? Where were these three going at this time of night?
And a final question, one that haunted him most of all: could Catherine O'Rourke really be innocent, her visions the result of some supernatural gift?
To his astonishment, Jamarcus heard some faint shouting from below deck. Somebody--Quinn?--yelling for help, calling for the police. Somebody was facing imminent harm--a legal justification for boarding the boat. Jamarcus knew he would probably regret it later, but as Class Action began pulling away from the dock, he crouched low, jogged to the starboard side away from Marc Boland's line of sight, and jumped on board.
As they cruised out to the Chesapeake Bay, Jamarcus squatted on the outside deck, peering through the windows to the main pilothouse. As he watched Boland pilot the boat, Jamarcus flashed back to the phone call with Catherine. In her vision, she had seen Quinn Newberg sitting in a makeshift electric chair. Could that be what was happening below deck?
Jamarcus had to be careful here. He was an officer of the law. He was piling one assumption on top of another. What did he really have?
He slipped around to the back of the boat and quietly entered the salon area through the sliding door. He pulled out his gun and moved quickly to the steps at the front of the salon leading to the pilothouse, being careful to stay out of sight. Billy Long had just come up from below deck.
"He's all yours," Billy said to Bo, taking Bo's place in the pilot's seat.
"I'm going to be a real gentleman about it," Bo said. "Give him a last meal and everything."
"Your call," Long said gruffly. "He's no different than the others."
The exchange confirmed Jamarcus's worst fears, but it also bought him a little time. They were planning to give Quinn a last meal.
Jamarcus listened for any disturbances below and, hearing none, found the location of the fuse box. He waited until Class Action hit the big waters of the Chesapeake Bay. Then, as Billy Long hunched over a chart, Jamarcus crept up behind the captain's chair, said a quick prayer, and knocked Billy out cold with the butt of his gun.
Jamarcus had no idea how to pilot a yacht, so he decided not to touch any of the controls. He checked for Billy's pulse, found one, and scrambled to the fuse box. He cut off the lights below deck and headed for the stairs. He let silence answer Marc Boland's calls to Billy.
Jamarcus slipped into the master suite just as Boland peered out the door of the smaller suite. Jamarcus let his eyes adjust to the darkness for a moment, then heard a scuffle from the adjoining room.
Gun drawn, he rounded the corner.



104
Staring down the barrel of Marc Boland's gun, Quinn heard the shot and flinched but never felt the impact. Simultaneous with the shot, he saw Boland's right shoulder lurch forward and heard the man scream in pain, the gun dropping from his hand. It took Quinn a second to register what had just happened; then he scrambled to pick up the weapon as Boland hunched over, holding his shoulder.
In the doorway, Jamarcus Webb stood like a Spartan warrior, silhouetted in the dim remnants of light from the main deck. "Drop the gun!" he yelled at Quinn. "Hands on your head."
"I'm not your man!" Quinn protested.
"Hands on your head!" Jamarcus demanded, taking one step inside the room, then another.
Boland was now leaning against the wall, still holding his right shoulder, his face wracked with pain. They could sort this out later, Quinn reasoned. For now, Jamarcus was just playing it safe. But before he dropped the pistol, Quinn saw a small shift in the faint light from the doorway behind Jamarcus. It could mean only one thing.
"Duck!" Quinn yelled. Jamarcus ducked left and spun, all in one motion, squeezing off a shot as he did so. Quinn fired as well, at the same instant that Billy Long flashed into sight around the corner of the doorframe, his own gun blazing. One of the shots snapped Billy's head backward, and he crumpled lifeless against the hallway wall. Even in the virtual darkness, Quinn could see blood trickling down the man's face from a dark hole on the right side of his forehead.
Quinn dropped his gun and placed his handcuffed hands on his head.
Jamarcus rose to his full height, holding his gun with both hands, keeping it trained on Marc Boland. He kicked the gun that Quinn had dropped into a corner. "You know how to drive this boat?" Jamarcus asked Quinn.
"I know how to put it in neutral and call for help on the radio," Quinn said.
"That'll work."
Before Quinn headed above deck, Jamarcus freed Quinn from the handcuffs and leg irons, then cuffed Marc Boland and checked on Billy Long. He felt for a pulse, then looked at Quinn and shook his head.
"Nice shot," said Quinn.
Jamarcus smiled grimly. "That quarter-sized hole in his temple ain't my caliber. I was just trying to wing him. Nice shot yourself, Counselor."
"I was aiming for his heart," Quinn said.
"Sometimes," said Jamarcus, "it's better to be lucky than good."


105
The night became a blur of activity. The arrest of Marc Boland, Quinn's treatment at the hospital for bruised ribs and a gash that required eight stitches, hours of police questioning, and Quinn's negotiations with two prosecuting attorneys--Boyd Gates and Carla Duncan--on opposite sides of the country. Quinn didn't make it back to the Hilton until nearly four in the morning. He took some pain pills and asked for a wake-up call at six so he could stop by the jail on the way to court and explain everything to Catherine.
He woke up hurting all over and noticed the sunlight streaming through a slit in the curtains. He vaguely remembered answering a wake-up call and allowing himself a few more minutes of sleep. He glanced at the clock--8:05!
