By Reason of Insanity

54
"Both of you are probably familiar with a story from the Old Testament book of Daniel, from which we get our expression 'the handwriting on the wall.'" Rosemarie glanced at Quinn. "Well, at least one of you probably is."
Very funny. Quinn raised his beer toward her.
"A Persian king named Belshazzar was at the height of his glory," Rosemarie continued, "hosting a great feast in his banquet hall and guzzling down the wine. Probably had a few too many."
At this, Quinn thought he detected a reproving glance.
"On a whim, he gives an order for his servants to bring in the gold and silver vessels that his predecessor, Nebuchadnezzar, had taken from the Jewish temple in Jerusalem when he made the Jews his slaves. This guy Belshazzar and his wives and concubines drank wine out of these vessels and praised their Babylonian gods."
Rosemarie spoke with her hands, her face animated.
This is why juries love her so much, Quinn thought.
She turned suddenly toward Quinn, a finger extended. "This hand comes out of nowhere and writes a message on the wall." She lowered her voice into a James Earl Jones impersonation. "'Mene, Mene, Tekel, Parsin.' The king is so scared he turns pale, his hip joints shake like jelly, and his knees knock together. You know what the words mean?"
"Pretty Lady to show in the fourth?" Quinn asked.
"Not quite," Rosemarie said, her face scrunched in disapproval. "The king brought in all his mediums and astrologers, but only Daniel could figure it out."
"And?"
"Honestly, I don't remember, but that's actually beside the point. . . ."
"Are you serious?" Quinn asked. "How can you remember the words and not remember what they mean?"
"You're right--I'm kidding," Rosemarie said. "Mene meant the king's days were numbered. Tekel meant he had been weighed on the scales and found deficient. Parsin meant the kingdom would be divided and given to the Medes and Persians--parceled out, so to speak. And sure enough, that night the king died."
"Sad story," said Quinn. "But what's that got to do with the handwriting on Catherine's cell wall?"
"It means there's precedent for this type of thing, Quinn." Dr. Mancini was serious now. "We're in the South, not Vegas. A lot of folks around here believe in a spiritual dimension that transcends what we can touch and see. In both the Old and New Testaments, there are times when God speaks in a dream or a vision, and it's not always through His prophets or apostles. Belshazzar was a Babylonian. The Egyptian pharaohs had dreams that were interpreted by Joseph. Pilate's wife had a dream warning her that her husband should not sentence Jesus to death. Some of the folks on our jury have probably had dreams or premonitions themselves, and many of them think they've heard from God."
"Maybe so," Marc Boland inserted as he moved some hot dogs onto the top grill to wait for the burgers to finish, "but we can't exactly give them a Bible lesson from the witness stand. I'm actually with Quinn on this one--and I'm a God-fearin', gun-totin' Southern evangelical. Just because that stuff happened in the Old Testament doesn't mean it's still happening. When people start claiming they've heard directly from God, it's usually a one-way ticket to crazy."
"Some jurors will be like me and gravitate to the faith angle," Rosemarie countered. "Others will want science or real-life examples. We can give them a little of everything--juror's choice. Take Allison DuBois, for example. In the year 2000, this nice-looking young lady was on her way to becoming a career prosecutor in the Maricopa County prosecutor's office. One day she went downstairs in her apartment building to get the laundry, and this man walks right through her. When she explains what happened to her husband and actually describes the man--he loves clam chowder; he's had a heart attack--her husband says, 'Hey! That's my grandfather.'
"So Allison DuBois is watching Dateline one night and sees a story about a guy named Gary Schwartz, a psychology professor at the University of Arizona who has conducted a bunch of experiments related to the afterlife. Allison goes to this professor so she can prove her 'vision' wasn't real and get on with her life. Instead, Schwartz discovers that this lady really does have a gift for seeing and hearing things the rest of us can't. She walked away from her job as a prosecutor and went on to help police as a medium. The NBC show that's been running for the last few years is loosely based on her life story."
What's with this sudden rush of great-looking mediums? Quinn wondered. "So our defense is that Catherine O'Rourke is some kind of medium or maybe a recipient of a message sent by God or Satan or some other kind of spiritual being?"
He looked from Rosemarie to Boland. They actually seemed to be considering it.
"Personally, I think there's a spiritual dimension to this," Rosemarie said softly. "I asked Catherine a lot of questions about past involvement in the occult or that type of thing and she denied any. Still . . . I think she could be holding something back."
Quinn raised an eyebrow. Dreams. Visions. Handwriting on the wall. Ghosts. He'd believe it when he saw it.
"We don't have to prove any of this," Boland said tentatively, starting to sound like a convert. "We just have to raise reasonable doubt."
This whole conversation had a feeling of desperation to Quinn. "I'm starting to see my own handwriting on the wall," Quinn said. "And it looks mysteriously like a guilty verdict."
On the way back to the hotel, Quinn and Rosemarie Mancini rode in relative silence. Rosemarie had insisted on driving, and after putting up a token argument, Quinn had given her the keys. He slouched low in the passenger seat.
"How's Annie?" Rosemarie eventually asked.
"Good," Quinn said. "Actually, more like just okay. She's worried about what's going to happen to Sierra in the next three years. What this will do to their long-term relationship."
"Who's going to take care of Sierra?"
"She's staying with the Schlesingers until she starts boarding school in California this fall," Quinn said, noticing the lack of enthusiasm in his own voice. "After that, she'll spend vacations and some weekends with me."
"Boarding school." Mancini simply repeated the words, but Quinn knew what she meant.
"It's not perfect, Rosemarie. But the Schlesingers can't keep her for three years. And there's no way I could do it, given my schedule at work. Besides, I'd be a lousy parent."
"Boarding school is probably better than the Schlesingers," Mancini confirmed. "But, Quinn, what Sierra needs, more than anything else, is unconditional love. You don't have to be perfect; you just need to be there for her."


55
The next morning, Marc Boland took to the airwaves even before Quinn boarded his flight for Las Vegas. Marc was on the offensive, doing his best to take the sting out of the assault-and-battery charges Boyd Gates apparently planned on filing later in the day. Marc expressed sincere concern for the safety of his client. He said that Catherine had been harassed repeatedly by her cellmate in the past few days. He said the guards had not responded to her requests for protection because they were upset about the articles she had written about conditions in the jail.
