by Randy Singer
"Have a seat," Rosemarie said, plopping down on the front steps of the church. She dusted off a place next to her, and Cat reluctantly sat down. Filled with tension, Cat wanted to keep moving. Besides, she needed answers, not a counseling session.
"The answer to your question requires you to understand the purpose of these visions--does it not?" Rosemarie paused, but only for a moment, not really expecting Cat to answer. "I don't think we'll ever know for sure why God chose you as His messenger, but He did. I know the visions sometimes felt like a curse, but look at the results: they exposed a serial killer, restored the Carver family, helped recover the Milburn baby, and saved Quinn Newberg's life. That's hardly a curse."
Cat had been thinking some of these same thoughts recently. Somehow, the visions that had landed her in jail had also helped bring two killers to justice. The visions were still a mystery, unlike anything Cat had ever experienced, but the timing of the visions and the uncanny results were strangely comforting. And the visions seemed purposeful to Cat, not like the random paranormal activity or the "scientific" telepathy theories she had studied. Cat's visions were something different. Something good.
"You've read the book of Daniel," Rosemarie continued. "Did you notice that Nebuchadnezzar called God the 'revealer of mysteries'? God hasn't changed." Rosemarie turned and looked at Catherine. "We can't always understand God's reasons or methods, but we can learn to trust what He reveals to us. Your first three visions were to help others. This last vision, Catherine, might be God's gift only to you. Maybe you're not supposed to use it to set Quinn free. Maybe God is just showing you something about Quinn's character, telling you it's okay to follow your heart.
"Don't get me wrong; I don't condone the way Quinn misled the court about Hofstetter's murder. But Quinn made a choice. He decided to use a false confession to trap both Marc Boland and Richard Hofstetter Sr. He decided to trade his own freedom for the freedom of two women he loves. And he helped a third reclaim her mother. The thing is, if he had to do it again, I'm sure he'd make the same decision."
Cat didn't respond. She had never been very comfortable talking about matters of faith. Now Rosemarie was digging up Cat's feelings toward Quinn and tossing them into the stew as well. She sat there next to Rosemarie in silence as the tourists paraded past: old men with shorts and black socks, children in strollers, couples holding hands.
It was a strange place to have a spiritual moment, but Cat couldn't deny that something significant was happening. It certainly wasn't a leap of faith--more like an insight or realization, the way Cat felt when the pieces of a news story fell together. God had been pursuing her. Trusting her with these visions. Loving her enough to show her these things. Maybe it was time to listen.
Maybe it was time to start returning that trust.
Rosemarie looked down the street and smiled at a kid who had buried his face in a chocolate ice cream cone. She stood and brushed off the back of her pants.
"You ready to head back?" she asked.
"Sure."
Since the street was closed to motor traffic, the two of them shuffled along in the middle of the road, dodging horse manure, feeling the gravel crunch against the cobblestone under their feet. It was Rosemarie who spoke first.
"You know I don't like to preach to my patients," she said.
Catherine turned and raised an eyebrow.
"Okay," said Rosemarie. "Maybe a little. But there's this Scripture verse about Jesus that says, 'No one has greater love than this, that he should lay down his life for his friends.' Think about that--it's the most noble thing a person can do, putting his own life on the line for someone else. And in Quinn's case, it was something more--a ten-year-old boy finally discovering the courage to act.
"Love him for it, Catherine, but don't try to take that away."
110
For Cat, it felt strange being on the outside going in. She registered as a visitor and passed through a metal detector, palms sweaty just from being surrounded by prison walls again. The guards in Vegas had the same I'm-just-doing-my-job approach as the deputies in Virginia Beach. Depersonalizing. Their attitude reminded Cat of how depressing jail had been--how much it had toyed with her sense of dignity and worth.
Ironically, Vegas was not as technologically advanced as Virginia Beach. For that, Cat was grateful. Instead of closed-circuit TV, where Cat wouldn't even be in the same room as Quinn, she would instead be sitting on the opposite side of three-inch glass, face-to-face, a mirror image of the way they had conducted their attorney-client conferences in Virginia Beach.
Cat arrived in the interview booth first and mentally steeled herself for the fact that the Quinn Newberg she was about to meet would not seem like the same person as the dapper attorney who had stood up for her in court. Even though he had been in jail only a few days, the place had a way of changing you--reducing you to the ugly core of who you were.
A few minutes later, the door opened on the other side of the glass and Quinn slid into the booth. He wore an orange jumpsuit, his hair was disheveled, and his face was still swollen from the nasty cut to his cheekbone. He smiled immediately. "What's a gorgeous woman like you doing in a place like this?"
Surprisingly, he sounded upbeat. His smile brought back the old Quinn, except for the swollen eye and the gash on his cheekbone, and for a moment it was Catherine who was incarcerated and this handsome Vegas lawyer who had ridden into town to save the day.
She was glad that she came.
"They said you needed some coaching," Catherine said. "How to survive in jail."
"Yeah. That would be good. Things like how to stay out of fights and how not to confess to my cellmate. Maybe you could teach me how to file my toothbrush into a shank."
"Shut up," Cat said, and they both laughed.
