By Reason of Insanity

64
Reporters jammed themselves into the limited seats of Courtroom 16D on Tuesday morning, bringing back memories of Quinn's bitter battle to free Annie, which had ended in a mistrial three months earlier.
Carla Duncan walked down the aisle of the courtroom and came over to shake Quinn's hand. "Please reconsider," she said, referring to the phone call Quinn had made rejecting the proposed plea.
"We haven't changed our minds," Quinn said.
Carla nodded and pursed her lips, looking dreadfully solemn. During the phone call, she had explained to Quinn that she would move to revoke Annie's bail if Annie didn't take the plea.
Carla turned and pointed to a man in the third row. He was probably in his thirties, with shaggy dark hair, a stud in his left ear, and an ill-fitting suit. "That's Officer Northrop," Carla said. "He works vice and narcotics and has a few friends on the seedier side of town. He gave me these." She handed Quinn a couple of fresh-looking visas. Quinn's heart did a nose-dive.
Carla gave Quinn a chance to open the visas and scan the pictures of Annie and Sierra, paired with two unfamiliar names and Social Security numbers. She lowered her voice and continued. "If I'm asked about this, I'll deny I said it. But about half the fake ID operations in the city are part of an underground network that provides leads to the cops from time to time in exchange for being left alone. A few times a year, they might come to us with known felons, folks who might fit a terrorist profile, those types of things. A guy named Keshon, who is under subpoena to testify today, put a couple of fake IDs together for your sister the day after Sierra's suicide attempt." Carla nodded toward the visas in Quinn's hands. "He thought the woman looked familiar so he made some duplicate copies, found her picture on the Internet, and then came to Officer Northrop."
It took all of Quinn's willpower not to react. He felt a stunning sense of betrayal. The bond hearing was going to be hard enough just based on the fact that they wanted Sierra to leave the Schlesingers and move in with him. But this. He opened the visas again and stared at the forlorn look on Annie's face. This was devastating. "I'll talk to my client," Quinn said.
Carla returned to her counsel table, and Quinn sat down next to Annie. He placed the visas on the table. "You've got some explaining to do," he said.
Big tears formed in Annie's eyes as she stared at the visas. "If I were going to use them, I would have been gone by now." Her voice was thick with emotion. "I was scared. I got them the day after Sierra's suicide attempt. I didn't know what to do. I just knew I couldn't lose my daughter."
Quinn wanted to tell his sister how stupid she'd been. He had a sudden urge to let her have it right then and there, to let her know how incredibly difficult she was making this case, to emphasize how much this would cost them. But Annie was already devastated--Quinn could see it in her slumping shoulders and the tears spilling from her eyes.
"We can't win this hearing now," Quinn said softly. "If we even try, Carla will poison the potential jury pool with this evidence that you were trying to flee the country. The issue of Sierra's suicide will come out in all its glory--"
"Quinn." Annie placed a hand on his arm. "I'm ready to go to jail until the trial. Just promise me that you'll take care of Sierra."
"I told you I would," Quinn said. "You should have just trusted me."
A few minutes later, Judge Strackman took the bench.
Carla rose to speak first. "As the court knows," she began, "this hearing was originally scheduled for the court to approve a plea agreement. However, in the interim, the defendant has apparently had a change of mind and--"
"Is that true?" Strackman turned a menacing look toward Quinn.
Quinn stood, once again regretting the dollars his firm had put into the coffers of Strackman's last opponent. "Yes, Your Honor."
Strackman hesitated and frowned, as if he couldn't believe his ears. "I'm sure you and your client have your reasons, Mr. Newberg, but it seems to me that Ms. Duncan was being exceedingly generous. This is, after all, a case you nearly lost the first time around."
"I'm aware of that, Your Honor," Quinn replied, choosing his words carefully. "However, there are other considerations impacting our choice."
Strackman frowned even more deeply but apparently decided not to push further. It would be bad form for a judge to publicly bully a defendant into taking a plea. "If that's your client's decision, Mr. Newberg, then let's set a new trial date."
"Before we do that," Carla Duncan chimed in, still standing, "the state would like the opportunity to address the matter of Ms. Newberg's bail."
"For what reason?"
"The terms of the bail agreement have been violated," Carla Duncan explained. "Sierra has been staying with Quinn and Anne Newberg at a Signature Towers condominium owned by Mr. Newberg. Moreover, we have recently discovered evidence that Ms. Newberg poses a substantial flight risk."
"Mr. Newberg," Strackman said, his face reddening, "the court was very clear about the terms of your client's bond."
Quinn took a deep breath. "May we approach?" he asked.
The judge nodded, and the lawyers trudged to the judge's bench.
Strackman put his hand over the mike, and Quinn launched into his explanation. Sierra Newberg had attempted suicide. When she was released from the hospital, she needed to stay with her mom. Quinn motioned toward Dr. Mancini in the first row and explained that she would be glad to testify about Sierra's need to stay with Annie. "If she testifies," Quinn said, "I'd want to do it in your office with a sealed record. I'm not willing to have my psychiatric expert discuss Sierra's suicide attempt in front of the entire world."
Quinn took a quick breath before addressing the fake visas, but Carla Duncan interrupted.
"I sympathize with Sierra," Carla said, moving even closer to the judge. "But when the court sets bond, it cannot do so on the basis of family members who need time with an accused felon. Half the women in jail have children who desperately need them. Plus, Your Honor, as I mentioned, we have very strong evidence that Ms. Newberg was preparing to flee the jurisdiction."