He said Catherine finally had to take matters into her own hands and defend herself. Then, to Boland's great surprise, prison officials had punished Catherine by putting her in solitary confinement for several days. Now that Catherine was going back into the general inmate population, Boland said he would be filing a motion for a restraining order to keep Holly Stephenson away from Catherine O'Rourke.
It was, Quinn thought, a nice preemptive strike, but he knew it would get swept away later in the day when Boyd Gates released the pictures of Holly's bloody face.
Catherine O'Rourke stared at the wall during her last day in solitary confinement, pleading for another vision. What is this--some cruel cosmic joke? The visions had been vivid enough, and accurate enough, to land her behind bars. She hadn't asked for this power, this curse. But now that she needed the visions to come back with greater force and detail so she could actually help the authorities solve these crimes, now that she did everything within her power to enable them, the visions were nowhere to be found.
She tried to empty her mind. She tried focusing on the wall and then on the psychic power within her. She thought about the victims of the crimes and the night of her own rapes and the biblical verses the Avenger had cited.
But no matter how hard she tried, the visions would not come back. Catherine O'Rourke, infamous medium or hated serial murderer, depending on your perspective, could not conjure up even a hint of the Avenger's ghost. She stared at an empty wall, frustrated.
Where were these vaunted powers when she really needed them?
After Quinn survived the media gauntlet waiting for him at the end of his flight, he headed into his office. Melanie left at five and Quinn barely noticed, consumed by the mound of paperwork his three-day absence had generated. He was still hunched over his computer at 9 p.m. when the phone call came.
Annie's number registered on his cell phone. She was probably nervous about tomorrow's hearing, but he didn't have time right now. He hit Ignore. He would call her back in a few minutes, as soon as he finished with these e-mails.
Two minutes later, she called a second time. It wasn't like Annie to be so persistent. He picked up on the third ring.
"Quinn?"
She sounded stressed, enough so to squeeze his heart. "You okay?" he asked.
"No." Her voice cracked a little. "It's Sierra, Quinn. She . . ." Annie took a breath, obviously struggling to maintain composure, her voice thin and fragile. "She tried to kill herself, Quinn. Sleeping pills. Something like half a bottle . . ." Annie's words trailed off.
Quinn bolted from his chair. "Where is she now, Annie?"
"Desert Springs Hospital. The emergency room. The Schlesingers found Sierra in her bedroom and called me. I met them here."
"Don't move," said Quinn, already heading for the door. "I'll be right over."


56
"They think she's going to be all right." Annie had called Quinn back just a few minutes before he hit the hospital parking lot. The emergency room personnel had pumped Sierra's stomach and hooked up some IVs, Annie said. Sierra's vital signs had stabilized.
Quinn breathed an enormous sigh of relief, thanked Annie for the update, and felt his own racing heart slow just a little. He wasn't ready for this--a brush with death by someone so young and innocent. He had been thinking about Sierra the entire drive to the hospital. Her confused and endearing face. Her awkwardness as a girl struggling to become a woman. Her honesty and transparency with Quinn. What could he have done differently? What should he have said the last time he was with her?
He wouldn't have been able to live with himself if Sierra had died. Suicide. How could this nightmare be happening?
He parked in a handicapped spot and half walked, half ran into the hospital. Sierra had already been moved to a private room. He bumped into the Schlesingers in the waiting area, and Allison promptly had a meltdown.
She cried as she related the story of finding Sierra unconscious in her room, an empty bottle of Allison's Ambien on the bedside table. "It was awful, Quinn," she sobbed. "We called 911. We thought she was going to die before the ambulance even got there."
Quinn murmured a few sentences of empathy, telling Allison it wasn't her fault, then extricated himself and headed to Sierra's room. He didn't know what he would do once he got there. Quinn hated hospitals, and he wasn't good at providing comfort. Still, he had to see Sierra and be with Annie.
He gently pushed the door open and stopped just inside the threshold. Sierra was lying on the bed, eyes closed, a breathing tube in her nose and IV lines attached to her body. Annie was sitting in a chair on the opposite side of the bed, keeping one eye on the door.
Annie forced a thin smile when she saw Quinn and rose to greet him. She looked shell-shocked, like someone who had just escaped a battlefield littered with land mines and dead bodies. "I can't believe this," she whispered.
She took Quinn's hand and led him into the hall. She crossed her arms and spoke in a subdued tone, as if Sierra might wake up at any moment and overhear them. "The doctors said she's going to be okay. They think it's a cry for help. Girls this age who really want to take their life don't take a bunch of sleeping pills at home in the evening knowing that they'll be discovered right away." Annie stopped, working hard to keep her emotions under control. Quinn reached out to rub her shoulder.
"It's not a coincidence that she did this the night before my plea," Annie said. "Three years without a mother is an eternity when you're thirteen." She paused, measuring her words with care. "Plus, to have a mother who admits being a murderer . . ."
"That's not what this is about," Quinn said softly. "Sierra knows what really happened. A plea bargain doesn't change that."
But Annie was apparently in no mood to discuss it. "I want to call off the plea bargain," she said firmly. "This changes everything."
Quinn wasn't sure his sister was thinking clearly. Her harrowed face showed the strains of a mom's worst nightmare. She was reacting out of emotion.
"I'll call Carla Duncan," Quinn said. "We can postpone the hearing for a week or two, give us a chance to regroup and decide what to do."
Annie had been staring at the floor, but now locked her eyes on Quinn, the big sister coming back. "I don't want a postponement; I want to withdraw the plea. And, Quinn, she can't stay with the Schlesingers. They don't have a clue."
On this point, Quinn knew Annie was right. Sierra felt smothered there; she had said as much to Quinn. "What are you suggesting?"
Annie lowered her voice. "If Sierra can't live with me, it might be better if she could stay with you."
Quinn started to object, pointing out that the court wouldn't allow it, but it seemed his sister could always read his mind.
"Even if it means I have to stay in jail without bail until the retrial," she added.
Part of Quinn wanted this. But the other part, the logical Quinn, could think of a thousand reasons why this was a bad idea, though Annie's desperate look vaporized most of them. "We'll talk about it," he said. "Right now, let's just focus on getting Sierra the help she needs."
"You are the help she needs," said Annie.
"I'll call Carla Duncan," said Quinn. "We'll take it from there."
Quinn's misgivings disappeared a few minutes later when he and Annie returned to Sierra's room. The girl looked younger than thirteen, frail and vulnerable, her hair spilling in a tangled web onto the pillow.