He blinked. The digital readout didn't change.
Court started in less than an hour.
Quinn sat straight up in bed and almost passed out. Sharp pain stabbed in his ribs, and a dull aching pain pulsed on his cheek, accentuated by the stitches and swelling that would probably make him look like a boxer in a losing cause. The rotator cuff had its own throbbing rhythm of agony, more intense than it had ever been before.
He climbed gingerly out of bed and flicked on the television. Commentators were speculating about the arrest of Marc Boland, who was to be arraigned later that morning, and a press conference Chief Compton had scheduled for 10 a.m. There was additional speculation about the shooting death of a private investigator named William Long, a former law enforcement officer who might have been assisting the defense team on the Catherine O'Rourke case. Police had confirmed the cause of death as a gunshot wound but were saying little else.
Quinn rubbed on some deodorant, splashed on the aftershave, brushed his teeth, and wet his hair. His ribs ached as he raised his left arm to comb it. He pulled on the same suit he had worn two days ago.
Over the past week, his hotel suite had become a combination war room and bachelor pad, clothes and documents strewn everywhere. Housekeeping cleaned every day, but the maids were no match for Quinn's ability to clutter things up.
He threw a few things into his briefcase and headed out the door. On the way to the courthouse, he dialed the airlines and secured a first-class ticket.
Quinn fought his way through the media circus, greeted the security guards, and remained closed-lipped as he entered the courtroom. He made it to his counsel table at two minutes before nine, just in time to iron out a few last-minute details with Boyd Gates.
"All rise," said the bailiff. "This honorable court is now in session."
Rosencrance took her seat, told everyone else to do the same, and spoke the words Quinn had been waiting for. "Bring in the defendant," she said.
Quinn watched Catherine O'Rourke enter through the side door, her posture perfect, her head held high. She was too thin after a few months of jailhouse food, but she still looked great--elegant, triumphant, her face practically radiating grace. She was, Quinn thought, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
He couldn't help but feel a surge of triumph as she came and sat next to him. She obviously knew about the events of last night; he could see it in her eyes. Freedom looked good on Catherine O'Rourke.
Quinn put his left arm around the back of her chair and tried to ignore the pain in his ribs. "You heard?"
"Jamarcus told me early this morning," Catherine whispered. Her eyes teared up, and she placed her hand on Quinn's knee. "I don't know what to say, how to thank you. When I had that vision last night--you in the electric chair--it felt like I was dying myself."
Quinn wasn't good at touchy-feely, especially in the middle of a trial. "All in a day's work," he quipped as Rosencrance ordered the bailiff to bring in the jury. If Quinn let himself get emotional right now, there was no telling where it might lead. He would regret it later; he was sure of that. "Though sometimes I charge extra for shooting serial killers."
The jury filed in, staring at Quinn and Catherine. Especially Quinn. "By the way, you look great today," Quinn told Catherine, changing the subject. "Very media friendly."
This brought a quick blush, followed by a most unexpected request. "Can we do dinner tonight, Quinn? There's no other way I'd rather celebrate my first day of freedom than by having dinner with you."
He hesitated. Was she asking him out? It would have been the perfect ending to his greatest triumph as a trial lawyer. Attorney Quinn Newberg, slayer of the Avenger of Blood, rides off into the sunset with his beautiful client. He had dreamed for weeks about what it might feel like to spend time with Catherine when they weren't separated by bulletproof glass and the need to focus on the case. He wanted to get to know the real Catherine. He wanted to hear her dreams and appreciate her wit and know what it felt like to hold her.
"I can't," Quinn said.
She looked hurt, and knowing he had caused that pain ripped at his heart.
"There are some things you don't know about me," he told her. "Reasons it could never work."
"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?" she asked.
With the jury in the box, the courtroom fell into a hushed silence. Boyd Gates was on his feet. Rosencrance asked him if he had a motion to make.
"I do, Your Honor." Gates buttoned his suit coat and squared his shoulders, always the soldier.
Quinn took a deep breath, felt a sharp bite of pain in his ribs, and leaned close to Catherine's ear. These would be the hardest words he could ever remember uttering. "It's best for both of us this way, Catherine. Another time, another place, things might have been different."
"Judge, we would ask you to dismiss with prejudice the charges against the defendant," Gates said. As part of the deal negotiated during the early morning hours, Gates had also agreed to nol pros the additional felony assault charge he had filed against Catherine for attacking Holly. Quinn had agreed that Gates could save face by dropping that charge quietly at a later date, as opposed to now in open court.
Gates turned toward Catherine and Quinn, causing Quinn to turn his attention to the prosecutor.
"I'm sorry that you had to endure this ordeal," Gates said softly to Catherine. Without waiting for a response, he turned to face the court again. "As Your Honor knows, we have arrested Marc Boland and will be charging him with three counts of kidnapping, four counts of conspiracy to commit murder, two counts of felony murder, and two counts of attempted murder."
Gasps filled the courtroom, and the jury looked like they had collectively seen a ghost. Excited murmuring threatened to break into full-scale chaos while Rosencrance banged her gavel, attemping to restore order.
"Mr. Newberg," she said, "I take it you have no objection to the commonwealth's motion to dismiss?"