Strackman leaned forward, all ears, as Carla told him about Annie getting a fake visa for herself and Sierra.
The judge turned his icy stare on Quinn. "Is this true?"
"Like any mother, Annie's first reaction was to protect her daughter. Yes, my client obtained false IDs. But that was last week. She didn't use them. She realized that it was best to work within the system."
"Return to your seats," ordered Strackman. "You've made this easy."
Quinn didn't move. "With respect, Your Honor, if you are prepared to rule against Annie on the basis of violating a bail agreement, then we'll just revoke her request to remain free on bond. I don't want all this incriminating evidence talked about in open court where it will poison the jury pool."
"Return to your seat," said Strackman, his face unyielding. "Your client should have thought about that before she got this fake ID."
For the next several minutes, Quinn simmered while Strackman set up his ruling on the bail issue. He had Carla Duncan recite the evidence she was prepared to produce about Annie's violation of the terms of her bond and her procurement of fake visas. He asked Quinn if he disputed any of the statements, and Quinn told the court he didn't dispute the factual accuracies of the statements. Based on those stipulations, and without even mentioning Sierra's attempted suicide, Strackman ruled that Annie had violated the terms of her parole and would have to remain in jail pending trial.
"It's okay," Annie whispered to Quinn. "I'll be all right."
"I'd like to try this case before I leave the bench," said Strackman. "But the only open dates I've got are during the last few weeks before my retirement. What if we started the trial on August twenty-first?"
"I can make it work," Carla Duncan said.
Unfortunately, Quinn's calendar looked open on the twenty-first as well, unless . . .
Just yesterday, Marc Boland had obtained a trial date in Catherine O'Rourke's case. Boland and Boyd Gates had played a game of legal chicken, both claiming they wanted a speedy trial--Boland because he wanted to prove his client's innocence and get her released from jail as soon as possible; Gates because the case was "open and shut." Gates boasted that the commonwealth could be ready to try the case later that week.
The court had taken the lawyers at their chest-thumping word and set the trial for August eighteenth, just a few months out. Quinn seized on that now.
"We'll have to bump it back into September," Quinn said. Under no circumstances did he want this judge sentencing Annie. "I'm scheduled to start the case of Commonwealth v. O'Rourke on August eighteenth. It's expected to last at least two weeks. There's no way I can be ready to try this case until the middle of September."
Judge Strackman locked his eyes on Quinn for a moment, peering over reading glasses, as if questioning Quinn's integrity. But Quinn also knew that deep down, Strackman didn't want the hassle of a retrial either. "I'd hate to leave this as unfinished business for my successor," said Strackman, half-convincingly. "But after I leave the bench on the last day of August, the only judging I plan on doing is a wine-tasting contest here and there."
Quinn just shrugged his shoulders. Eventually they all agreed to set the case for September fifteenth, a date that would necessitate a different judge. Quinn thought he detected Strackman fighting off a smile.
Quinn would have been smiling too if he had not just guaranteed that his sister would be spending at least three months in jail before her case would even be heard.



65
Quinn walked into his condo that afternoon and found Sierra sprawled out on his brown leather couch, listening to her iPod and typing on her computer. She looked up at Quinn expectantly, worry creasing her forehead. She'd known there was a good chance her mom would have her bail revoked.
Quinn placed his briefcase by the door and took a place next to Sierra on the couch. She put her computer on the coffee table and took out her earphones. Without saying a word, Quinn could tell she already knew. Maybe she had been watching television or surfing the Internet. Maybe she just surmised it from the fact that Annie had not returned with Quinn.
"We lost," Quinn said. "Your mom had to go to jail pending her trial." He saw the pain register on Sierra's thin face as her fears were confirmed. He wanted to reach out and touch her, maybe even give her a hug, but somehow it didn't seem right. "It's only for a few months, Sierra. She'll be free for good once this trial is over."
Sierra stared down at the carpet, tears pooling in her eyes. She brushed them away with the back of her hand, breaking Quinn's heart in the process.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
She nodded. "Thanks for letting me stay here, Uncle Quinn," she said. Awkwardly, she leaned over to hug him. He held her, concerned at how thin and frail she felt.
"We're going to get through this," he said. "One day soon, you and your mom will be together again."
Sierra didn't respond, and Quinn wondered what was going on inside her young head. Sierra was no longer a preadolescent, a child who took assurances at face value. She knew it was possible her mom could spend the rest of her life in jail. And now Quinn would have to tell her about Annie's attempt to obtain fake visas. He didn't want Sierra hearing about that from someone else.
Quinn took a deep breath and, in the softest voice possible, explained to Sierra that her mom had made a big mistake.
Later that afternoon, Quinn ducked his head into his bedroom, a room he now referred to as "Sierra's room." Sierra was sitting on the bed, watching a movie on her computer.
"I'm going to the office for a few hours," Quinn said. "You gonna be okay?"
"I'm fine," Sierra said. Her voice carried less melancholy than it had earlier in the day.
"I'll be back in time for visiting hours for your mom."
"Okay."
"If you need anything to eat, help yourself."
Sierra looked at him and smiled thinly. "I'll be fine, Uncle Quinn. Don't worry about me."
"Okay."
But he did worry. He worried nonstop until he arrived at the office and Melanie started barking out instructions. She handed him pink phone messages and a stack of prioritized e-mails she had printed out. She followed him into the office and started discussing calendar issues before he could even sit in his chair. She said that she had personally talked to Catherine O'Rourke earlier that day when Catherine had called collect.