Physically, she would recover. But her brittle psyche had been shattered by the overwhelming events of the past few months. Quinn knew the feeling from his own troubled childhood. He had blamed himself for most of the events that spun wildly beyond his control, devastating those he loved most.
They could not lose the next generation. Quinn reached out and touched Sierra gently on the arm, surprised by the coolness of her skin. Instinctively, he wrapped his fingers around her slender forearm, feeling the thin bones. In that moment he had his answer. He would do whatever needed to be done.
Quinn looked at his sister, tears brimming her eyes. "I hope she knows how to cook," Quinn said.



57
Quinn headed straight for the hospital the next morning, calling Melanie along the way so he could tell her to reschedule the day's appointments. He had called Carla Duncan the night before, and she had agreed to reschedule the plea hearing. "I'll give the judge some vague reason," she assured Quinn. "I'll do my best to keep this out of the press."
When Quinn told her that Annie might change her mind about the deal, Carla was not happy. "If you reject it now, you can't come back on the eve of trial," she warned. "I worked hard to get this deal approved. Don't leave me flailing in the wind."
Quinn thanked her for her efforts but explained that Sierra's suicide attempt had changed things. "We'll let you know one way or the other next week," he said.
Because he had already put the prosecutor in a sour mood, Quinn decided this wasn't the best time to talk about a possible change in Sierra's custody. Given the circumstances, he decided he would employ a vintage Quinn Newberg strategy--act first and seek forgiveness later.
At the hospital, Quinn felt a queasiness develop in his gut. What could he say to a thirteen-year-old girl who'd just attempted suicide?
He rode the elevator to the third floor and shuffled slowly toward Sierra's room. Last night, fueled by adrenaline and remorse, he had practically run into the room. Now, knowing that Sierra would be awake, he took his time, procrastinating the awkward moment as long as possible.
"Hey," Sierra said when she saw Quinn step inside the door. The tubes and IV had been removed, and Sierra had brushed her hair. She looked tired but peaceful.
"Hey," Quinn said. He walked to her bedside. Annie was fast asleep in a reclining chair in the corner, her mouth open. A TV hanging from the wall at the foot of Sierra's bed featured an MTV reality show.
"Mom fell asleep about an hour ago," Sierra said. "I tried to get her to go home."
"She's stubborn," Quinn whispered. He wondered if he should bring up last night. What was the protocol? So, Sierra, you had any death wishes this morning?
"You feeling okay?" Quinn asked.
She nodded and looked away. "My stomach hurts. Plus, my throat's raw where they jammed that tube down."
"You scared us," Quinn said.
"I know, Uncle Quinn. I'm sorry."
Her voice was so frail that Quinn decided not to push it. "You hungry?"
"They already made me eat."
This was so awkward. What do I talk about? Where are the points of connection?
A long minute passed. "What are you watching?" Quinn asked.
"MTV."
No kidding. "Did they say if you could go home today?"
"You mean to the Schlesingers'?"
"Yeah."
"I think so. Mom talked to the doctor, but she didn't really say if I could or not." Sienna hesitated then turned her pleading eyes on Quinn. "I don't like it there, Uncle Quinn."
"We'll work something out," Quinn said. "I promise."
He stayed for a few more minutes, awkwardly trying to jump-start a conversation while both of them avoided talking about the night before.
Finally he had an idea. "What's your favorite movie?" he asked.
"I don't know. Maybe Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End. I like Johnny Depp."
"You want to watch it?"
Sierra looked skeptical. "How?"
"Give me an hour."
Fifty minutes later, Quinn was back. He brought his laptop and DVDs of all three Pirates movies, just to make sure he had the right one. Annie was awake this time, and Quinn made her go home and take a shower. He pulled a stiff wooden chair next to Sierra's bed, put his laptop on her tray table, and popped in the third Pirates movie.
It was nearly two-thirds over when Quinn heard his niece sniffle. He looked over to see the tears dripping down her cheeks.
"You all right?" he asked, his heart aching for the girl.
"I'm sorry, Uncle Quinn. Please don't hate me."
He leaned over next to Sierra, and she put her arms around his neck. He held her and let her cry. "Of course I don't hate you," he said. "I love you, Sierra. Your mom loves you." He paused, because he had to convince himself first before he could say this next sentence.
"Everything's going to be okay."
Quinn nearly lost it himself when he received a call later that day from Rosemarie Mancini. He could hardly hear her with all the background noise.
"Where are you?" Quinn asked.
"Sin City."
"What?"
"I heard about Sierra," said Rosemarie. "I came to see if I could help."


58
Catherine O'Rourke returned to the general prison population as a conquering heroine. All the other inmates in the pod knew Holly Stephenson deserved whatever she had coming to her. Forget the fact that it wasn't a fair fight; O'Rourke could draw blood. The pictures of Holly's face, unconscious and red with blood, had been broadcast to televisions across the nation, including those inside the pod at the Virginia Beach jail. Catherine's short, spiked hair only accentuated her new tough-guy image. Catherine O'Rourke, street fighter.
The Widows welcomed her back as one of their own. The name "Barbie" was no longer uttered with such disdain. Her thirty-second fight had given her the one thing every inmate craved: respect.
Helping matters along, Marc Boland had apparently pulled the right strings to get Holly moved to another pod. Jail was no picnic, but at least now the inmates were picking on other fish. Catherine was one of the girls.
That morning, Brian Radford, Cat's former coworker at the paper, had called again requesting an interview. This time, Cat said yes without running it by Marc Boland. Cat was being demonized in the press. The visions, the DNA evidence, the vial of methohexital, and now the jailhouse brawl had combined to convict her in the eyes of the public even before a jury could be impaneled.
Radford initially scheduled the interview for 7:00 p.m., the start of visiting hours, but then apparently called the prison officials with a conflict. Incredibly, a prison guard came to Cat at 4:30 and hauled her into a conference room to accommodate Radford's schedule. The guards bending over backward for her? Marc Boland must have rattled somebody's cage big-time.
Brian arrived wearing jeans and an untucked T-shirt, obeying the unwritten rule that cool newspaper reporters had to dress more casually than anybody else with an advanced degree.
Cat knew Radford's chubby young face was deceiving; he could stick the knife in your back and turn it with the best of them. She would be cautious, but she would also be authentic. From their seven years covering stories together, Radford knew Cat was no serial killer.
Brian apologized for the schedule change and placed his tape recorder on the table. He started the tape.
"Is it okay if we tape this session?" he asked, pulling out his reporter's pad.