Quinn stood and glanced at Catherine O'Rourke before he spoke. Another time, another place, it might definitely have been different.
"I think we can live with that, Your Honor."


106
Twenty-four hours.
After extensive discussions the previous night, Boyd Gates had faxed Quinn's written confession for the murder of Richard Hofstetter Jr. to Carla Duncan in Las Vegas. The fax had gone through a few minutes before 3 a.m. Eastern time. A few minutes later, at exactly midnight Pacific time, Carla Duncan had called and given Quinn twenty-four hours to turn himself in for questioning.
Carla had conceded the possibility that the confession could be entirely bogus, designed solely to entrap Marc Boland. Without more, she was not going to have Quinn arrested and extradited to Nevada. She probably considered him a minimal flight risk given the fact that Annie was in jail awaiting trial and relying on his legal services.
But Carla did insist that Quinn come in for questioning.
Twenty-four hours, not a minute longer. Quinn felt like Kiefer Sutherland in 24, except that this was real. And Quinn didn't have to save the entire world--just Annie and Sierra.
He landed at McCarren International Airport a few minutes after 2 p.m. on Tuesday, mindful that nearly fourteen hours had already passed. He met a trusted consultant at the airport, who rode with Quinn to the Signature Towers. The man was an electronics and audio geek, an expert who billed at five hundred an hour. Quinn would have paid him double.
"I can have what you need in a few hours," the man said.
Quinn called Richard Hofstetter Sr. and demanded an appointment at 6 p.m.
"Why should I agree to meet with you?" Hofstetter asked.
"Because you want the Oasis sale to go through," Quinn said.
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Hofstetter. "But maybe you'll inform me."
"See you at six," said Quinn.
He hung up with Hofstetter and made a phone call to Annie.
"It'll never work," she said after Quinn explained his plan.
"You got a better idea?" Quinn asked.
The Rogue's security guards escorted Quinn into Hofstetter's enormous office. Quinn was still wearing the suit coat and slacks from his courtroom appearance that morning in Virginia Beach, his white shirt open at the collar.
"I heard about the case," Hofstetter said. "Congratulations."
"Thanks."
"How's the eye?" Hofstetter asked, nodding toward Quinn's swollen cheek.
"Better than the ribs," Quinn said.
One of the security guards pulled out a metal wand to check Quinn for weapons and recording devices.
"Hold your hands straight out to your side," he said.
"I can't," Quinn said, giving the man a fake grimace. "Torn rotator cuff, remember?"
"You really ought to get that fixed," said Hofstetter.
They wanded Quinn and picked up a signal from his suit coat pocket. Quinn pulled out a digital recorder and held it in front of him.
"My, my," said Hofstetter. "I thought that was illegal in the state of Nevada. A man could lose his law license, you know."
Quinn smirked. "Secretly recording a conversation is illegal. Playing back a prior one is not."
Hofstetter placed his elbows on the desk and studied Quinn over the top of his fists. The man's square face was tan, contrasting with whiter skin in the shape of sunglasses around his eyes. His hairline was unnaturally even, the precise result of a multitude of hair plugs. The eyes held a death wish for Quinn--a mutual loathing, Quinn realized. "This better be good," Hofstetter said.
"It's for your ears only," Quinn countered. He could feel sweat forming underneath his T-shirt--there was no margin for error here.
Hofstetter nodded at his henchmen. They left the room, and Quinn breathed a little easier. He placed the digital recorder on the desk and turned it on.
For the next several minutes, Hofstetter listened to a telephone conversation between Quinn and Annie, recorded during Quinn's call to his sister a few hours earlier. Quinn told Annie about the existence of the Oasis Limited Partnership interest that had belonged to Richard Hofstetter Jr. and the importance of those voting rights in a battle to sell the Oasis casino. "This is why Claude Tanner suddenly came back into Sierra's life," Quinn explained. "And I think he did so at the urging of Richard Hofstetter Sr., who would benefit handsomely if Tanner voted to sell the casino to Hofstetter's business partners."
Hofstetter stared at the recorder without emotion as the exchange played out. Not even a flicker of surprise.
"You've got no proof of any of this," he said.
Quinn didn't answer. The tape could speak for him.
"I'm going to propose a three-way deal to your father-in-law when I meet with him tonight at six," Quinn said to Annie during the recorded call. "It's the only way I know to protect Sierra. I'll talk to Carla Duncan and get your plea agreement back on the table. You plead guilty and serve three years, then get permanent custody of Sierra afterward. In the meantime, I get temporary custody of Sierra. Tanner gets chaperoned visitation rights and gets appointed as trustee of all Sierra's assets, including the voting rights for the Oasis Limited Partnership. Hofstetter gets his casino; we get Sierra."
Quinn and Hofstetter listened a few more minutes as Annie asked various questions about the deal and its implications. After a long pause, she tearfully agreed that it made sense.
The two men continued to listen as Quinn gave Annie some additional instructions. "Before I started taping this call," Quinn's voice said, "I told you about a location that would contain a microcassette tape of the call. I'm going to make two tapes of this conversation. I'll take one to the meeting with Hofstetter and put the other in the location I mentioned to you. If you don't hear from me by 6:30, or if anything happens to me, tell Carla Duncan about the Oasis Limited Partnership, the location of the tape, and my meeting with Mr. Hofstetter tonight."