"You can't lead her on anymore, Quinn. If you're going to withdraw from the case, you need to let her know."
"Right."
Lastly, Melanie started running through the media requests. Quinn rejected them all, gun-shy after his interview on The Early Show. It wasn't about trying the case in the press anymore; it was about protecting Sierra's privacy. The best way to do that was not to comment.
"And," said Melanie, "Mr. Espinoza wants to see you."
Quinn rubbed a hand over his tired face. "Close the door," he said. "Have a seat."
Melanie closed the door and sat down in front of his desk. "Are you going to fire me?" she asked.
"Are you kidding?"
She shrugged. "You never do this. I figured it must be pretty important."
"It is." Quinn shifted in his seat and picked up a paper clip to keep his hands busy while he carefully selected his words. "I need to stay on Catherine O'Rourke's case. I've been thinking this weekend about how much she needs me. Her lead counsel is a good lawyer, but he doesn't know much about the insanity defense." He paused. He had never been one to bare his soul to anyone, much less his assistant.
"This is why I went to law school, Melanie. Not to represent these white-collar criminals but to help people like Catherine. Frankly, until Annie got in trouble, I had pretty much lost sight of that."
Melanie looked a little uncomfortable, and Quinn didn't blame her. This was certainly out of character for him.
"The firm told me that they didn't want me handling both Catherine's case and Annie's case because they didn't think I could carry my weight financially--"
"That's ridiculous," Melanie interjected. "You've been one of the highest--"
"Hang on," Quinn said. "Let me finish. They let me take Catherine O'Rourke's case when we all thought Annie was going to plead out. But now, with what happened to Sierra, Annie can't take that deal. And when the judge tried to set an early trial date for Annie, I used Catherine's case as an excuse to push Annie's trial back. Long story short, I locked myself into both."
"Good," Melanie said. "I never wanted to withdraw from Catherine O'Rourke's case in the first place."
"My question," Quinn continued, "is this: if the firm tries to force me to drop O'Rourke's case and I refuse, will you step out with me if I start my own firm?"
"They'd be idiots to make you do that," Melanie insisted. "But I'd be with you in a heartbeat."
"Even if I couldn't pay you the first few weeks?"
She thought about it, undoubtedly running budget numbers in her head. Quinn knew it was unfair to ask her to do this, but it would take him a few weeks just to get a line of credit established.
"Same salary and benefits as here?" Melanie asked.
"Sure."
"And a big bonus at the end of the year to make up for not getting a salary the first two weeks?"
"We can talk about a bonus."
"I'm in," said Melanie. "When do we start?"
Ten minutes later, Robert Espinoza closed the door and parked himself in the same chair that Melanie had occupied. His freshly pressed slacks nearly crinkled as he crossed his legs.
"I'm sorry to hear about Sierra," he said.
"Thanks. She'll be all right."
"Rumor has it that you told Judge Strackman you were committed to a trial date in Catherine O'Rourke's case."
"I did," Quinn said.
"I thought we had an understanding about that," Espinoza said.
"We did, but I changed my mind. I can't just cut and run on a client who's looking at the death penalty, not when her other lawyer is a novice on insanity pleas."
"And Annie no longer wants to plead out her case in light of what happened to Sierra?" Espinoza asked.
"That's correct. But, Robert, listen--"
"Quinn," Espinoza said sharply, "I didn't come to argue. Is your mind made up about staying on the O'Rourke case?"
"Yes."
Espinoza stood and looked down at Quinn. He pursed his lips and hesitated for a moment, apparently measuring his words.
"Law partnerships, Quinn, are about more than just big bonus checks. Sometimes your partners need you. Sometimes you sacrifice for them knowing that one day, they'll do the same for you."
Espinoza took a deep breath, giving Quinn a chance to catch up. "You'd better win those cases, Quinn. Both of them. The firm's reputation is on the line."
"Does that mean--?"
"I said 'both of them,' Quinn. You're a smart enough lawyer to figure that out."
Espinoza turned and left the office, leaving a flabbergasted Quinn. Quinn's partners had come through for him. They would carry Quinn this year; some other year he would carry them.
Strangely, he felt like crying.



66
Two nights later, after Quinn and Sierra visited Annie, Quinn felt the urge to hit the town. He loved Sierra, but being a surrogate father was smothering him. He needed a little space, a few hours in the city.
Sierra said she would be fine. "I'm thirteen, Uncle Quinn. A lot of my friends are babysitting."
Quinn left the condo and headed down the interior moving sidewalks of the complex, toward the MGM Grand. In truth, he wanted to go gamble and unwind from a stressful day. As a bonus, he could net a few thousand bucks if the fates were with him, which of course they hadn't been for about six months. But he knew an hour at the high-stakes table would turn into two and then three. If it went well, he could be there until midmorning, and if it went bad, he'd stay even longer trying to get back to where he started.
Instead, he decided to walk down the sidewalk of the Vegas strip, lost in a river of tourists and thrill seekers and young singles on the hunt--cameras flashing and skin showing and huge neon signs pulsating. Some people relaxed at the ocean or a mountain retreat; Quinn relaxed in the midst of a Vegas mob. The teeming electricity of the city would calm his nerves.
When he arrived at the front of the Grand, he shuffled along with the flow of foot traffic, lost in his thoughts and the overwhelming challenges facing him that seemed as relentless as the Vegas heat.