"Sure," said Catherine, though Brian's businesslike manner bothered her. They were former coworkers. He could have at least asked how she was doing.
Brian recited some background information into the tape and then started with his questions.
"Are you the serial killer who calls herself the Avenger of Blood?" he asked.
"No warm-ups?" asked Catherine. "Just, 'Have you stopped beating your wife?' right out of the blocks?"
"I believe in getting to the point."
"I used to know a guy named Brian Radford," Catherine said. "He was fair and cared about the truth." She sighed. "No, I'm not the serial killer who calls herself the Avenger of Blood. I am not a killer at all. I'm a newspaper reporter just like you."
Brian showed no reaction, and Catherine started to second-guess her decision to grant this interview.
"How do you explain a piece of your hair on the envelope flap of the Donaldson letter?"
Catherine paused before answering. His tone was more hostile than she had anticipated, though she had expected the question. "I can't explain it," she confessed. "I guess the Avenger somehow managed to find a piece of my hair."
"And the DNA evidence on the paper towels?"
For the next twenty minutes, Radford dragged Catherine through all the evidence, piece by piece, without ever really giving her much of a chance to explain. She became frustrated with the adversarial nature of his questions and found herself saying "I don't know" entirely too much. If she had known Radford was going to treat her this way, she would never have agreed to the interview. It felt like a chess match, and she knew that Radford had enough material to write the article with any slant he wanted.
Cat had been on the other side of the table too often. You could massage a quote here, add a fact there, and pretty soon the defendant looked guilty as sin.
"Can we go off the record?" Cat asked.
Radford looked surprised. "Sure." He put down his notepad.
Cat reached over and turned off the recorder.
"What's going on here, Brian?" She tried to read her former colleague, but his eyes had an aloof coldness to them, the type of emotional detachment reporters employed when they were going to skewer the person on the other side of the interview table. "I thought you wanted to hear my side. I thought you'd give me a fair shake."
"I'll tell your side," Brian said, "in your words."
Cat stared him down. "What are you holding back?"
"We're back on the record," Brian said, turning on the tape recorder. "Did you know that earlier this afternoon, the police found Paul Donaldson's body?"
Donaldson's body? The news floored Cat, causing her world to spin off balance. "Where?"
"In the Dismal Swamp Canal. He was strapped into his own car. Somebody had wedged the gas pedal down and popped it into gear. A fisherman discovered the vehicle."
Cat sat in stunned silence, trying to take it in. A new lead--it could only be good news for her; it could only lead closer to the real killer. Yet, for some reason, Brian's tone said otherwise.
"Were you aware of this?" he asked.
"No. But I'm hopeful this will help police find the real killer."
It was then, just before Brian asked his next question, that something dawned on Cat. The prison officials hadn't been helping her. They had allowed Brian Radford to move up the interview by a couple of hours so he could catch Cat off guard before the information hit the airwaves. They knew that the cops couldn't interview Cat, so they were using Radford as a surrogate.
"When Ed Shaftner, the editor of the Tidewater Times, first told you about Paul Donaldson's death, did you ask him whether Donaldson had a gash on his head?"
Cat remembered the conversation and felt the blood drain from her face. Her heart pounded fiercely; its deafening noise seemed to drown out all other sound. "I'm not going to answer that," she stammered.
"When you subsequently talked with Jamarcus Webb, did you tell him to call you when they found the body of Paul Donaldson? Did you tell him to check for a gash on the skull?"
Cat's racing mind pieced it together. Webb was still an inside source for the paper. Only now he was working with Radford, against Catherine.
"Did you?" Radford pressed.
"I'm not answering that question either." Cat spit the words out, disgusted with herself. She had walked into a trap set by her own friends. She could see the headlines now.
"You know as well as anybody, Cat--this isn't like a police interrogation or the courtroom. If you don't answer, I'll have to put that in my story. You're better off telling your side and getting it out there."
"Get out of here," Cat said. "This interview's over."
"Are you sure?" Radford asked.
"I don't know how you can live with yourself," Cat snarled.


59
Quinn heard about the recovery of Paul Donaldson's body when Melanie called his cell phone. "I saw it on the news," Quinn's assistant said. "They're saying that Donaldson was electrocuted. They say the Avenger hooked him up to a homemade electric chair and fried him."
"Whoa," Quinn said. He felt the case crashing around him. This kind of graphic testimony could really fire up a jury.
"They said the Avenger shaved some spots on Donaldson's scalp and legs to hook up the electrodes. It gets worse--you ready?"
"How can it get worse?"
"He had a gash on his scalp where the Avenger apparently jammed an electric razor into Donaldson's head trying to shave him. Maybe Donaldson was writhing around trying to get away--who knows? Anyway, both the editor of the Tidewater Times and Detective Webb are saying that our client implied Donaldson's head would have a gash."
"What?"
"Yeah. I guess she had another vision of some type."
"We're toast," said Quinn.
Melanie paused for a moment, perhaps uncertain as to whether she should broach this next subject. "You going to drop the case?"
"If Annie withdraws her plea, I'll have to. The firm said I could only handle one of these nonpaying cases."
"In the meantime, you want to do some TV?" Melanie asked, trying to sound upbeat. "Marc Boland called and said he really needs some help with the national cable shows."
Quinn thought about it for a moment. Marc was right--they would have to start on the damage control immediately. But Quinn had scheduled dinner with Rosemarie Mancini. Rosemarie had spent a few hours with Sierra that afternoon, and Quinn was anxious to get her advice.
"Tell Mr. Boland that I want to help but I just can't shake free tonight. I can do a few of the morning shows if he needs me to."
"You sure you don't want to call him yourself?" asked Melanie.
"I'm sure."
Rosemarie Mancini met Quinn in the hospital cafeteria. Quinn bought orange juice; Rosemarie settled for a cup of coffee that looked like it might have been brewed in the last millennium.
"She's going to be okay," Rosemarie said. "She's stronger than you think."
"Except that she just attempted suicide." Quinn kept his voice low, although the tables around them were empty.
"I guess you could say that," Rosemarie answered. "I would consider it more of a statement than a legitimate suicide attempt."
It seemed to Quinn like Rosemarie was splitting hairs, but he held his tongue.
"One out of fourteen girls Sierra's age will self-mutilate or attempt to take their lives. Most aren't enduring anything close to the trauma Sierra has experienced. The main thing we've got to do is eliminate the guilt."
