By Reason of Insanity

by Randy Singer

  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.