Catherine's case presented the most straightforward problem: how to win. She was, in all likelihood, the Avenger of Blood. At first, Quinn had had his doubts, but the theory recently pieced together by Rosemarie Mancini made sense.
Catherine's personality had probably fractured during her undergrad experience at William and Mary, creating the Avenger and lodging it in her subconscious. When it surfaced several years later, it carried with it the references to the blood avengers from Catherine's comparative religion class. Rosemarie believed that the Avenger personality became active when Catherine started following Annie Newberg's case--a sexually abused female seeking revenge against her husband and almost getting away with it. This was why, in Dr. Mancini's opinion, Catherine had been so intent on having Quinn defend her. In Catherine's subconscious, she viewed Quinn as the defender of the blood avengers--those female furies who exacted blood vengeance against abusers and rapists and their legal accomplices.
On the surface, Catherine seemed to be a paragon of sanity, a cynical young reporter who relied on logic, street smarts, and a raw beauty she didn't seem to know she possessed. Yet she must be tormented by a buried hurt so painful that, when it surfaced, it completely took over, thirsty for vengeance on real and imagined perpetrators. Quinn suspected that the rape described by Catherine was only one of many. Perhaps there were numerous incidents of rape or abuse--trauma so painful that Cat had repressed it from her own memory.
Quinn would need to get inside her head and win her trust. Somehow he would have to discover the hidden pain that even Rosemarie couldn't seem to access. In a way, the possibility intrigued him. Something about Catherine O'Rourke drew Quinn. Now that he had a green light to handle her case, he wanted to spend time with her, even if only inside the walls of a sterile prison interview room, trying to break down the barriers that separated her from others and even from herself.
Annie's case was more complex. Annie was his client, but Sierra kept forcing herself to the front of Quinn's mind. Quinn and Annie had been through so much, including childhood scars that could never heal. But for Sierra, there was still hope. The biggest challenge on that front was Claude Tanner, a father who had shirked all responsibilities until he smelled money. Quinn had already assigned Billy Long, his Virginia Beach investigator, to dig up dirt on Claude Tanner. Hopefully Billy would find something good.
As Quinn walked, an unsettled feeling interrupted his thoughts. Something was out of place; he felt as if he was being watched, a deer innocently passing beneath a hunter's tree stand. He glanced left and right, over his shoulder. There. Two men in sunglasses and ball caps, hands in their pockets. How did I know they were there?
He picked up his pace on the crowded sidewalk and squeezed past people. He turned to check again, and the men were still there, the same distance behind him as before, pushing their way through the crowds.
Just ahead, the sidewalk was under construction, forcing the foot traffic to squeeze into a long tunnel with a plywood ceiling and wooden rails on each side. The pedestrians slowed to a stop, but Quinn elbowed his way ahead, drawing complaints and return shoves. One more glance over the shoulder and he started running, pushing his way through as fast as possible.
He squeezed out of the crowd at the other end, getting hip-checked by a stocky man who had turned to see Quinn coming. Quinn lost his balance but recovered and broke into a full-out run. He glanced behind him again, and the thugs were still coming, zigzagging around people like two linebackers bearing down on a thin and vulnerable wide receiver.
The sidewalk widened as Quinn entered the heart of downtown Vegas. Bally's was on the right, Bellagio across the street. Directly ahead was an enormous escalator, jammed with people, that rose to an elevated walkway crossing Las Vegas Boulevard. If Quinn had any advantage on his two pursuers, it might be speed and endurance. They would overpower him in a second if they caught him, but . . .
Quinn veered right and headed straight toward the escalator, shouting for people to get out of the way as his legs churned upward two steps at a time, climbing as fast as he could. The two thugs jumped on half a minute later and started climbing as well, surprising Quinn with their stamina.
At the top, Quinn frantically glanced left and right, trying to map out an escape route. He sprinted across the sidewalk overpass toward the New York-New York casino. "Call the police!" he shouted. "Stop those guys behind me!"
Just before he reached the other side of the overpass, he saw some women pushing their baby strollers out of an elevator. A few elderly couples climbed on the elevator, and the doors started to close. Quinn sprinted faster, spurred on by a quick glance over his shoulder.
"Hold that elevator!" he yelled, but the senior citizens pretended not to notice. Just before the doors closed, Quinn lunged and stuck his hand between them. They popped open, and Quinn quickly darted through them.
He started frantically pushing the Door Close button. "C'mon, c'mon . . ."
The thugs were sprinting toward them, and the others on the elevator backed into the corners, their eyes wide.
The doors locked closed a split second before Quinn's pursuers arrived.
Quinn looked around the elevator, now headed down to the street level. "Paparazzi," he gasped, shaking his head. "They never leave me alone."
The door opened, and Quinn bolted out, knowing that his pursuers were probably sprinting furiously down the long and crowded escalator that would bring them to street level as well. He raced through the doors of the New York-New York casino, wound through the casino floor and up an escalator, then ducked into the Coyote Ugly club.
Once inside, he stumbled to a dark corner of the club and bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.
Who were those guys? He assumed they'd been sent by Hofstetter. What surprised Quinn was their audacity. They had chased him down a crowded city sidewalk with half of Las Vegas watching them. For what purpose? If they really wanted to harm him, why not just accost him in some parking garage?
He thought about going to the police, but then he thought about Sierra. Quinn would have a hard enough time maintaining custody as it was. If he reported these men, Hofstetter would probably counter by reporting Quinn's illegal gambling exploits.
