by Randy Singer
Quinn couldn't believe it! How dare Gates drag Sierra into this! Even Rosemarie seemed stunned into silence.
"Dr. Mancini," Gates insisted, "isn't it true that Quinn Newberg's niece is living with you right now?"
"Yes," Mancini answered.
Quinn stared at Gates in disbelief. Poor Sierra had nothing to do with this case. Nothing! She was just starting to get her legs back under her.
And with one insensitive question, Gates had blown it all away.
* * *
During the subsequent break, Quinn rose and walked over to Boyd Gates's counsel table. The prosecutor had his back turned and was talking with Jamarcus Webb.
"This case has nothing to do with my family," Quinn said. He placed a hand on Gates's elbow, and the prosecutor turned to face him. "Leave my family out of this."
Quinn's words caused a hush in the courtroom; spectators and press members gawked at the two.
"Your client killed five people, three babies, in cold blood," Gates said, thrusting out his jaw. "Everything's fair game in this trial, Newberg. Everything."
Quinn inched closer, his fury boiling over. "Not my family. My family stays out of this."
"Or what? Is this some kind of threat?"
A split second before Quinn could respond with a shove or a fist, Marc Boland edged between the two men, taking hold of Quinn's arm. "C'mon, Quinn," he said, nudging his co-counsel back from the brink. "It's a low blow. That's what he's known for. We've still got a case to try."
Quinn shot one last menacing look at Gates as he shook his right arm free from Boland, feeling the pain as he did so, then straightened his suit coat. He walked with Bo back to their counsel table "That guy's an idiot," Quinn said.
Bo looked at the reporters. "Show's over," he announced.
As Quinn sat down to cool off, the deputy who had escorted Catherine into the holding cell reentered the courtroom. Seeing him reminded Quinn.
"My client wants to meet with me," Quinn said to the deputy.
"You know the drill," the man said.
Bo decided to go make nice with the press, and Quinn headed toward the chamber where he could meet with Catherine, separated by about six inches of steel door.
He passed Mancini on the way.
"You need me to make an appointment?" she asked.
"For what?"
"For you. Anger management."
"Sorry, Rosemarie. The guy just knows how to get under my skin."
96
After the break, the tension level in the courtroom had increased noticeably. There was none of the idle chatter and hustling into seats that usually occurred as Rosencrance took the bench.
Quinn sat numbly as the judge told everyone to be seated. He watched as she jotted a few notes. He knew he should be preparing himself for a tongue-lashing over his altercation with Gates, but he was still trying to process what Catherine had told him just moments ago.
Rosencrance had the bailiff bring Catherine into the courtroom. "Before I bring in the jury," she said, "I would like counsel to approach the bench."
Here it comes. Quinn noticed that Marc Boland stayed on his right, physically separating him from Boyd Gates.
The judge put her hand over her mike and leaned forward, her eyes dissecting Quinn. "I've about had it with your conduct in this courtroom, Counselor. My bailiff told me what happened during the break. I want you to know that I'll be filing a complaint against you with the Nevada state bar after this case. I would revoke your pro hac status right now, but then Mr. Boland would just ask for a continuance."
"I understand," Quinn said, thankful that she hadn't tried to make him apologize. A man had to have standards.
"And, Mr. Gates, as many cases as you've tried in my courtroom, you should know better than to pull a stunt like that on cross-examination."
Gates mumbled an apology.
"Now, gentlemen, we have a case to finish. Let's try to act like professionals for a change."
All three attorneys mumbled appropriate "Yes, Your Honors," and Gates started back to his seat.
"Wait a minute," Quinn said. "I have a motion I need to make."
Gates returned to the bench, giving Quinn a sideways look. Quinn leaned in and lowered his voice. "Your Honor, with respect, I move for a one-day recess."
"What?" Gates said.
"Let him finish," snapped Rosencrance.
"Thank you, Your Honor." Quinn felt the nerves tingle up his spine. Once he made this motion, there would be no turning back. "We've discovered evidence that may require us to change Ms. O'Rourke's plea."