Rosemarie watched Quinn closely, apparently trying to gauge his reaction. "She feels responsible for everything that's happened--her stepfather's death, her mother's imprisonment, the separation from her family. The Schlesingers have little or no rapport with Sierra, and she feels ostracized even among her friends. The thought of being uprooted and sent to a boarding school--on top of her mom going to jail--was just too much."
Quinn took a drink of juice and tried to digest what he was hearing. He knew Sierra was struggling emotionally, but suicide seemed like something that happened to other kids, not his own niece. Why hadn't he seen this coming? "What are you suggesting?" he asked.
"One of the greatest fears of any adolescent girl is to lose one or both parents through death or divorce. Sierra has already lost her stepdad. Now, just a few months later, she's faced with losing her mom."
Dr. Mancini swirled the coffee in her cup and softened her voice to a tone she seldom used. "She views you as a surrogate father, Quinn. This idea of sending her away to boarding school seems to her like more rejection."
A surrogate father? The words rocked Quinn. He admired his niece, loved her, but he had never considered that he might have such an important role in her life. He spent so little time with her and always felt somewhat ill at ease around her. What did Quinn know about the world of a thirteen-year-old girl? But Rosemarie seemed to be confirming Quinn's decision about taking Sierra in.
"You're saying she should live with me?"
"As opposed to the Schlesingers or boarding school, yes. My first preference, of course, would be Annie."
"Except that there's this small matter of her murder trial."
"A good lawyer could make that problem go away."
"Good luck finding one." Though he made the statement facetiously, it felt more like the truth every day. Quinn Newberg, legal magician, was losing his touch. He finished his orange juice, thinking about the impact of another trial on Sierra. "What if Annie gets convicted? Could Sierra handle that?"
Rosemarie shifted in her seat. "Here's my suggestion, Quinn. Let Sierra stay with you until the trial, even if that means you have to allow the court to revoke Annie's bail because the Schlesingers would no longer be custodians. Make it clear to Sierra that if, God forbid, we lose this trial, she'll be living with you until her mom is released. If you're willing to do that, I'll work with Sierra and counsel her through some of these tough issues. In a few months, she'll be strong enough to handle another trial."
Quinn had a ton of questions. How was he supposed to raise a teenage girl? How would Rosemarie counsel Sierra from D.C.? But most important: "And if her mom gets a life sentence--what happens then?"
Rosemarie thought for an uncomfortably long time, her face solemn. "That'd be a tough blow for anybody, Quinn. Sierra's psyche will still be pretty fragile." She gave Quinn a tight smile. "I think you ought to plan on winning."
On the way home from the hospital, Quinn checked his missed calls and voice mails. He had three calls and two messages from Marc Boland. Guilt stabbed at Quinn as he returned his co-counsel's call. Soon he would have to tell Marc that he couldn't be part of Catherine's defense team. Just the thought of bailing out made him sick.
Marc gave Quinn a quick rundown of the television interviews he had conducted that night and his schedule for the next day. "I'm getting hammered, Quinn. There's just too much to explain now--DNA evidence, the methohexital, the visions, Catherine's attack on her cellmate, and now a body turns up with a gash to the scalp, just like Catherine suggested."
Quinn could hear the weariness in Marc's voice, the sound of a crusader on a lost cause.
"I think we've got to consider changing our plea," Marc said.
They discussed it for twenty minutes over the phone. Marc had seen the light, he said. He was willing to talk with Catherine about pleading not guilty by reason of insanity, relying on dissociative identity disorder. He wanted Quinn to take the lead. Marc also suggested they waive the preliminary hearing scheduled for next week, since they no longer had any hope of getting the case thrown out at that stage, and instead just ask for an early trial date.
"Every day, this case gets worse," Marc said. "There's no sense giving the government a chance to parade all these grisly facts in front of the press at a preliminary hearing. If we're pleading insanity, let's line up our experts and get to trial before the press can completely crucify Catherine. And let's start laying the groundwork for an insanity plea during tomorrow's TV appearances. You can take the lead."
Quinn hesitated. He couldn't agree to be lead lawyer for a case he would withdraw from in a week. Still, he had always believed that insanity was the right defense.
"Let's take it one step at a time," Quinn suggested. "I'll start hinting at a possible insanity plea during tomorrow's interviews. You need to set up a meeting with Catherine."
"I just can't believe she's a serial killer," Marc Boland said. "It's just crazy."
Despite his sour mood, Quinn found irony in Marc's statement. "That's what I've been saying all along."


60
On Friday morning, Quinn showed up at all the local Las Vegas network affiliates and played cat and mouse with national hosts interviewing him via live satellite feeds. At 5:45 a.m. Pacific time, Quinn was sitting in the CBS studios, staring down yet another camera for his fourth and last interview of the morning. The national host of The Early Show was Thomas Kirkland, young and energetic with a full head of blond anchorman hair and a beaming white smile. He sat on a brown leather couch with his cohost and fired questions at Quinn, zeroing in on the latest evidence in Catherine O'Rourke's case.
"You and Mr. Boland have previously denied that your client committed these crimes," stated Kirkland. "Has this new evidence changed that strategy? Some have speculated that Mr. Boland might have brought you in to quarterback an insanity defense."
Quinn focused on the red light and gave the camera a serious look. "First of all, Mr. Boland is a highly capable defense lawyer and wouldn't need my help to put on an insanity defense. But sometimes a second set of eyes will see things the lead lawyer would have missed. With regard to an insanity defense, let's put it this way: the Catherine O'Rourke that I know would never have committed these heinous crimes."
He paused, reminding himself to tread lightly. The problem with live television, as Quinn knew all too well, was that once you uttered a phrase, you could never take it back.
Looking directly into the camera, Quinn continued, "Does that mean some other manifestation of Catherine O'Rourke--a second independent personality that she doesn't even know exists--couldn't possibly have committed this crime? I'm not willing to say one way or the other at this point, Tom. I do know that Catherine has suffered the kind of trauma in her life that can sometimes give rise to multiple personalities. Until we have a solid diagnosis, I just can't say."
Kirkland slid forward a little. "So you haven't actually ruled out an insanity defense?"
"We haven't ruled it in. We haven't ruled it out."
"What specific incidents in Ms. O'Rourke's past are you referencing?"
"I'm not prepared to say at this point."
Thomas Kirkland frowned. He was a host for a national news show. He obviously considered it his birthright to know everything. "When will you make the call on whether to plead insanity?"
"As soon as the psychiatric evaluation is complete."