Quinn picked up his recorder, turned it off, and took his seat. "We can all win, Mr. Hofstetter, or we can all lose. If I walk out of here without a deal, I'll amend the estate filing to include the Oasis Limited Partnership interest. Annie will go to trial and, if she loses, Tanner gets custody of Sierra and voting rights for the Oasis asset. But I'll raise so much stink about the impropriety of him selling that casino to your business partners, and my suspicions that you put him up to it, that he'll never be able to pull the trigger. You lose. Annie loses. And Sierra loses.
"Or we can all win. You call off Tanner--he doesn't really care about Sierra anyway. You get your casino; Annie and I get custody of Sierra without interference."
Quinn looked at his watch. "It's 6:15, Mr. Hofstetter. You have fifteen minutes."



107
Hofstetter called in his security guards and asked them to escort Quinn outside. He told Quinn to take his digital recorder with him. Five minutes later, Quinn was allowed to return.
"If you propose your deal to Mr. Tanner tonight, I am reasonably confident he will accept," Hofstetter said matter-of-factly. Quinn could tell the man was choosing his words carefully. "It's only idle speculation, of course. And, just to be clear, I didn't even know that my son owned this limited partnership interest in the Oasis until you told me about it tonight. But still, I have to agree with your perspective that Sierra's real father seems to be in this just for the money. Given that perspective, I see no reason he wouldn't take the deal."
Quinn stared across the desk at Hofstetter. He despised the man. Hated the doublespeak. But Hofstetter was a pro; Quinn had to give him that much. There was a reason he had never been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Does that mean we have a deal?" Quinn asked.
Hofstetter smiled, spreading his palms. "It sounds like a good deal to me," he said. "But of course, I don't have any financial interest in it one way or the other. Only Mr. Tanner can tell you whether the deal makes sense to him."
"It's 6:25," Quinn said.
"So call Mr. Tanner right now," countered Hofstetter. "I'm sure you have his cell phone number."
Instead, Quinn dialed the Las Vegas jail. He explained that he was an attorney and had an emergency need to speak with his client. The deputies could call Carla Duncan if they needed verification.
A few minutes later, Annie came on the phone. "We have a deal," said Quinn, staring at Richard Hofstetter. The old man said nothing in return.
When Quinn got in his car, he called his consultant. "What did you get?" he asked, breathless.
"He called Claude Tanner when you left the office."
"And?" Quinn asked.
Quinn knew that Hofstetter would check for recording devices, but he had guessed that the casino owner would do so just once, at the beginning of the meeting. Accordingly, Quinn had his consultant attach a small magnetic transmitter to the underside of the digital recorder. With his pinky--a move Quinn had practiced for fifteen minutes before leaving for Hofstetter's office--Quinn had flipped on the tiny transmitter when he turned on the digital recorder to play back his phone call with Annie. When Quinn had picked up the recorder from the desk just before leaving the office the first time, he'd flicked the transmitter into a crack in the padding of his chair.
"It picked up every word of Hofstetter's phone call with Tanner," said the consultant. "Every incriminating word."
Quinn called Carla Duncan and agreed to meet at her office at eight.
"Where's your sense of the dramatic?" she asked. "You still have four more hours."
At the meeting, Quinn explained his sting operation on Hofstetter and gave Carla a copy of the recording that his consultant had made of Hofstetter's phone call with Tanner.
"Taping somebody's phone call without their consent is illegal," Carla said. "You know that."
"But as long as the government didn't direct it or participate in it, the tape's admissible in court."
Carla nodded. "I can use it against Hofstetter. But it might cost you your law license."
"That's the least of my worries," said Quinn. He trusted Carla Duncan. She was a tough prosecutor, but she was fair. "That confession I signed in Virginia Beach is true, Carla. I came to talk about a deal."



108
Catherine O'Rourke found out about Quinn's ploy while watching the news on Wednesday morning, her first full day of freedom. The euphoria of sleeping in her own bed and watching the sun rise over the ocean was swept away by the despair of seeing Quinn torn apart on national television. He didn't deserve this; he was a good man. Watching the coverage literally made her sick, yet she couldn't pull herself away from it.
She had thought about him a lot during the first few months of her incarceration, even before the trial started. Dreamed about him, really. He was part of a fairy-tale ending she knew could never happen: being found innocent by the jury, starting a normal relationship with Quinn outside the pressure cooker of the case, falling in love. She allowed herself to dream this dream even though she had pled insanity, even though a not-guilty verdict would lead to institutional treatment, not a relationship with Quinn Newberg.
During the trial, she had felt a deep bond develop, more than a lawyer-client relationship--way more. They had leaned on each other. Needed one another. Quinn had stood with her when others had run away. Not to mention that her vision Monday evening had saved Quinn's life.
And now she was free, just like in her dreams. But Quinn was gone. And Carla Duncan was holding a press conference, announcing a plea bargain that would send Quinn to jail for three years.