Rosencrance nearly pulled an eyebrow muscle, and Quinn could understand why.
"And a second development that may require me to withdraw as counsel," he added.
At that claim, Marc Boland joined the others in looking at Quinn as if the Vegas lawyer had just turned into a toad.
"This better not be one of your gimmicks," Rosencrance said.
"It's not, Judge." Quinn swallowed his nerves and hoped he was doing the right thing. "We need a day to confirm this evidence. If it checks out, Judge, it could blow this case wide open. As an officer of the court, I would not be able to proceed with an insanity plea. In fact, I would have to withdraw so I could take the stand and testify."
Quinn could tell that Rosencrance wasn't buying it, but he couldn't provide specifics. Not yet. "I would be glad to submit a written proffer first thing tomorrow morning," Quinn said.
Rosencrance still looked skeptical.
Quinn knew he needed to emphasize the one thing trial judges feared more than anything else: appellate courts. Reversible error. "Judge, I don't want to try this case a second time. If this evidence proves out, requiring us to move forward with an insanity defense would be a guaranteed reversal. At the very least, you need to carefully consider this."
Rosencrance turned to Gates and, to Quinn's surprise, the prosecutor shrugged. "As long as you instruct Dr. Mancini that she can't talk to defense counsel between now and tomorrow morning, I'm okay with it."
Of course, thought Quinn. Now that Gates has heard the entire direct examination of Mancini, he wants more time to prepare for the remainder of her cross. Plus, he wants the jury thinking about his last question during the overnight recess.
"I want a written proffer of this alleged evidence first thing in the morning," Rosencrance ordered Quinn. "And it better be good. I'm not inclined to let a defendant change her plea in the middle of the trial absent some overwhelming reason. You don't get to take a trial run at the case and then change your strategy if things don't work out. Is that clear?"
"Absolutely, Your Honor."
"Bring in the jury," Rosencrance told the bailiff. "We're going to give them the rest of the day off."
* * *
"What the heck was that?" Marc Boland slammed the door of the conference room adjacent to Courtroom 7. Boland and Quinn were alone in the room, but the way Bo was shouting, Quinn was pretty sure the press contingent in the hallway could hear every word. "I thought we agreed to keep that evidence out of the case."
Boland stormed back and forth on his side of the table, opposite a seated Quinn. "You just destroyed our client's insanity plea," he complained. He bumped into a chair and kicked it for good measure. "You sold her out! What were you thinking?"
"Are you done?" Quinn asked.
Boland stopped and put both palms on the table, leaning toward Quinn. "Heck no, I'm not done. And I won't be done until I get some answers. I worked hard on this case--worked my tail off! And you just flippantly flush the whole thing down the toilet with your Las Vegas showmanship crap."
Boland cursed and slammed the side of his fist into the plasterboard wall. "What were you thinking?" he repeated.
"If you'd sit down and shut up for a second, I'll try to tell you," said Quinn.
Bo sat, his face tight with rage.
Quinn gave him a few more seconds to calm down. "I need to hire you as my lawyer." He kept his voice low and reasonable. "I n
eed to tell you something in absolute confidence. And I need a lawyer who is thinking rationally as opposed to freaking out on me."
This seemed to blunt Bo's rage a little. Nothing flattered a lawyer like another lawyer seeking advice.
"Okay?" Quinn asked.
"I don't understand you," Bo said. "But okay."
Quinn took another few seconds to collect his thoughts. "Our mutual client had another vision last night," he began. "Actually a dream. I'll spare you all the details, but she basically saw the jury verdict. The forewoman was Marcia Carver. Reverend Pryor was ranting away from the back of the courtroom. The jury delivered a guilty verdict on first degree murder but when Rosencrance started to sentence Catherine, the forewoman protested. She said the verdict wasn't against Catherine after all."
Quinn stopped abruptly, barely able to maintain eye contact. He sighed, it was too late to turn back now.