"Is that in a few days? a few weeks?"
Quinn saw the cameraman flash a card. Three minutes left in the segment. Quinn would wait until the last possible moment to make a strong argument for Catherine's innocence. That way, Kirkland wouldn't have time to follow up before the break.
"A week. Maybe two," Quinn said.
"Let me shift gears for a second," Kirkland said.
Though the anchorman's tone was casual, Quinn's red flags went up.
"I want to ask a couple of questions about your sister's case."
Quinn became more rigid. Annie's case hadn't been mentioned in the interview request. "Okay."
"A few days ago, we reported that you were discussing a potential plea bargain with the state of Nevada, a deal where your client would plead guilty to voluntary manslaughter and serve three years. Care to comment on that?"
"Not at this time," Quinn said. "I will say that I'm always willing to talk with the government. No trial is without risk, especially this one."
"Okay," Kirkland said tentatively, twisting his brow as if Quinn's answer didn't make much sense.
Arrogant jerk.
"Then let me ask you this, and I hesitate to even bring this up, but we have confirmed sources, and we believe this to be an important part of a story that has attracted national interest. . . ."
Quinn saw it coming, like a train wreck he couldn't avoid. His throat constricted, and he felt the blood rushing to his face.
"Is it true that your client's daughter was admitted to the hospital after an attempt to take her own life? And if so, will that enter into your decision about whether to take any proffered plea bargain?"
Unbelievable! Quinn wanted to jump through the camera and strangle the man. Humiliating Sierra on national TV!
"I can't believe you would ask that question," Quinn said in a low voice, staring at the camera. "I just cannot believe you would violate this young girl's privacy like this." He felt his voice rising, veins bulging in his neck. "How is that relevant? How can you live with yourself, humiliating a thirteen-year-old?"
"Mr. Newberg, we know this is an emotional issue for your--"
But Quinn wasn't listening. He pulled the earpiece out and jerked the wire loose from his collar. In one motion, he stood and pulled the battery pack from his waist, dropping it to the floor. Without another word, he walked past the camera, grabbed his briefcase, and stormed out of the room before he said something he might really regret.
He fumed all the way to his car in the parking garage, his rage literally blurring his vision. He couldn't believe they would do this. Aren't there any boundaries anymore?
He started his car and dialed Carla Duncan's office number. When voice mail kicked in, he remembered how early it was. "I just finished an interview on CBS's Early Show," he said, his voice edged with tension. "They asked about Sierra's suicide attempt. I swear, Carla, if anybody from your office leaked that information, they're going to regret the day they were born." He hesitated; the message seemed so inadequate for how he felt. He pushed the End button.
It didn't have to be Carla's office, he knew. The leak could have come from someone at the hospital or someone at the clerk's office or just someone who knew Annie and wanted to make a quick buck. He might never find out who it was.
In the meantime, he had to think about damage control.
He dialed Annie's number, and she answered on the first ring. "I know," she said. "I was watching."


61
After the Friday morning incident, Quinn swore off media interviews. He would try his case in court, the old-fashioned way. He refused to watch TV or pick up a newspaper. He gave terse "no comments" when the media hounds stuck microphones in his face.
The hospital released Sierra late Friday morning, and both Sierra and Annie came to stay with Quinn. He gave them the single bedroom and relegated himself to the couch. Technically it was a violation of the court's order concerning Annie's bail, but Quinn didn't care. Things had changed. Sierra needed her mom. The media had embarrassed Sierra in front of the entire world. Quinn was going to protect his family.
He talked to Marc Boland on four separate occasions Friday evening. "CBS overstepped their bounds," Marc told him. "You did the right thing by walking out."
Both lawyers agreed they should waive Catherine's preliminary hearing. Marc said he would petition the court for an early trial date, and Quinn gave Marc his available dates. Quinn still felt like Benedict Arnold for not telling his co-counsel that he planned to withdraw.
The phone number from the Virginia Beach jail showed up on Quinn's cell a couple of times over the weekend, no doubt Catherine O'Rourke calling collect, but Quinn ignored it. He felt guilty enough about withdrawing; there was no sense aggravating those feelings by talking to Catherine.
Being around Sierra and Annie throughout the weekend was a painful experience. They all felt like captives in Quinn's two-million-dollar condo. A small pack of reporters waited just outside the gates of the complex for a glimpse of Las Vegas's current celebrities. Annie and Sierra refused to leave the condo, and to Quinn it felt like everyone was walking on eggshells. Sierra retreated inside herself, slumping her thin shoulders even more than usual and mumbling soft answers when Quinn or Annie asked her questions. The three of them watched a lot of movies.
By late Sunday afternoon, Quinn was tired of being confined. "I'll be back," he announced as he grabbed his car keys. "Don't answer the phone."
He went down to the lobby, gave his ticket to the valet, and explained his plan to the security guard. Quinn climbed in his Mercedes and drove past the media hounds camped outside the gate, ignoring their shouted questions. He drove to a mall just north of the strip and picked out a pair of oversize sunglasses and a stylish, floppy hat. Then he circled back to the Signature Towers and drove up to the maintenance entrance. He waved at the security camera, and the guard opened the gate so Quinn could drive into the underground loading dock that backed up to the elevator.
He returned to the condo and gave the sunglasses and hat to Sierra. "What are these for?" she asked.
"We're going out," Quinn said. "Think like you're a movie star with paparazzi outside."
Sierra looked skeptical.
"Trust me," Quinn said. "I've got a plan."
The look didn't change.
"We're going shopping," Quinn said.
This brought a slight flicker of enthusiasm, followed quickly by another downcast look.
"I've got the car hidden in the basement," Quinn explained. "We'll use the freight elevator. They'll never see us."
"He knows what he's doing," added Annie. "He used to sneak out all the time when we were kids."
Sierra finally assented, and Quinn winked at Annie. "We'll be back," he said, and the adventure was on.
For the first time in weeks, a plan worked just the way Quinn had laid it out. They took the main elevator down to the first floor and then transferred to the freight elevator. They made a clean getaway in Quinn's car and headed to the Boulevard Mall, where Quinn was determined to spend a few hundred dollars on his niece. At first Sierra resisted, but she soon succumbed to the Quinn Newberg makeover plan. A new pair of jeans, several new tops, and a pair of sandals later, Quinn actually talked his niece into the Images Hair Salon for a new haircut. In thirty minutes, Sierra's straight, shoulder-length, strawberry blonde hair had been transformed into a stylishly layered hairdo that made her smile sheepishly when she snuck a glance at the mirror.