He would essentially serve the same length of time that had been offered to his sister, Duncan said. The prosecutor had taken into account the fact that Quinn was trying to protect his sister and had probably saved her life. But the shooting wasn't technically defense of others, because Hofstetter had already dropped the knife when Quinn shot him. And Quinn was also a lawyer, Duncan argued, an officer of the court. He had committed a massive fraud on the system and could not go unpunished. Moreover, he had committed other crimes that were wrapped up in this plea deal as well, including the unauthorized tape-recording of others without their consent.
In a related matter, Duncan announced the indictment and arrest of Richard Hofstetter Sr. and several of his associates on racketeering, fraud, and assault charges. Networks showed Hofstetter's "perp walk"--his trademark scowl, hands cuffed behind his back. Duncan said she intended to prosecute Hofstetter and his cohorts, including Claude Tanner, to the fullest extent of the law.
There were some who rallied to Quinn's defense. His law partners, personified by a man named Robert Espinoza, defended Quinn's overall integrity, while admitting some lapses of judgment on this one case that was so personal to him. Abuse groups still hailed Quinn as a hero. Annie staunchly defended him, telling the world through tears that her brother should not have to spend a single day behind bars.
Catherine would join the cause--it was the least she could do. Though she had sworn off media interviews after her acquittal, she decided to make an exception for Quinn. She would write an op-ed piece and send it to all the major newspapers. And she would make herself available to the local news stations. What he had done was not right, but she still cared about the man too much to sit this one out.
Some were comparing Quinn to Marc Boland, noting that both lawyers had taken justice into their own hands and then allowed others to take the blame. Vigilante justice with a scapegoat, they said. But Catherine saw the two situations as totally different. Boland had hunted people down and murdered them in cold blood. Quinn had protected a sister whose life had been threatened. Who among us wouldn't have been tempted to do the same?
Before she wrote her editorial, Cat needed to clear her head. She threw on a pair of workout shorts and a running bra. She grabbed her Rollerblades and took them out to the front steps of her duplex so she could lace them up in the warm sunlight that she no longer took for granted. She knew she would be seriously out of shape from months of wasting away in the city jail, but she would hit the workout hard. It would be great to smell the salt water in the air and feel the muscles burn.
The vision hit her as she sat on the steps, tying a double knot in her left Rollerblade. It began with a familiar pressure building in her head like a migraine, a tropical storm sucking her conscious thoughts into a vortex of otherworldly images. Ghostlike and hazy, the figures seemed to materialize from the scalding concrete of the sidewalk as if the heat waves had taken on human flesh and now stood before Cat, unaware of her existence. There was an argument . . . shouting . . . a fight. Cat watched the entire event unfold, almost as if she could reach out and touch the apparitions before her. She sat there in fascinated horror, unable to turn away.
Unlike her previous visions, this time she saw the detailed outlines of the faces--every wrinkle of the man's leathery skin and angry scowl, the determined look on his wife's familiar face. The other visions seemed like they had taken place in a dark tunnel, with nebulous figures and shrouded identities. But this one unfolded in the light of day. This time, Cat could name names.
The gunshot startled Cat and exploded the vision, leaving her shaken and confused. She didn't want this power, this awful knowledge of facts concealed from others, knowledge too dreadful for one person to bear.
She dialed Rosemarie Mancini immediately. "We've got to talk," Cat said. "I've had another vision."
"I'm at a conference in Colonial Williamsburg," Mancini said. "Can we talk by phone?"
Colonial Williamsburg was less than a two-hour drive. Cat could use the time to collect her thoughts and get hold of herself.
"I'll come to you," Cat said. She knew her voice sounded frantic, but she didn't care. "We need to talk in person."



109
They met at the Barnes & Noble bookstore located on the edge of Colonial Williamsburg, across the street from the College of William and Mary. Rosemarie suggested they go for a walk--a quiet stroll down the tree-lined Duke of Gloucester Street, a cobblestone road that took visitors back more than two hundred years. For Cat, it also had the effect of taking her back just eight years, to her senior year in college, adding another layer of stress to an already confusing day. If the quaint colonial setting was supposed to be relieving Cat's anxiety, it was not working.
After walking a few minutes and telling Rosemarie how great it felt to be out of jail, Cat got down to the point of her visit. "I saw the murder of Richard Hofstetter Jr.," Cat said. "It felt like I was sitting right in the Hofstetters' living room." She was still wound tight as she remembered the ghostly figures, images burned into her mind. "I saw Hofstetter and Annie argue."
Cat looked off into the distance. The trees cast shadows across the street while late-summer tourists traveled in small packs, their noses glued to their guidebooks, figuring out what attraction to see next. Cat couldn't even remember when life had seemed so simple.
"Annie pulled out a gun and started threatening Hofstetter with it," Cat continued. "She backed him down, made him kneel and beg. He was on his knees when she pulled the trigger. That's when the vision faded--exploded, really. The last thing I saw was Annie dropping the gun, putting her hands over her mouth, and screaming."
Cat paused. Just recounting the vision had drained her energy and constricted her chest. She glanced at Rosemarie as they walked and couldn't quite read the psychiatrist's expression. "Quinn wasn't even in the room," Cat said. "He didn't shoot his brother-in-law."
She had been wrestling with the implications the entire drive to Williamsburg. Quinn was innocent! How could she keep that information to herself? She had to do something.