"Actually," Cat went on, "the best thing I did in jail was to convince the world's best lawyer to handle my case." As she said it, she stayed locked on his eyes, sensing that the chemistry was still there, that things hadn't changed between them. "I never got a chance to properly thank you, Quinn Newberg. You saved my life."
"You made it easy," Quinn said. "You happened to be innocent." His halfhearted attempt to shrug it off couldn't mask how much her words meant to him--especially now, alone in prison, where the full weight of abandonment and loneliness hit.
There was an awkward silence, and Cat remembered how hard it was to communicate--not just talk but really get down to heart issues--when separated by glass, wondering if every word was being monitored. "Are you doing okay?" Cat asked. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
"Are you kidding? I love this place. Plenty of crazy folks for clients. Card games galore. You should see the pile of cigarettes I've already won."
Cat decided not to let him off the hook so easy--always the sarcastic charmer, deflecting the tough questions. "Seriously, Quinn. How are you doing?"
He shrugged again. "It helps being a lawyer, even one about to have his license pulled. I'm representing three of the toughest thugs already, preparing paperwork for their outside lawyers--the inmates love it. You don't have to worry about me being attacked. I'm trading legal brains for protection and pretty much have my own Secret Service escort."
Cat couldn't resist a small smile. Quinn had been in jail less than a week, and it already sounded like he was running the place.
Quinn's eyes softened, and his voice became quieter. "The hardest thing is that you only see the sun for about an hour each day--and then you're on a scalding concrete pad with a basketball goal on each end, and it's about a hundred and ten degrees. Three years is going to be a long stretch."
Quinn seemed to catch himself, throw a switch in his demeanor, and turned from melancholy to superlawyer again. "Enough about me, though that is my favorite subject. How's my number one client doing?"
"She's fine. She's also free, thanks to you."
"Does she still have nightmares? Did she get her old job back?"
Catherine shifted in her seat. This was
the opening she had been waiting for. It was time to get serious and push the point. "I had another vision, Quinn. This time, I saw Hofstetter's murder." She watched closely for a reaction. "You weren't even there when it happened."
Quinn didn't flinch--not a single facial muscle changed. The man had practiced bluffing for years at the poker table and in the courtroom.
"As for my job," Cat continued, "I've got a friend at the Las Vegas Review-Journal who thinks he can get me in. I'm moving out here, Quinn. I'm going to come by every day."
Catherine waited when Quinn didn't respond immediately. He glanced down, seemingly trying to figure out what to say. When he spoke, his voice was steady and sad. "You aren't going to mention this last vision to anyone, are you?"
"Nobody else needs to know."
This seemed to relax him a little, though his face was still troubled. "You can't move out here, Catherine. You're twenty-eight years old--smart, beautiful, full of life. There are a million guys who would swallow broken glass just for a chance to take you out. You can't waste your life waiting for me." He hesitated, looking as though he had to convince himself to continue. "Three years is forever. We'll both be different people by the time I get out."
She leaned forward and felt her throat tighten as emotions too complex for words welled up in her. She knew he didn't mean this. He had brushed her off once before, right after her case was dismissed, supposedly for her own good. Not this time. Catherine O'Rourke could be very determined when she knew what she wanted. And she also knew what Quinn needed, despite his protests to the contrary. "I would have been in jail the rest of my life if it wasn't for you--"
"That can't be the reason--"
Catherine held up a palm. "Please let me finish," she said. Quinn nodded.
"That's not the only reason I'm here. I want this, Quinn. I want us. We're made for each other. I know it, and you know it." Her words came out thick with emotion. And they were having an impact. Quinn's poker face turned soft. "Jail taught me that life is too short to play games," Catherine continued. "You can't stop me from coming by, Quinn. You can't stop me from caring."
"You know I've got a pretty strict curfew."
Cat grinned. "At least you won't be running around with other women."
"It's not the women I'm worried about."
There was another awkward silence, and Cat waited him out again. She needed a serious response. "You really want to try this?" he asked.
Cat nodded. "If you do."
"More than anything in the world," Quinn said, looking down. When he raised his eyes to look at her again, Cat could have sworn she felt the warmth spread through her entire body.
"We're going to make this work," Cat said. It was barely a whisper, not loud enough for Quinn to hear but surely he could read her lips. "You're worth waiting for, Quinn. I can be very persistent."
They sat there for a long moment, Quinn staring at her, the same way he had the first time they met, when he was trying to figure out what was happening inside her head. This time, it felt like he was looking straight into her soul. Maybe he could tell she was heading down a different spiritual path, the Revealer of Mysteries at work in her life. Whatever he saw made him smile--that million-dollar smile of Quinn Newberg, legal magician and Vegas heartthrob. Prison couldn't take it away, not even the orange jumpsuit and bruised face could lessen the irresistible pull of Quinn's impish charm.
"I always thought you were a little crazy," he said.
Acknowledgments and Author's Note
Writing is a team sport, and I'm surrounded by a great team. If you like the book, there's a good chance these folks are the reason why. The mistakes, as always, are on me.