"You look great," Quinn said.
"Mom's going to flip out."
They shared dinner at the food court before heading back to the condo. This time, Quinn and Sierra donned their sunglasses and drove right past the surprised reporters.
When they walked into the lobby, Quinn felt Sierra relax.
"Who's that beautiful young woman on your elbow?" the security guard asked Quinn.
"This is my niece, Sierra," Quinn replied.
"I knew she was too good-lookin' to be your date," the man responded.
Sierra smiled. It left her face quickly, but Quinn could tell it hadn't been forced.
"Good looks run in the family," Quinn said.



62
Rosemarie Mancini thought the College of William and Mary, with its traditional brick buildings snuggled next to the heart of Colonial Williamsburg, seemed like an incongruous place for the painful memories that Catherine O'Rourke had described. On this day in late May, two weeks after graduation, the campus was nearly deserted. A few college students played ultimate Frisbee on the sunken grounds that served as the school's quad while bright sunshine warmed the ivy-covered buildings and huge oak trees that reminded visitors of the school's rich tradition. Rosemarie half expected Thomas Jefferson or John Marshall or one of Virginia's other founding fathers to appear, dressed in colonial garb.
But Rosemarie was chasing other memories today. She found the ancient brick building that served as the home for the philosophy and religion department, eventually winding her way to the small, cramped office where she was scheduled to meet Dr. Frederick Channing.
Rosemarie arrived at 9:50 for the 10:00 meeting. Since the office door was locked, she waited in the hallway, reading bulletin board material and thinking about Catherine's case. Professor Channing came shuffling down the hall a full ten minutes late.
The smell of cigarettes arrived just before the short, round man with the crescent moon of hair circling the lower part of his skull. Rosemarie thanked him for meeting with her but avoided telling him not to worry about being late. Her time was valuable too.
Channing moved some papers and books from a wooden spindle chair in front of his desk and invited Rosemarie to have a seat. He plopped down in his worn leather desk chair and started telling Rosemarie how fascinating he found the entire O'Rourke case. The man remained in constant motion, fidgeting here and there, picking up knickknacks from his desk and placing them back down.
"I don't remember her as a student," he said, picking up where their phone conversation had left off. "I even went back and looked at some yearbook photos to see what she looked like in college, but it didn't trigger anything."
"How big is your comparative religions class?" Rosemarie asked. She had carefully combed through Catherine's schedule from her senior year in college. From the course description in the catalog, this class looked like it had potential.
"Students need three credits in either religion or philosophy as part of their core curriculum. A lot of them take this class. I end up with maybe sixty students per section." Channing squinted and scrunched his forehead. "Most of them are underclassmen, though."
Rosemarie pulled out a Dictaphone and placed it on the desk, turning it on. "Do you mind?" She wanted to watch Channing rather than have her head down taking notes.
"No, that's fine," Channing said. "Will you send me a copy of the tape?"
"Sure."
"So based on our telephone conversation," Channing continued without any prompting, "I actually went back and tried to reconstruct my notes from that year." He started fishing around in a pile of documents behind his desk. "Every year I tweak the course material a little, but the gist of it stays the same."
He pulled out some rumpled pages and started leafing through them. "Here--you can make a copy of these if you want."
Rosemarie took the pages and tried to decipher the professor's sloppy writing, margin notes, and pervasive abbreviations. She noticed for the first time that the computer screen sitting on his credenza was dark and dusty.
"You mind taking me through this?" she asked.
He fidgeted. "Sure." He felt his head for some reading glasses, patted around the piles of paper on his desk a little, and finally found a pair in a briefcase next to his shelves.
At Rosemarie's request, he zeroed in on the issue of justice and retribution. According to Channing, many of his students were surprised to learn that the Bible borrowed many of its principles and stories from other ancient religions and vice versa. Rosemarie had a few opinions about that comment, but she let it pass.
"Take this Avenger of Blood thing," Channing continued. "This whole idea of a blood feud is not unique to Judaism or Christianity."
Channing went to his overcrowded bookshelves and pulled down a Bible with yellow Post-it notes sticking out in dozens of places. With the other hand, he grabbed a well-worn copy of The Eumenides, an ancient Greek play. He put the Bible in front of Rosemarie and opened it to the book of Numbers. "Under Old Testament Hebrew law," he explained, "an Israelite had the duty to kill someone who had killed his or her relative." Channing put his stubby finger on Numbers 35:21. "'The blood avenger shall put the murderer to death when he meets him,'" Channing said, quoting the verse. "This was true whether the murder was intentional or accidental."
He gave Rosemarie his copy of The Eumenides and returned to his seat behind the desk. "Are you familiar with that book?" he asked.
"I might have read it during undergrad."
"The author is Aeschylus. It's the final play in the Oresteian trilogy, the story of Agamemnon following the Trojan War. This last play is basically the battle between two generations of gods--the older generation of deities, represented by the three female furies, and the new generation of Olympian gods represented by Zeus and his progeny." Channing looked at Rosemarie with a hint of paternalism--the college professor lecturing a uninformed plebeian. "Do you know what the furies were called?"
"Blood avengers," answered Rosemarie.
The professor raised an eyebrow, perhaps trying to decide whether it was just a lucky guess. "Quite correct! They were to be feared and never provoked--all black and wingless, with heavy, rasping breath and eyes oozing discharge. They exacted vengeance without remorse. Yet by the end of the play, the ultimate blood feud had been brought to an end with the emergence of the first Athenian court--the goddess Athena presiding at the trial, Apollo serving as an expert witness, and the furies acting as prosecutors. Following the trial, the furies become benevolent goddesses rather than vengeful and spiteful beings."
Rosemarie had forgotten the details of the plot and, despite the professor's condescending attitude, was beginning to think the visit had been worthwhile. She considered the implications of The Eumenides for Catherine's case. Honestly, she had been so focused on the biblical notion of a blood avenger that she had missed this secular angle. "Is it okay if I borrow this book for a few weeks?" she asked.
"Have at it," the professor said. "Maybe sometime you could come and lecture to my class. 'The psychology of The Eumenides.'"
Also known, Rosemarie thought, as the professor finding another excuse to take a class off. She tucked the book in her briefcase. "Is this the kind of thing Catherine would have been exposed to as part of her comparative religion course?"