But if freeing Quinn meant that Annie went to jail, how could Cat possibly tell anyone other than Rosemarie? Quinn would hate her for exposing his sister to serious jail time, for separating his niece from her mother. Cat needed Rosemarie Mancini's advice, and as usual, the psychiatrist was one step ahead.
"I know all that," Rosemarie said. "But this was undoubtedly part of Quinn's plan all along. I don't think he ever intended to let his sister stay in jail. He wanted to give the second jury a chance to do the right thing at trial, but if they didn't, he was ready to take the blame. When it became obvious that putting his confession on the table would also help him nail Marc Boland, he played his ace early."
Cat was stunned that Rosemarie seemed to take this all in stride. "He told you this?" Cat asked.
"He didn't have to. I was Annie's psychiatrist, remember?" Rosemarie looked up at Cat as they walked. "You, I could never completely figure out. But Annie was an open book. She killed her husband, Catherine. It happened exactly the way Annie described it in court.
"But Quinn always covers his bets. I knew he had something radical planned. I saw it in his eyes when I talked to him about Sierra, about the need to break the chains of abuse that get passed from one generation to the next. I knew he had a plan he wasn't telling me about, an ace in the hole.
"Did you notice how carefully he crafted his own confession?" Rosemarie continued. "If he had made it appear too much like self-defense or defense of others, Carla Duncan would have been suspicious. She would have seen it as a contrived attempt to make sure nobody went to jail for the murder. But by saying he shot Hofstetter after the man dropped his knife, Quinn guaranteed he would end up taking Annie's place in jail."
Rosemarie motioned toward an ancient brick building on their left, rimmed by a graveyard on the side and back. "St. Bruton's Parish," Rosemarie said. "It was on the tour I took yesterday. Want to peek inside?"
Cat shrugged. Not really. She had seen the church a few times during her college years. But Rosemarie had already veered off to see if it was open. Finding it locked, she banged loudly on the thick wooden door.
"A shame," she said. "It's really peaceful in there."
"So you're thinking I shouldn't say anything?" Cat asked, trying to get the conversation back on topic.
"Have a seat," Rosemarie said, plopping down on the front steps of the church. She dusted off a place next to her, and Cat reluctantly sat down. Filled with tension, Cat wanted to keep moving. Besides, she needed answers, not a counseling session.
"The answer to your question requires you to understand the purpose of these visions--does it not?" Rosemarie paused, but only for a moment, not really expecting Cat to answer. "I don't think we'll ever know for sure why God chose you as His messenger, but He did. I know the visions sometimes felt like a curse, but look at the results: they exposed a serial killer, restored the Carver family, helped recover the Milburn baby, and saved Quinn Newberg's life. That's hardly a curse."
Cat had been thinking some of these same thoughts recently. Somehow, the visions that had landed her in jail had also helped bring two killers to justice. The visions were still a mystery, unlike anything Cat had ever experienced, but the timing of the visions and the uncanny results were strangely comforting. And the visions seemed purposeful to Cat, not like the random paranormal activity or the "scientific" telepathy theories she had studied. Cat's visions were something different. Something good.
"You've read the book of Daniel," Rosemarie continued. "Did you notice that Nebuchadnezzar called God the 'revealer of mysteries'? God hasn't changed." Rosemarie turned and looked at Catherine. "We can't always understand God's reasons or methods, but we can learn to trust what He reveals to us. Your first three visions were to help others. This last vision, Catherine, might be God's gift only to you. Maybe you're not supposed to use it to set Quinn free. Maybe God is just showing you something about Quinn's character, telling you it's okay to follow your heart.
"Don't get me wrong; I don't condone the way Quinn misled the court about Hofstetter's murder. But Quinn made a choice. He decided to use a false confession to trap both Marc Boland and Richard Hofstetter Sr. He decided to trade his own freedom for the freedom of two women he loves. And he helped a third reclaim her mother. The thing is, if he had to do it again, I'm sure he'd make the same decision."
Cat didn't respond. She had never been very comfortable talking about matters of faith. Now Rosemarie was digging up Cat's feelings toward Quinn and tossing them into the stew as well. She sat there next to Rosemarie in silence as the tourists paraded past: old men with shorts and black socks, children in strollers, couples holding hands.
It was a strange place to have a spiritual moment, but Cat couldn't deny that something significant was happening. It certainly wasn't a leap of faith--more like an insight or realization, the way Cat felt when the pieces of a news story fell together. God had been pursuing her. Trusting her with these visions. Loving her enough to show her these things. Maybe it was time to listen.
Maybe it was time to start returning that trust.
Rosemarie looked down the street and smiled at a kid who had buried his face in a chocolate ice cream cone. She stood and brushed off the back of her pants.
"You ready to head back?" she asked.
"Sure."
Since the street was closed to motor traffic, the two of them shuffled along in the middle of the road, dodging horse manure, feeling the gravel crunch against the cobblestone under their feet. It was Rosemarie who spoke first.
"You know I don't like to preach to my patients," she said.
Catherine turned and raised an eyebrow.