Quinn could probably beat those accusations, but he didn't need more legal complexities right now. He needed to maintain custody of Sierra.
Quinn caught his breath and then, glancing this way and that, worked his way up to the bar and ordered a drink. He took his drink back to a spot in the shadows next to a wall, watching as the undulating bodies crammed together on the dance floor. He finished the drink and checked around one more time.
On his way to the door, he felt somebody jam something that felt like a gun barrel into the small of his back.
"It's got a silencer," a man whispered. "I wouldn't recommend any sudden moves."
Another man approached from the opposite side and threw a meaty arm around Quinn as if he were an old buddy. "Let's go for a little walk," he said.


67
Too late, Quinn connected the dots. Hofstetter's thugs had probably used their connections with the security personnel at The Rogue, Hofstetter's casino, to convince the security guards at New York-New York to quickly review the digital security tapes of Quinn entering the casino. Ubiquitous digital cameras recorded every inch of the casino floor. In a matter of minutes, the security guards would have traced Quinn into the Coyote Ugly club.
Quinn shuffled along, led by his two thick captors, the gun still buried in the small of his back. They walked Quinn outside, shoved him into the backseat of a waiting limo, and blindfolded him.
They rode silently together for about ten minutes. When the engine stopped, the men hauled Quinn out of the car and led him into a musty-smelling building. When they removed the blindfold, Quinn glanced around at what appeared to be an abandoned retail store with empty shelf space and dusty counters.
The bigger of the two men--a white guy with bulging biceps, tattooed arms, and a skintight black T-shirt--had the gun in plain sight now, pointed at Quinn's midsection. He still had on shades and a ball cap, but Quinn tried to cement the contours of the man's blocky face and square jaw into his own memory.
"Our client thinks you're being a little hardheaded, Mr. Newberg," the man said. "He could have sworn your sister was going to take the plea bargain today."
"Tell your client to kiss my--"
Umph! The other man sucker-punched Quinn in the kidney, buckling Quinn's legs as he crumpled to the ground. Quinn grimaced for a second as the pain subsided, then struggled slowly to his feet, more wary now and not quite as cocky.
"Don't make this hard on yourself," said the man with the gun. The Hispanic man who had punched Quinn just smiled, white teeth lighting up a hard countenance.
They shoved Quinn toward a counter, where they pulled out a laptop computer and turned it on. They took the first few minutes to show the same video evidence of Quinn cheating at poker that Hofstetter had shown a few weeks ago in his office. Next, the men pulled up a document entitled "Quinn Newberg Gambling Winnings," asking Quinn if he recalled reporting those earnings to the IRS.
After that, they showed him a picture of Sierra.
The bigger man turned from the computer and got in Quinn's face. "If our client wanted you dead, Mr. Newberg, that would have happened by now. But he doesn't. All he wants is for two gentlemen to work out a deal. All he wants is for this case to go away without further embarrassment to his family. Is that so hard to understand?"
"I understand," said Quinn, choosing his words carefully. "But it's not that easy. This is Annie's call, not mine."
The man clenched his jaw and turned back to the computer. He clicked the mouse a few more times, and pictures of some scantily clothed women popped on the screen. Young women. Women Quinn had never seen before.
"These girls, Mr. Newberg, are prepared to testify that you had sex with them when they were underage. This one--" he stopped on the photo of a particularly young-looking girl--"will say she was fifteen years old at the time. Surely, Mr. Newberg, this might impact your upcoming custody battle. No?"
Like a second kidney punch, the implications become painfully clear. "Tell your boss I don't scare easy," Quinn said, his words sounding braver than he felt. "Tell him I'll do what's best for my client."
"Of course," the thug replied, his words dripping with mock sincerity. "We wouldn't dream of asking you to do anything else."
Without warning, the Hispanic man punched Quinn again, this time in the gut, the wind fleeing Quinn's lungs as he doubled over. Before he could even process the blow, the man had locked on Quinn's right arm, some kind of martial arts hold next to the armpit, wrenching the arm up and back with such violence that Quinn felt like his arm had been yanked from the socket. The rotator cuff in Quinn's shoulder shredded with a nearly audible tearing of the ligament.
Quinn screamed. The pain seared his vision, and the arm went limp. Hot stabs of pain radiated from his shoulder as if he had been impaled by the knives of an errant magician.
"We find," said the first man, "that constant pain can serve as an effective reminder."
Later that night, Quinn put on a brave face for Sierra, explaining that he had torn a muscle when he slipped on the steps and grabbed the railing. His obvious pain brought out the nurse in his niece. She fixed up an ice pack and tried to convince Quinn to go to the hospital. But Quinn was stubborn, and eventually Sierra retreated to her bedroom and went to sleep.
Quinn raided his medicine cabinet for some muscle relaxers and painkillers. But every time he dozed off, the arm would fall into an uncomfortable position, and the pain would jerk him awake. At 6:00 a.m., Quinn left Sierra a note and headed to the emergency room.


68
After an hour in the emergency room and an MRI, Quinn learned that he had indeed torn his rotator cuff. A deep tear, in the words of the pessimistic little orthopedic surgeon, a man who made it clear he didn't particularly care for lawyers.
"Will it require surgery?" Quinn asked.
"With rotator cuffs, I don't tell the patient when it's time for surgery. The patient tells me. When you can't sleep at night or live with the pain during the day, it's time." The doctor latched on to Quinn's elbow and twisted the arm around a little, eliciting a yelp.