"This and other examples," said Channing, "my basic point being to demonstrate that these ancient religions all sanctioned some type of blood feud. Makes you wonder who copied whom, doesn't it?"
Rosemarie had heard enough revisionist history. "Seems to me that Greek drama came along in about the fifth century BC, thousands of years after the Mosaic law," she said. "And I'm no expert, but if I remember correctly, the biblical system included a number of 'cities of refuge' set up throughout the country. Any killer could flee to the cities, but a blood avenger could not go there. A person fleeing to the cities would not be put to death unless that person was tried and found guilty of intentional murder, not just an accidental killing."
She opened the Bible on the desk and flipped back to the book of Numbers, locating one of the passages she had run across while analyzing Catherine's case. "'The cities shall be to you as a refuge from the avenger, so that the manslayer will not die until he stands before the congregation for trial.'" She looked at Channing. "Seems to me the biblical system was focused on a fair trial, not just blood vengeance."
"Yes, yes, I see your point," he said. "One could certainly view it that way, though I'm still struck by the overwhelming similarities."
Rosemarie thought about pressing the point but decided against it. Channing could be a valuable witness in Catherine's trial. She thanked the professor for his time, turned off the tape recorder, and left his office. Her suspicions had now been confirmed, dropping the first piece of the puzzle into place.
Under a DID diagnosis, an alter ego would often carry with it many of the thoughts and characteristics that the person had exhibited at the time of the event that caused the personality to fracture, as if that other personality had become frozen in time. Catherine's rape had occurred during her senior year in college. That same year, she had studied the blood-avenging Greek goddesses in The Eumenides and the biblical notion of a blood avenger. It could be a coincidence, Rosemarie thought. Or perhaps not.
On the way to her car, Rosemarie dictated a note to herself, a reminder to check Catherine's newspaper articles for any coverage of the Paul Donaldson or Clarence Milburn rape trials. Then she called Marc Boland.
"Whose idea was it to bring Quinn Newberg into the case?" Rosemarie asked. "Yours or Catherine's?"
"Catherine's," Marc said without hesitation. "Why?"
Rosemary ignored the question. "How insistent was she on getting Quinn involved?"
"Pretty insistent. Confidentially, I tried to talk her out of it. I'm glad he's part of the team now, but at the time I wasn't thinking insanity, and I felt like his involvement might send the wrong signal."
"Thanks," said Rosemarie. "That's what I thought."
"Do you mind telling me why you're asking?"
"I do mind," said Rosemarie. "And thanks for being sensitive to the fact that I can't always share everything I've discovered with you and Quinn."
Rosemarie could tell by the silence that Marc didn't particularly care for that answer. She thanked him for his time and hung up the phone. The second piece of the puzzle was now firmly in place.


63
Catherine O'Rourke felt herself slipping deeper into depression but couldn't seem to stop it. Everything about jail was designed to depersonalize, humiliate, and desensitize. If it wasn't for Tasha, she probably would have gone totally berserk.
Even visiting hours compounded the despondency. The steady stream of visitors had dwindled to a few loyal friends and Cat's mom and sister. In a couple of days, her family would have to return to Pennsylvania. "We'll come down just about every weekend," Kelsey promised. But Cat knew the realities--money was getting tight. Kelsey had to get back to work. Trips to Virginia were long and costly.
Catherine continued taking her antidepressants. Her psychiatrist assured Cat she would work through this. The worst thing was that Cat had not seen Marc Boland in nearly a week, and Quinn Newberg had quit taking her collect calls. Updates on her case came from the news or other inmates.
Through it all, she wondered and worried. Was there really another Catherine, one responsible for the murder of infants, defense lawyers, and criminals? Why had the visions stopped? If she wasn't the Avenger, who was?
Catherine was a woman of action, but here she sat, helpless, watching the minutes slowly tick by as she waited for her trial date. If she lost and faced a lifetime prison sentence, she would seriously consider taking her own life. If she truly was the Avenger, who would care?
I can't think that way. But it wasn't that easy. The more she obsessed about the case, the more she isolated herself. And the more that happened, the more depressed she became. She couldn't remember the last time she had genuinely laughed. Cat felt trapped inside a spiral of misery, her mind eroding by the hour.
Even if she won the trial, there would be a significant percentage of Americans who would always believe she was a serial killer. Her best-case scenario was living like O.J. Simpson, enduring the scorn of good people everywhere.
Maybe she could start over again in some remote Latin American country or someplace in Europe. But first, she had to get through today. And then tonight. And then the day after that and the day after that.
Catherine O'Rourke, suspected serial killer. It seemed at times like she could barely remember what life had been like before this nightmare. The sun. The freedom. Friends who believed in her. A promising career.
All gone. And maybe her sanity along with them.
Late Monday afternoon, Quinn suffered one final blow before his scheduled court appearance with Annie. It came as he entered his office building, pushing through a few persistent TV reporters who had set up shop in the lobby.
"Do you have any comment on Claude Tanner's filing in family court?" one of the reporters asked.
"No comment," Quinn said, wondering what the man was talking about. He and Annie had decided to keep the TV off in the condo. He'd never heard of anyone named Claude Tanner.
"Does your client deny that Mr. Tanner is Sierra's father?"
Quinn stopped dead in his tracks, his world suddenly spinning. Sierra's father?
"No comment," Quinn said more tersely than before. He resumed walking toward the elevator, hoping he didn't look as flustered as he felt.
"Will Ms. Newberg contest his right to custody?"
Quinn whirled and shot the reporter a withering look. "Of course," he said. "I don't know if this man is Sierra's biological father or not. I do know that Sierra's biological father wanted nothing to do with his child from day one, at least until the smell of money apparently became irresistible."
"Were you aware he asked for a DNA test?" asked a second reporter.
"No comment," Quinn said, reminding himself that this was a game he could not win. He turned and walked away.
Waiting for the elevator, Quinn mulled over this new complication. Sierra's father could not have picked a worse time to reappear. The thought of the man swooping in and acting concerned about his child's welfare infuriated Quinn. He wondered if Tanner realized that Richard Hofstetter's estate didn't amount to much. Even if Annie was convicted and disqualified from inheriting the money, Sierra, as second in line, wouldn't be getting rich. The proceeds from Hofstetter's life insurance policy would be used to pay his debts first, leaving precious little for either Annie or Sierra.
If Tanner thought he could waltz into this mess and obtain custody of his daughter without a fight, he had another think coming to him. Short of murder, Quinn would do whatever it took to protect Sierra.