"Okay," said Rosemarie. "Maybe a little. But there's this Scripture verse about Jesus that says, 'No one has greater love than this, that he should lay down his life for his friends.' Think about that--it's the most noble thing a person can do, putting his own life on the line for someone else. And in Quinn's case, it was something more--a ten-year-old boy finally discovering the courage to act.
"Love him for it, Catherine, but don't try to take that away."



110
For Cat, it felt strange being on the outside going in. She registered as a visitor and passed through a metal detector, palms sweaty just from being surrounded by prison walls again. The guards in Vegas had the same I'm-just-doing-my-job approach as the deputies in Virginia Beach. Depersonalizing. Their attitude reminded Cat of how depressing jail had been--how much it had toyed with her sense of dignity and worth.
Ironically, Vegas was not as technologically advanced as Virginia Beach. For that, Cat was grateful. Instead of closed-circuit TV, where Cat wouldn't even be in the same room as Quinn, she would instead be sitting on the opposite side of three-inch glass, face-to-face, a mirror image of the way they had conducted their attorney-client conferences in Virginia Beach.
Cat arrived in the interview booth first and mentally steeled herself for the fact that the Quinn Newberg she was about to meet would not seem like the same person as the dapper attorney who had stood up for her in court. Even though he had been in jail only a few days, the place had a way of changing you--reducing you to the ugly core of who you were.
A few minutes later, the door opened on the other side of the glass and Quinn slid into the booth. He wore an orange jumpsuit, his hair was disheveled, and his face was still swollen from the nasty cut to his cheekbone. He smiled immediately. "What's a gorgeous woman like you doing in a place like this?"
Surprisingly, he sounded upbeat. His smile brought back the old Quinn, except for the swollen eye and the gash on his cheekbone, and for a moment it was Catherine who was incarcerated and this handsome Vegas lawyer who had ridden into town to save the day.
She was glad that she came.
"They said you needed some coaching," Catherine said. "How to survive in jail."
"Yeah. That would be good. Things like how to stay out of fights and how not to confess to my cellmate. Maybe you could teach me how to file my toothbrush into a shank."
"Shut up," Cat said, and they both laughed.
"Actually," Cat went on, "the best thing I did in jail was to convince the world's best lawyer to handle my case." As she said it, she stayed locked on his eyes, sensing that the chemistry was still there, that things hadn't changed between them. "I never got a chance to properly thank you, Quinn Newberg. You saved my life."
"You made it easy," Quinn said. "You happened to be innocent." His halfhearted attempt to shrug it off couldn't mask how much her words meant to him--especially now, alone in prison, where the full weight of abandonment and loneliness hit.
There was an awkward silence, and Cat remembered how hard it was to communicate--not just talk but really get down to heart issues--when separated by glass, wondering if every word was being monitored. "Are you doing okay?" Cat asked. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
"Are you kidding? I love this place. Plenty of crazy folks for clients. Card games galore. You should see the pile of cigarettes I've already won."
Cat decided not to let him off the hook so easy--always the sarcastic charmer, deflecting the tough questions. "Seriously, Quinn. How are you doing?"
He shrugged again. "It helps being a lawyer, even one about to have his license pulled. I'm representing three of the toughest thugs already, preparing paperwork for their outside lawyers--the inmates love it. You don't have to worry about me being attacked. I'm trading legal brains for protection and pretty much have my own Secret Service escort."
Cat couldn't resist a small smile. Quinn had been in jail less than a week, and it already sounded like he was running the place.
Quinn's eyes softened, and his voice became quieter. "The hardest thing is that you only see the sun for about an hour each day--and then you're on a scalding concrete pad with a basketball goal on each end, and it's about a hundred and ten degrees. Three years is going to be a long stretch."
Quinn seemed to catch himself, throw a switch in his demeanor, and turned from melancholy to superlawyer again. "Enough about me, though that is my favorite subject. How's my number one client doing?"
"She's fine. She's also free, thanks to you."
"Does she still have nightmares? Did she get her old job back?"
Catherine shifted in her seat. This was the opening she had been waiting for. It was time to get serious and push the point. "I had another vision, Quinn. This time, I saw Hofstetter's murder." She watched closely for a reaction. "You weren't even there when it happened."
Quinn didn't flinch--not a single facial muscle changed. The man had practiced bluffing for years at the poker table and in the courtroom.
"As for my job," Cat continued, "I've got a friend at the Las Vegas Review-Journal who thinks he can get me in. I'm moving out here, Quinn. I'm going to come by every day."
Catherine waited when Quinn didn't respond immediately. He glanced down, seemingly trying to figure out what to say. When he spoke, his voice was steady and sad. "You aren't going to mention this last vision to anyone, are you?"
"Nobody else needs to know."
This seemed to relax him a little, though his face was still troubled. "You can't move out here, Catherine. You're twenty-eight years old--smart, beautiful, full of life. There are a million guys who would swallow broken glass just for a chance to take you out. You can't waste your life waiting for me." He hesitated, looking as though he had to convince himself to continue. "Three years is forever. We'll both be different people by the time I get out."
She leaned forward and felt her throat tighten as emotions too complex for words welled up in her. She knew he didn't mean this. He had brushed her off once before, right after her case was dismissed, supposedly for her own good. Not this time. Catherine O'Rourke could be very determined when she knew what she wanted. And she also knew what Quinn needed, despite his protests to the contrary. "I would have been in jail the rest of my life if it wasn't for you--"
"That can't be the reason--"
Catherine held up a palm. "Please let me finish," she said. Quinn nodded.