"Do you do that for non-lawyers too?" Quinn asked.
"Rotator cuff surgery is one of the most painful surgeries imaginable," the doctor said, not bothering to smile. "The recovery period can be up to two months. If you think I like pain, you should meet the rehab specialists."
Quinn left the hospital with his arm in a sling and a new prescription for painkillers in his pocket. Catherine O'Rourke's case was only two months away. Massive amounts of pretrial work awaited. Quinn didn't have time for surgery. He barely had time for the bathroom.
On the way back to the condo, Quinn considered his options. One part of him wanted to just walk into Carla Duncan's office and launch a preemptive strike against his tormentors. He could tell her about last night's assault and file charges. With any luck, Carla could tie the whole thing back to Richard Hofstetter Sr.
But the fallout would damage Quinn as well. There would be allegations of sex with underage girls, illegal gambling, and tax evasion. Plus, members of gangs and organized crime rings would know that Quinn had cheated them at the high-stakes table.
Quinn's legal problems might impact his ability to maintain custody of Sierra against a challenge by Claude Tanner. The last thing Sierra needed right now was to be put in the custody of a person she didn't even know.
But even if Quinn could keep custody, he worried about Sierra's safety. The men last night had shown Quinn her picture as a not-so-subtle hint. They knew Quinn's Achilles' heel--he would do anything to protect his niece.
Quinn would have to handle this one without going to the police. The first step would be to neutralize the threat of Claude Tanner winning custody of Sierra. For that, Quinn had a plan. It was so high risk that the very thought of it made his palms sweat even now.
It would take a few days to put the plan together. Perhaps in forty-eight hours his luck would begin to change.


69
Sierra shocked Quinn that night by announcing that she wanted to go to the movies with some friends. Quinn saw this as a hopeful sign that Sierra was on the road back to normalcy. Teenagers so often leaned on friends.
Still, it made him nervous. "What do you want to see?"
"Young Love," she said. It sounded suspicious to Quinn, and Sierra must have read the look on his face. "It's kind of like a modern Romeo and Juliet," she added.
"What time does it start?"
"We were thinking about going to the one at 9:05."
"Whom are you going with?" Man, I sound like a dad.
"Some friends."
"'Friends' as in girls or 'friends' as in boys?"
Sierra grunted her disapproval, as if all the boys her age were below her standards. It made Quinn smile inside.
"Ashley and Jennifer," she said.
After a thorough cross-examination, Quinn agreed to let Sierra go. He had his reservations about it, especially with Hofstetter's goons prowling about, but he couldn't tell Sierra no. He was starting to understand why dads spoiled their daughters.
In Quinn's opinion, Sierra's cotton stretch top was entirely too tight, hugging her bony torso. He kept that opinion to himself but couldn't shake the feeling that he suddenly felt about ten years older than he had a week ago. What was it with young girls and the way they dressed today, anyway? Unfortunately, Quinn knew all too well what went through the minds of junior high boys.
He drove Sierra to the theater where she was supposed to meet her friends. He dropped her off, circled around the parking lot once, and found a spot in a distant corner. He waited at least fifteen minutes, pulled on a baseball cap, and headed inside. He wasn't being paranoid, he told himself. Hofstetter's thugs were real, and he had a constant source of pain in his right shoulder to prove it.
Quinn bought a ticket to Young Love, a bucket of popcorn, and a Coke. He waited until he was sure the previews had finished before he entered the theater. He slumped into an open seat next to the wall in the second-to-last row and started scouring the room for Sierra and her friends. He spotted them on the other side of the theater, two-thirds of the way down, and he was pleased to see that no boys had joined them.
Quinn pulled the cap down and slouched a little lower, trying to make his shoulder comfortable. The movie was full of banal jokes, cliches, and good-looking teens who couldn't act--at least for the first five minutes, which was exactly how long it took Quinn to doze off into a fitful but oblivious sleep.
"Uncle Quinn. Uncle Quinn."
Somebody shook him, and pain sliced through his shoulder like a knife penetrating to the bone. Quinn shrugged himself awake, groaned, and grabbed his arm.
"I'm sorry," the young voice said. "Are you okay?"
Quinn shook off the grogginess and blinked. Sierra and her two friends were standing in the row just in front of Quinn, looking at him. Other patrons were leaving the theater.
"What are you doing here?" asked Sierra. She looked betrayed, and Quinn couldn't blame her.
He leaned his head back, stretched, and closed his eyes. "Seeing if you need a ride home?"
"I told you we would call," Sierra insisted.
"Yeah," said Quinn. "I know."
On the way back to the condo, Quinn and Sierra listened to the radio, neither speaking. At the Towers, Quinn handed the keys to the valet and walked into the building with Sierra, where the two of them silently rode the elevator to the forty-second floor. Once they entered Quinn's condo unit, he started with the apologies.
"I'm sorry, Sierra. I didn't mean to embarrass you."
"It's okay," she said, but Quinn knew it wasn't. Unlike her mom, Sierra never addressed things head-on. She internalized and brooded until it all came frothing to the surface in some emotional meltdown.
"Sit down," Quinn said, motioning to the kitchen table. "I need to tell you some things."
For the next fifteen minutes, he told Sierra about his encounter with Hofstetter's men from the night before. He left out the accusations about underage sex and the fact that they showed him Sierra's picture, but he told her everything else. As he talked, Sierra took it all in, displaying no emotion.
