Randy Singer - By reason of insanity

"Normally attorneys have to stand in that small chamber just outside the holding cell and talk to their clients through the slit in the door," Bo explained. "Because of the confidential nature of what I'm going to tell you, the judge has allowed us to use this conference room just this once."

"Thanks," Cat said. She had a hard time imagining talking to her lawyer in a holding cell, surrounded by ten other inmates.

"Are you doing okay?" Bo asked.

"You've got to get me out of here," Cat said, her resolve from the night before melting away in the face of exhaustion and uncertainty. "Can't you get me bailed out?" She could hear a certain desperation in her voice, but she didn't really care. She had to get out of this place.

"This morning's hearing is an arraignment, not a bond hearing. We'll plead not guilty, and I'll make my first appearance as counsel of record. That's all we're doing today."

"How long before a bond hearing?" Cat asked.

"Actually, I'm not even sure we should ask for bail," Bo said.

Cat gave him an incredulous look. No bail?

"Number one, I don't think there's any chance the judge would give it to you. And second, I don't think this Avenger of Blood character can control himself. If he strikes again while you're in here, you'll walk free the very next day."

She knew it was an overstatement, but Cat appreciated Bo's attempt to calm her. She shifted in her chair. "We need to at least try," she countered. "If we get it, I'll stay within sight of somebody 24-7. I'll have a total alibi at all times."

Bo didn't look like he was buying it.

"I can't survive in here, Bo."

"Catherine," Bo said calmly, as if attempting to transfer some of his resolve to her, "you can make it. You will make it. Every client tells me the same thing the first time we meet. As strong-willed as you are, you'll be running the joint before long. We're going to clear your name, Cat, but it's going to take some time."

We don't have time! she wanted to scream. But she didn't. Bo's on my side, she reminded herself. Looking out for my best interest. Her part was to be strong.

"Okay," she said, though she heard the uncertainty in her own tone.

Bo nodded. "You need to be aware, Catherine, that the commonwealth claims it has some additional evidence."

"Like what?"

"They obtained an emergency subpoena for your bank records first thing this morning. There's a five-thousand-dollar deposit from American Finance, one of those loan application deals triggered when you deposit the check. It was put into your account last Thursday. In your house, they found the tear-off page for another application for an unsecured credit card loan, this one for ten thousand. They'll be monitoring your mail for the approval on that loan from Bank of America."

"What does that prove?" Cat asked.

"Apparently somebody sent Rex Archibald a ten-thousand-dollar retainer in money orders. They're trying to prove that you had access to that kind of money."

For Cat, it was like they were talking about a different person. She received credit card and loan offers all the time. She never, ever , filled any of them out, much less deposited them. "So now they're trying to pin the murder of Rex Archibald on me too? I didn't make that deposit, Bo. I didn't apply for any quick loans."

Bo paused before responding, his facial expression unchanging. "A handwriting expert says the signature on the back of the check and the handwriting on the deposit stub are yours. There's also something else." Bo watched her, apparently gauging her reaction. "Boyd Gates says they're running DNA tests on some bloody paper towels they found in a white plastic bag in your neighbor's trash container. The same bag contained a small vial of methohexital, the drug used to sedate Marcia Carver and Sherita Johnson. Is there anything you're not telling me?"

"I didn't murder anyone. I didn't kidnap any babies. Why would I do such a thing?"

"I'm not suggesting you did, Cat." Bo kept it low-key, a consummate professional. "But somebody is doing one heck of a job setting you up."

"Why would I dump those things in my neighbor's trash? Who would be that stupid?"

A deputy stuck his head in the door. "Your case is up next," he said to Bo.

"Can you drop it down?" Bo asked.

"No, sir," said the deputy. "Judge Rosencrance wants to make sure this one starts on time. There's a lot of media attention out there."

"Give us a minute," Bo said.

When the deputy left, Bo stood. "We've got to talk about adding another lawyer. On a capital case, you need two lawyers. I only handle the guilt phase. Every capital defendant needs someone who specializes in the penalty phase. We can talk about it after the arraignment."

Penalty phase. Capital defendants. The words were clinical enough, but Cat knew what they meant. She felt nauseous as the reality of it all sunk in, piece by awful piece. In a few minutes, she would be accused of first-degree murder. The commonwealth would be seeking the death penalty.

Bo closed his briefcase. "I've given one of the female deputies the clothes we had your friend pick up, along with a hairbrush and some rubber bands so you can pull your hair into a ponytail. She'll unlock your handcuffs so you can get changed."

"Okay," Cat mumbled, distracted by the challenges looming before her. She felt like she had stumbled into her own worst nightmare-a maze of injustice and false accusations. How could it get any worse?

Cat stepped into court feeling embarrassed and more than a little ugly. The night before, the deputies had released her duplex keys to Bo, who in turn had asked one of Cat's friends to pick out a respectable outfit for court. Cat wore a nice pair of slacks and a modest white cotton blouse. She had pulled her hair into a tight ponytail but wore no makeup. She knew her eyes were as bloodshot as a drug addict's.

She kept her head down and shuffled along, flanked by deputies. She sat next to Bo, mindful that the cameras recorded every movement. She couldn't bring herself to turn and look at the packed gallery. She knew her friends and coworkers would be there, as well as her editors. She had talked to her mother and sister on the phone last night, and they had planned to drive in from central Pennsylvania. Cat wondered how many people in the courtroom had already judged her.

The judge read the charges against Catherine-first-degree murder-and Bo confidently entered a plea of "absolutely not guilty." The lawyers settled on a date for a preliminary hearing, and, almost before it started, the proceeding was over.

Bo talked the guard into giving him a few more minutes with Catherine in the conference room before she headed back to jail.

"This will be the last time," the guard warned.

When they were alone, Catherine didn't wait for Bo to set the agenda. She was still unsure of herself, but she tried to sound decisive. "I want to bring Quinn Newberg on as co-counsel," she said. "He's competent, aggressive, and adamantly opposed to the death penalty."

Bo thought about it for a moment, his face registering concern. "I don't know… He specializes in insanity. People will automatically assume you committed the crime and will be pleading insanity. Plus, he's not local. He doesn't know our courts."

Catherine trusted Bo. But it was her life on the line. For some reason, this felt right.

"You know the local courts, Bo. I need someone who hates the death penalty." She placed a hand on Bo's forearm. "Will you call him for me? Please? I think it would have more impact coming from you."

Bo hesitated again; clearly he didn't like this idea. "Quinn Newberg is a good attorney. But he's also going to be very expensive."

Cat gave Bo a pained expression. She hadn't really thought about costs. With her family's help, she thought she could scrape enough together for Bo's retainer. But she could never afford two lawyers.