"That's not the only reason I'm here. I want this, Quinn. I want us. We're made for each other. I know it, and you know it." Her words came out thick with emotion. And they were having an impact. Quinn's poker face turned soft. "Jail taught me that life is too short to play games," Catherine continued. "You can't stop me from coming by, Quinn. You can't stop me from caring."
"You know I've got a pretty strict curfew."
Cat grinned. "At least you won't be running around with other women."
"It's not the women I'm worried about."
There was another awkward silence, and Cat waited him out again. She needed a serious response. "You really want to try this?" he asked.
Cat nodded. "If you do."
"More than anything in the world," Quinn said, looking down. When he raised his eyes to look at her again, Cat could have sworn she felt the warmth spread through her entire body.
"We're going to make this work," Cat said. It was barely a whisper, not loud enough for Quinn to hear but surely he could read her lips. "You're worth waiting for, Quinn. I can be very persistent."
They sat there for a long moment, Quinn staring at her, the same way he had the first time they met, when he was trying to figure out what was happening inside her head. This time, it felt like he was looking straight into her soul. Maybe he could tell she was heading down a different spiritual path, the Revealer of Mysteries at work in her life. Whatever he saw made him smile--that million-dollar smile of Quinn Newberg, legal magician and Vegas heartthrob. Prison couldn't take it away, not even the orange jumpsuit and bruised face could lessen the irresistible pull of Quinn's impish charm.
"I always thought you were a little crazy," he said.



Acknowledgments and Author's Note
Writing is a team sport, and I'm surrounded by a great team. If you like the book, there's a good chance these folks are the reason why. The mistakes, as always, are on me.
During the research phase, I was helped immensely by Judge Patricia West and her bailiff, Deputy Brian Capps, who answered all my questions about the Virginia Beach jail and allowed me to spend time there without having to commit the kinds of acts that entitle others to an inside view. I also want to thank the Rigell family and the McWaters family for teaching me a thing or two about boats and the Virginia Beach culture--just enough so the locals might think I know what I'm talking about. As for the person who instructed me on the Las Vegas gambling tricks, he (or she) wishes to remain anonymous for what should be obvious reasons.
More help arrived during the editing process. Thanks to Michael Garnier, Robin Pawling, and Mary Hartman for reviewing the manuscript and making great suggestions even before I sent it to my publisher. Thanks also to Karen Watson, Stephanie Broene, Jeremy Taylor, Ron Beers, and a host of other talented folks at Tyndale House who believed in this book and made it better at every turn. Not only are they extremely good at what they do but they have fun doing it. I love being a Tyndale author. I'm also thankful for Lee Hough, who is equal parts agent and friend, for his steady help at every stage of the process.
Now for the disclaimers. (I'm a lawyer; it's in my blood.) The Virginia Beach jail is a well-run institution with deputies who care a lot about their jobs and the inmates. The deputies in this book bear no resemblance to the real-life deputies. On another front, I took the liberty of having one of my nefarious characters belong to the Cavalier Golf and Yacht Club. In the real world, the Club is a distinguished and enjoyable group that would undoubtedly have the good sense to keep most of my characters from joining. Meanwhile, up the road at the United States Supreme Court, a case will likely be decided about the time my book comes out that might change the way most states execute death row inmates. My characters assumed the court overruled the challenge to the constitutionality of the three-drug cocktail used in lethal injections. If it goes the other way, don't blame my characters; they're just following orders. And speaking of drugs, the Avenger's anesthetic drug of choice, methohexital, works faster in the book than it ever would in real life. These things are called literary license, a fiction author's best friend.
This past year has been a year of change for the Singer clan, and my writing wouldn't be possible without the help and forbearance of a lot of people involved in those changes. We have moved to Virginia Beach, and I have rejoined my old law firm. My partners and friends at Willcox & Savage have been incredibly supportive of my writing endeavors while allowing me the flexibility to handle real cases as I write about fictional ones. In addition, I've had the invaluable support and prayers of two families--my church family at Trinity and my long-suffering immediate family and relatives. Thanks especially to Rhonda, Rosalyn, and Joshua for putting up with the idiosyncratic lifestyle of a husband/dad who loves to write stories, and for their help on so many aspects of the book.
I'll end with a word about the inspiration for this story. Some have accused me of writing what I know best--a story about multiple personality disorder from a guy who is part lawyer and part pastor. In truth, the idea comes from a trial that occurred nearly two thousand years ago and is recorded in the pages of the New Testament. When the apostle Paul was on trial for his life, he told King Agrippa about a heavenly vision that the apostle experienced on the road to Damascus. Paul's defense was interrupted by Festus, a governor who had already tried Paul. "You are out of your mind, Paul!" Festus shouted. "Your great learning is driving you insane." Paul's measured response: "I am not insane, most excellent Festus. What I am saying is true and reasonable." Acts 26:24-25.
This book also deals with life-changing visions and accusations of insanity. My hope is that readers might find a few words of reason and a few kernels of truth in these pages as well.