"Cat said she almost fainted when she saw where Marcia Carver was pointing. Cat said she felt so betrayed, like somebody had slid a knife in her back and cut out her heart."
"Why?" Bo asked, narrowing his eyes.
"Because she was talking about me, Marc. The forewoman in Catherine's dream was pointing at me."
97
"I killed my brother-in-law," Quinn said.
He took a deep breath, and the facts came out in a torrent.
"Annie didn't shoot Richard Hofstetter; I did. Afterward, we decided she should confess to the crime because she'd have a better chance of getting acquitted. If the jury found her guilty, I'd admit the truth. The judge would have to grant a retrial, and I'd take the stand and confess. At worst, Annie might get hit with obstruction of justice, and I'd get convicted of murder. But this plan also gave us the best shot at both of us walking away scot-free."
Boland listened, his face unreadable.
"Annie called me a few days before the shooting and said she suspected Hofstetter was sexually abusing Sierra," Quinn continued. "She decided to confront him about it. The night of the shooting, she sent Sierra to a friend's house. She called and told me about her plans while she waited for Hofstetter to come home.
"He got there late, drunk and verbally abusive, but Annie confronted him anyway. He flew into a rage, cursing Annie and telling her how repulsive she had become. He threatened to divorce her and file for visitation with Sierra. The way he said it, the way he sneered, Annie knew her suspicions were correct."
Quinn paused in his narration, stared at the wall, and sucked in a breath. "When Hofstetter stumbled off to the bathroom, Annie called me again. I was actually sitting in my car a block or two away. I figured there might be trouble, and I wanted to be close by in case Annie needed me. I brought a gun I'd bought a few days earlier after talking with Annie. Got it at a gun show, undocumented. After the second call from Annie that night, I drove to the house and entered without knocking. I heard Annie call my name when I opened the door. She sounded panicked. I hustled back to the living room and found Hofstetter kneeling on the floor with Annie in front of him as a shield, his knife at her throat. Later, Annie told me that he was threatening to rape her just before I got there."
Quinn stopped, feeling the heat of the conference room. "I aimed my gun at Hofstetter's forehead and started inching my way toward him. 'Even if I miss on the first shot,' I said, 'I won't miss on the second.' I stopped about ten feet away and told Hofstetter to drop the knife. When he did and Annie scrambled away, I put a bullet through his forehead.
"It was Annie's idea to take the rap. We both knew that a battered wife would have a better chance at acquittal. At first, I wanted to put together a case for self-defense, but I realized the forensic evidence wouldn't justify it. I shot Hofstetter from ten feet away while he was kneeling on the floor. I knew that the angle of entry and lack of stippling around the bullet wound would show that Hofstetter was shot from that distance. Plus, I knew it would be virtually impossible to quickly fabricate evidence of a fight to make it look like Annie had acted in self-defense without her getting tripped up in her story.
"That's why we decided to go with the insanity defense. It could be consistent with a shot from ten feet away. I put on a pair of plastic gloves Annie had in the house and wiped down the handle of the gun. I squeezed Hofstetter's hand around it so his fingerprints would register, then handed the gun to Annie. As soon as I left, she called the police.
"Later, I secretly typed up a confession that I was ready to submit to the court in case we lost. I never intended for Annie to spend any time in jail."
Quinn rubbed his face, exhausted from telling his tale. "When Catherine told me about her latest dream, it was like God had pointed a finger at my chest and pronounced me guilty. Bo, our client clearly has some kind of supernatural gift. Combine that with what we know about the Carver baby, and I think she's innocent." Quinn paused. "The problem is that proving her case means I would have to testify."
Quinn swallowed hard as he stared into Marc Boland's contemplative eyes. In the few minutes it took Quinn to tell his story, Boland had totally transformed--from roaring beast to seasoned counselor.
"I need some advice," Quinn said.
Bo squinted past Quinn, as if the wisdom of the ages might be written on the conference room wall. He shook his head slowly and blew out a breath. "I'm not even sure if I can give you advice," he said. "Seems to me that I'd have a terrible conflict if I tried to represent both you and Catherine."