"I don't want to live with my dad," Sierra said after Quinn finished. She was a smart kid, cutting right to the core issue that Quinn had left unspoken. "If he even is my dad."
Seeing the fear in her eyes, Quinn wondered if he had done the right thing in telling her. He had always promised himself that if he ever had kids, he would always tell them the truth. Maybe it wasn't that easy. It didn't take a genius to know what Sierra was thinking. Her stepdad had tried to abuse her. She would be petrified at the thought of living with a different grown man she didn't even know.
"I'm not going to let that happen," Quinn said. He reached out and put his hand on her forearm. "I've got a plan."
Sierra stared down at the table and tried to hold back the tears welling in her eyes.
"You've got to trust me," Quinn said. "Together, we'll get through this. This time, we'll win the case. It's all going to work out."
Later that night, as Quinn slept on the couch, the loud and insistent ringing of the phone jerked him awake. Pain shot through his right shoulder, and he grimaced, trying to collect his thoughts.
He found the phone. "Hello."
"This is Jimmy from the front desk," said a familiar voice.
Quinn's groggy brain pieced it together. Jimmy, the night security guard.
"I've got somebody here who belongs to you," Jimmy said.
Quinn tensed and glanced around the apartment. His niece's bedroom door was closed. "Sierra?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
Suddenly Quinn was fully awake. "Don't let her go anywhere," he said. "I'll be right down."
Quinn had fallen asleep in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. He put on his sandals and headed toward the door. The note on the kitchen table stopped him midstride.
Dear Uncle Quinn,
Thanks for everything you've done. Don't worry about me cause I'll be fine. I just think I might need to take off for a little while. It will be better for both of us. I'll come back after the trial when all this stuff is over. Pleeeeease, take care of yourself! I love you and miss you!!!
Sierra
Quinn felt a lump in his throat as he headed down to collect Sierra. What was she thinking?
When he arrived in the lobby, Sierra had a worried look on her face, like a kid waiting in the principal's office for her parents to arrive. Quinn thanked Jimmy and led his niece back to the elevator.
Quinn used the elevator ride to tell Sierra that this was no way to handle their problems. "You can't just run away," he scolded. "Where would you even go?"
When she started to cry, Quinn backed off. He told her that he loved her and that they needed to stick together. She walked down the hallway to the condo without looking at him.
"I just didn't want to cause you any trouble," she said, waiting for Quinn to unlock the door.
Sierra kept things under control until she and Quinn sat down together on the couch. Without warning, she came unraveled. She sobbed uncontrollably and apologized over and over.
Quinn didn't know what else to do, so he just held her with his good arm, let her cry, and tried to reassure her. "We can get through this together," he said. "But not if you try running away every time I turn my head."
She cried for a few minutes, then pulled back and seemed to regain her composure. "You were snoring in that movie theater," she said.
"I was not."
"You were, Uncle Quinn; I swear. More like a snort. Kinda like this . . ." Sierra made a sound through her nose that made them both laugh.
"I don't snore," said Quinn.
"That is so untrue. I could barely hear the movie."
They argued good-naturedly for a few minutes, and then Quinn suggested they talk in the morning. He had a plan and would tell her all about it then. Running away was not part of it.
She forced another smile and promised to be there when he woke up. Just to be sure, after Sierra closed the door to the bedroom, Quinn pulled a few couch cushions, blankets, and pillows over to the front door and made his bed at the threshold.
Life with a thirteen-year-old was turning out to be very interesting.


70
On Friday morning, Quinn's investigator called with a missing piece of the puzzle.
"Who put the list of assets together for Richard Hofstetter's estate?" Billy Long asked.
"Annie did. She was appointed as the executrix."
"That's what I thought," growled Billy. "Did you know the list contains a slight oversight?"
"I'm listening," said Quinn.
"Your sister might not have known about this, but Hofstetter Jr. had a 15 percent limited partnership interest in the Oasis, a ratty casino about a mile south of the strip. He held the interest under the name of a Delaware corporation--Oasis Holdings--and Hofstetter Jr. was the only stockholder. Guess who recently made an offer for the Oasis?"
"You're the investigator."
"Yeah," complained Billy, "but you're the big-shot Vegas lawyer. You should know these things." He paused so that Quinn could appreciate Billy's brilliance. "Some of Daddy Hofstetter's business partners, that's who. The word on the street is that this property is the final piece of an assemblage of land that would allow for the next big Vegas casino, the granddaddy of them all."
Quinn was taking notes. So far, it still didn't add up. Hofstetter Jr.'s interest in the Oasis would pass to either Annie, if she was found innocent, or Sierra, if Annie was disqualified from inheriting her husband's estate by virtue of a guilty verdict. How could Hofstetter Sr. benefit from this?
"So here's what makes it interesting," said Billy, anticipating Quinn's next question. "Some of the other partners in the Oasis are tied in with nearby casino owners on the south side of the city who don't want the competition. Hofstetter Jr.'s shares might be the deciding votes."
Quinn put down his pen. No more diagrams were necessary. Sierra was only thirteen. If her stepfather's limited partnership interest fell to her rather than Annie, voting rights would be determined by Sierra's guardian. And if Claude Tanner gained custody of Sierra, he would also obtain those voting rights.
"You think Daddy Hofstetter found Claude Tanner and cut a deal with him?" Quinn asked.
"Nah," Billy said. "I think Claude Tanner just had a sudden and irresistible urge to spend time with a daughter he hadn't bothered to see in thirteen years."