During the research phase, I was helped immensely by Judge Patricia West and her bailiff, Deputy Brian Capps, who answered all my questions about the Virginia Beach jail and allowed me to spend time there without having to commit the kinds of acts that entitle others to an inside view. I also want to thank the Rigell family and the McWaters family for teaching me a thing or two about boats and the Virginia Beach culture--just enough so the locals might think I know what I'm talking about. As for the person who instructed me on the Las Vegas gambling tricks, he (or she) wishes to remain anonymous for what should be obvious reasons.
More help arrived during the editing process. Thanks to Michael Garnier, Robin Pawling, and Mary Hartman for reviewing the manuscript and making great suggestions even before I sent it to my publisher. Thanks also to Karen Watson, Stephanie Broene, Jeremy Taylor, Ron Beers, and a host of other talented folks at Tyndale House who believed in this book and made it better at every turn. Not only are they extremely good at what they do but they have fun doing it. I love being a Tyndale author. I'm also thankful for Lee Hough, who is equal parts agent and friend, for his steady help at every stage of the process.
Now for the disclaimers. (I'm a lawyer; it's in my blood.) The Virginia Beach jail is a well-run institution with deputies who care a lot about their jobs and the inmates. The deputies in this book bear no resemblance to the real-life deputies. On another front, I took the liberty of having one of my nefarious characters belong to the Cavalier Golf and Yacht Club. In the real world, the Club is a distinguished and enjoyable group that would undoubtedly have the good sense to keep most of my characters from joining. Meanwhile, up the road at the United States Supreme Court, a case will likely be decided about the time my book comes out that might change the way most states execute death row inmates. My characters assumed the court overruled the challenge to the constitutionality of the three-drug cocktail used in lethal injections. If it goes the other way, don't blame my characters; they're just following orders. And speaking of drugs, the Avenger's anesthetic drug of choice, methohexital, works faster in the book than it ever would in real life. These things are called literary license, a fiction author's best friend.
This past year has been a year of change for the Singer clan, and my writing wouldn't be possible without the help and forbearance of a lot of people involved in those changes. We have moved to Virginia Beach, and I have rejoined my old law firm. My partners and friends at Willcox & Savage have been incredibly supportive of my writing endeavors while allowing me the flexibility to handle real cases as I write about fictional ones. In addition, I've had the invaluable support and prayers of two families--my church family at Trinity and my long-suffering immediate family and relatives. Thanks especially to Rhonda, Rosalyn, and Joshua for putting up with the idiosyncratic lifestyle of a husband/dad who loves to write stories, and for their help on so many aspects of the book.
I'll end with a word about the inspiration for this story. Some have accused me of writing what I know best--a story about multiple personality disorder from a guy who is part lawyer and part pastor. In truth, the idea comes from a trial that occurred nearly two thousand years ago and is recorded in the pages of the New Testament. When the apostle Paul was on trial for his life, he told King Agrippa about a heavenly vision that the apostle experienced on the road to Damascus. Paul's defense was interrupted by Festus, a governor who had already tried Paul. "You are out of your mind, Paul!" Festus shouted. "Your great learning is driving you insane." Paul's measured response: "I am not insane, most excellent Festus. What I am saying is true and reasonable." Acts 26:24-25.
This book also deals with life-changing visions and accusations of insanity. My hope is that readers might find a few words of reason and a few kernels of truth in these pages as well.
Praise for Randy Singer
"In this gripping, obsessively readable legal thriller, Singer proves himself to be the Christian John Grisham."
Publishers Weekly on False Witness
"False Witness is an engrossing and challenging read. . . . Part detective story, part legal thriller--I couldn't put it down!"
Shaunti Feldhahn, best-selling author, speaker, and nationally syndicated columnist
"Well-drawn characters and interesting dialogue combine to make this thriller one that is hard to put down.
"
Faithfulreader.com on The Cross Examination of Oliver Finney
"[Singer] is every bit as enjoyable as John Grisham."
Publishers Weekly on Self Incrimination
"Singer . . . hits pay dirt again with this taut, intelligent thriller. . . . [Dying Declaration] is a groundbreaking book for the Christian market. . . . Singer is clearly an up-and-coming novelist to watch."
Publishers Weekly
"[Singer] delivers a fresh approach to the legal thriller, with subtle characterizations and nuanced presentations of ethical issues."
Booklist, starred review, on Dying Declaration
"Singer . . . gets better with each subsequent novel, and he excels in Dying Declaration."
Faithfulreader.com
"Singer delivers Grisham-like plotting buttressed by a worldview that clarifies the dilemmas that bombard us daily. Don't miss this book."
Hugh Hewitt, author, columnist, and radio host of the nationally syndicated Hugh Hewitt Show on Dying Declaration
"[A] legal thriller that matches up easily with the best of Grisham."
Christian Fiction Review on Irreparable Harm
"Realistic and riveting, Directed Verdict is a compelling story about the persecuted church and those who fight for global religious freedom."
Jay Sekulow, chief counsel, American Center for Law and Justice
"Randy Singer's novel of international intrigue, courtroom drama, and gripping suspense challenges readers to examine anew issues of faith and ethics. Directed Verdict is an apt story for times such as these."
Jerry W. Kilgore, former attorney general of Virginia