Randy Singer: By reason of insanity

She tried to stop shaking. But somehow the vision seemed more real than life itself, more solid than the bars of her cell.

It was just a dream. It was just a dream. She repeated it like a mantra until her heartbeat returned to some semblance of normal. She repeated it until the goose bumps started to disappear and the chill crawling up her spine went away.

Just a dream, she told herself.

Just a dream.

Though she had never been asleep.

That evening, Cat was a hot item during visiting hours. The whole experience seemed surreal and, like everything else in jail, impersonal. Cat sat alone in a booth, talking into a telephone, looking at her friends on the monitor in front of her. Her visitors sat in a large room adjacent to the lobby of the jail among a maze of cubicles with telephones and closed-circuit television monitors.

"Did you talk my mom out of coming down?" Cat asked one of her friends. Cat's mom and sister lived in central Pennsylvania, and Cat's friends had already told them about the results of the hearing. Cat loved her mom, but the woman knew how to fret.

"I think I can hold her off for a day or two."

"Thanks," Cat said, and immediately felt guilty.

Like a lot of families, the dynamics between the O'Rourke women were complicated. Cat's dad had deserted the family for another woman when Cat was in junior high. The divorce became final the following year. Cat had seen him only three times since.

Cat's younger sister, Kelsey-the "good sister" in Cat's mind-had stayed close to home to take care of their mom and raise a family. Meanwhile, Cat had chased after her own selfish dreams. Compounding Cat's guilt, her mom seemed to think that Cat could do no wrong and at the same time found ample reason to criticize Kelsey. For her part, Kelsey often returned fire, arguing frequently with her mom while Cat held her tongue, feeling like an awkward visitor even among her own family. Cat couldn't remember exactly when it happened, but the burden of being her mom's "perfect" daughter had somehow stolen her ability to be transparent and authentic, even around her own mom.

She wondered how her mom might react to this latest mess.

Halfway through visiting hours, Marc Boland showed up, and the guards escorted Cat into a booth reserved for attorney conferences. Cat sat on the opposite side of a sheet of bulletproof glass from Bo. The lawyer's tie was undone, and his eyes were bloodshot, as if he had been up three straight nights working on Catherine's case.

"We filed our petition for cert with a justice of the Virginia Supreme Court at 5:00," he said, pulling out a bound document too thick to fit through the slot at the bottom of the glass. "We have a hearing scheduled for 2 p.m. tomorrow. We should have a decision by the end of the day. If not, I'm pretty sure we'll get something on Saturday."

Though this was supposed to be good news, Cat's heart sagged a little. "So the most likely scenario is that I'll be in here for at least one more day and maybe two?"

Bo hesitated. "I'm afraid that's right."

"I can't post a bond and get out like violent felons do?"

Bo looked unsure as to whether Cat was kidding. "You can't get bonded out for contempt of court."

"Can you at least get me a few things to read and something to write with?"

"We can make that happen."

They talked for a few minutes about the procedural challenges. Cat asked Bo to call her mom and calm her down a little. Bo frowned but took down the phone number. He seemed antsy to get back to work, so Cat tried to keep her questions to a minimum. She wanted to talk to somebody about the vision she had experienced, but she didn't want to sound like a wacko to Bo.

"Are they treating you okay?" Bo asked, his big round eyes expressing real concern.

Cat looked at the tired warrior and decided he had enough to worry about. "Like a queen," she said.

Quinn Newberg pulled up to the black wrought-iron gate that protected the Schlesinger estate and entered the security code. As the gate swung open, Quinn goosed his Mercedes-Benz S350 down the winding driveway, jerking to a halt in front of the four-car garage. He glanced around as he climbed the marble steps to the front entrance of the stone-and-brick mansion. As usual, everything about the place-the waterfall out front, the lush green landscaping in the middle of the Vegas desert, the manicured lawn-was painfully immaculate. At one time or another, various parts of the house had been displayed in Vegas lifestyle magazines.

He rang the doorbell, greeted the Schlesingers' butler, and gave Allison Schlesinger a polite, high-society hug. He wanted to tell her that she looked good in her new face-lift but kept his mouth shut. The lady was thirty-five and, by Quinn's count, already on her third plastic surgery.

"Just in time for dinner," Allison said, as if she'd been cooking all day. "You want to go up and get Sierra?"

"Where's the old man?" Quinn asked.

"In the den, watching Mad Money."

Quinn groaned. Wayne Schlesinger was giving Trump a run for his money in Vegas real estate, but still he insisted on directing his own investments.

Control. Wayne Schlesinger was all about control.

About two years ago, Quinn had represented Schlesinger's firstborn son, the black sheep of the family, on charges of racketeering, money laundering, and fraud. The prosecutor had offered Andrew Schlesinger a deal in exchange for testimony against some higher-ups in the Vegas crime circles, but Andrew had refused and gone to trial. Quinn won the case, and Dad Schlesinger told Quinn that if he ever needed anything, he should call. "Anything," Schlesinger had stressed.

When Quinn's sister was arrested and Quinn learned that Judge Strackman had been assigned to the case, he had decided to call in the favor. Rookie lawyers might settle for researching a defendant's background or a judge's prior legal decisions when preparing for a bond hearing. But Quinn researched campaign contributions. His firm might not have any juice with Judge Strackman, but Wayne Schlesinger had juice to spare.

At Quinn's request, Wayne and Allison Schlesinger had agreed to take care of Sierra until Annie's trial was over. All of Wayne's children by his first marriage were grown and out of the household. He and Allison had no other kids.

And Quinn had a quasi-legitimate reason for asking. Possibility of flight was always a factor for the judge to consider at a bond hearing. Quinn had argued that Annie would never think about leaving the jurisdiction without her daughter. The Schlesingers would be sure to keep a good eye on her. Quinn didn't even have to mention how much money Sierra's proposed guardians had provided to Strackman's campaign. The result-Strackman had set Annie's bond at $250,000, imposed a few conditions like electronic monitoring, and ignored Carla Duncan's protests about an accused murderer getting bail.

"I'll go and get Sierra," Quinn told Allison Schlesinger. He took the stairs two at a time and headed straight for Sierra's room. The door was locked. Quinn knocked loudly and waited a moment before the door cracked open.

"Uncle Quinn!" Sierra exclaimed. She swung the door open, and Quinn entered the disheveled room, closing the door behind him.

Sierra gave Quinn a quick hug, and he felt the bones from her shoulder blades. Even before her mom was arrested, Sierra had been thin and gangly, all elbows, knees, braces, and long strawberry blonde hair. But she had been losing weight the last few months and had Quinn worried.

He threw some clothes off the bed and took a seat. "Are they treating you all right?" he asked.

Sierra made a face, then apparently decided to make the best of it. "They're okay."

"That doesn't exactly sound like a ringing endorsement."