Quinn had finally found his match in the sarcasm department. "Can we prove any of this?" he asked.
"The limited partnership interest and Delaware Corporation are matters of record. The rest is just street talk. When somebody does an assemblage deal like this, they use a lot of shell corporations and offshore holding companies that hide the ownership."
"I'll pay whatever it takes," Quinn said. "Just get me proof."
"Legally?" Billy asked.
"This is my family, Billy. Whatever it takes."
"I'll do my best, Mr. Newberg. But these guys don't like outsiders poking around in their business."
Quinn's own rotator cuff could have told him that.
"One last question," Quinn said. "Is there a time frame when this vote might occur?"
"It's probably not a short-term thing," Billy responded. "My guess is that Tanner wants to get permanent legal custody and then wait a few months before he exercises his right as custodian of the limited partnership interest."
So he doesn't need custody of Sierra right away, thought Quinn. When he hung up with Billy, he started making a few adjustments to his plan.
Five minutes later, Melanie barged into his office, her face reflecting the bad news. "You might want to turn on the TV," she said. Quinn kept one on his credenza but rarely used it. "They're saying the DNA for Sierra's father is a match."
Though Quinn had suspected this would be the case, he still felt the blow. "Set up a meeting with Mr. Tanner and his lawyer," Quinn said. "This afternoon, if possible."
Quinn took a seat in a high-backed swivel chair across the table from Claude Tanner and his famous Vegas divorce attorney, Kyle Richardson. Quinn studied Tanner's narrow face for glimpses of Sierra but could find none. Sierra's father quietly regarded Quinn with narrow and wary eyes, letting his attorney do most of the talking. Kyle Richardson had thinning blond hair, a massive ring, and skin cooked medium well by the local tanning booths. When celebrities needed a Vegas divorce attorney, Richardson was generally their first call.
Quinn let Richardson ramble for a few minutes about the results of the DNA tests and his client's stellar chances for obtaining custody of Sierra. "He's not in this for the money or the publicity," Richardson declared. "He just wants what's best for Sierra."
Quinn wanted to throw up.
"If that's what he really wants," Quinn said, his voice even, "he should have stayed away."
The comment drew little reaction from Tanner, just a slight narrowing of the eyes and another layer of animosity added to the hardened stare. He let his lawyer respond for him.
"If your client could have avoided killing someone, Mr. Tanner would have been pleased to stay away."
Quinn swallowed a comeback; arguing would help no one. "I think we should work this out. One thing is certain: a court battle will not help Sierra."
Richardson shrugged. "I'm listening."
"If Annie is acquitted, the court will probably award her permanent custody. After all, she's Sierra's mother and took care of the girl from birth." He waited for a reaction, but Richardson and Tanner both acted noncommittal. At least they didn't disagree. "If she's convicted, I think I'll have a fair shot at getting custody myself."
Richardson started to object, but Quinn cut him off with a raised palm. "Let me finish."
Quinn turned to Tanner. Though he couldn't say it this bluntly, he knew the man wasn't interested in temporary custody for the sake of Sierra. Tanner was only interested in legal custody for the sake of voting rights. Quinn's offer would be a calculated bet that Tanner would trade the possibility of temporary custody now in order to increase his chances of getting permanent legal custody, including voting rights, later.
"As things stand right now, if I lose Annie's case, I'll fight you for custody," Quinn said. "Sierra is thirteen. The court will put a lot of weight behind her wishes. She wants to live with me. Plus, courts don't like fathers who take off when their kids are born and pop back into their lives at times of . . ." Quinn hesitated. "Shall we say . . . 'opportunity'? You might get some kind of visitation rights, but I'm prepared to fight for custody."
"Your analysis has so many holes I don't know where to start," Richardson interjected.
"I'm sure," Quinn said. "But here's the bottom line: I'm prepared to waive all that. I'm prepared to sign a deal today, right now, that says I won't contest custody if Annie loses. But there is one condition."
He had their attention. Even Richardson didn't interrupt.
"Sierra can't handle a temporary custody battle right now. She needs stability. She needs a familiar environment. She's too emotionally distraught to be forced into a reconciliation arrangement with a father she doesn't even know." Quinn leaned forward and felt his throat tightening. There was so much at stake. "If Annie and I lose the case, even if the jury enters a compromise verdict of guilty but mentally ill, you get sole custody of Sierra. No court battles. No contest of any sort. Just a reasonable visitation schedule for me. In exchange for that promise, you agree not to file for custody or visitation rights until Annie's court case is resolved. And if Annie wins, she gets permanent custody, and you get reasonable visitation.
"In the meantime, I'll put Sierra in a stable situation where she can get counseling and recover from some of the psychological blows she's been suffering. If you care about your daughter, you'll give her a chance to get back on her feet."
For a few long seconds, nobody spoke. Quinn's heart rate spiked but he tried to seem calm, as if he held all the cards.
"Give me a minute to talk to my client," Richardson said.
Ninety minutes later, Quinn signed the documents and promised to get Annie's signature later that night. He thanked the two men and hustled out of the building before they could change their minds.
The weight of the case now threatened to crush him. Quinn was a trial lawyer, accustomed to pressure and high-risk litigation decisions. But nothing in his past had prepared him for a case this personal, with stakes this high. If he won, he could save the lives of Annie and Sierra, the two women he cared about most.
And if he lost, he might destroy them both.
Only time would tell whether this was a brilliant litigation strategy or legal suicide.