"That may be true," Quinn said. "But I don't know who else to ask. And I know we really don't have much of a choice. If I don't testify and the prosecution finds out the Carver baby is still alive, we don't stand a chance of winning."
Boland furrowed his brow. "You really think she got set up?"
"I know this much," Quinn said. "Those visions are real. And that Carver baby is still alive. You can take it from there."
"I need some time to process this," Bo said.
The two lawyers agreed to meet at 9 p.m. on Bo's yacht. In the interim, Quinn needed to meet Billy Long at the airport and prepare him to testify. Bo wanted to do a little research.
Bo apologized for losing his cool earlier, and Quinn apologized for not talking to Bo before he made his motion.
Bo even managed a smile before he left the conference room. "You Vegas guys sure know how to mess things up," he said.
98
"No!"
Catherine bolted upright on her cot, her hair matted with perspiration. Her breath came in short, hard bursts. The other visions had terrified her, but they were nothing compared to this.
She grabbed the bars of her cell and shouted for a guard. Other inmates cursed at Catherine or told her to shut up, but she kept right on yelling. Finally a young female deputy appeared.
"I've got to talk with my lawyer," Catherine gasped. "It's an emergency."
"You're in solitary confinement," the guard said. "If your attorney wants to talk with you, he needs to come here." She turned and started walking away.
"Come back!" Cat yelled, pounding the bars in frustration. "Get Jamarcus Webb on the phone! I'm ready to confess!"
The guard stopped. "You've got lawyers," she said. "Talk to them tomorrow."
"Forget about lawyers," Catherine shouted. "I waive my right to lawyers! I need to confess! My conscience is killing me! Killing me! Get Detective Webb--now!"
The deputy left without another word, leaving Catherine calling out after her.
Three minutes later, the deputy returned with the head of the evening shift. This time, Catherine tried to act a little more sane.
"I understand you're ready to confess," the woman said.
Cat nodded.
"We'll need you to sign some forms waiving your right to counsel."
"I thought you'd never ask."
* * *
Quinn walked down the pier of the Cavalier Yacht and Country Club, his steps illuminated by foot lamps mounted on each side of the wooden planks, his mind weighed down with the life-altering decisions in front of him.
The August night was hot and muggy, the quarter moon hidden by a bank of clouds, the sky as dark as Quinn's mood. He had changed into shorts, an oxford shirt, and boat shoes. He'd left his briefcase in the rental car but carried two beers that dangled from a plastic six-pack holder in his left hand. He finished off the beer in his right hand and threw the empty into the Lynnhaven River, stumbled, then climbed aboard the Class Action. He circled around to the sliding doors in the back and saw Bo in the lighted salon area, hunched forward on the soft leather couch, reams of trial documents spread around the room and covering the coffee table in front of him.
Bo waved Quinn inside and managed a half smile. "I was going to ask if you wanted a drink," he said.
Quinn held the remainder of his six-pack aloft. "BYOB." He slid into the easy chair on the opposite side of the room from Bo, his legs sprawled out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He popped another beer.
"I'm not testifying tomorrow," Quinn announced. "I'm not testifying ever. Not about my brother-in-law's death anyway."
Bo regarded Quinn with curiosity, as if trying to figure out whether this was the beer talking or Quinn's actual decision.
"And that stuff I told you in the conference room--" Quinn halfheartedly motioned toward Bo--"that's attorney-client privilege. Take it to your grave."
"Not necessarily," replied Bo, his face stern and indecipherable. "I told you I couldn't represent you and Catherine at the same time. My first obligation is to her. I never agreed to be your attorney."
Quinn sat up a little straighter in the chair. "Meaning what?"
"I've got to do what's best for Catherine." Marc Boland spoke slowly, condescendingly. "My duty to the client comes first." He picked up a black remote and pushed a button. Blinds started descending on the tinted windows all around the salon. "But don't worry, Quinn; I'm not going to put you on the stand. Our client is insane. This bizarre vision that triggered your guilty conscience doesn't change that."
