Randy Singer: By reason of insanity

The trial had exacted its toll on Quinn, too. His face looked drawn, and his expensive suit seemed to hang a little looser on his frame. Quinn was just over six feet, angular and lean, with the fluid movements of an athlete, though Cat's research did not reveal any sports background. He had this mysterious look, not unlike a Vegas illusionist, with straight black hair and a trim beard that covered only the tip of his chin. Dark eyebrows shaded the man's best feature-the expressive almond eyes that seemed to dance and spark in ways that made Cat feel like nodding her head when he spoke.

Quinn's sister reflected his dark allure in her own feminine features. In Cat's view, this accounted for much of the nation's fascination with the case. The Menendez brothers. Scott and Lacie Peterson. The Simpson case. They all had one thing in common-the leading players were easy on the eyes.

Would anybody have cared, Catherine wondered, if the Newbergs had been poor, rural, and not quite so dashing?

Quinn felt his stomach corkscrew while his heart slammed against his chest. On the inside, turmoil. But on the outside, another day at the office. He leaned back in his chair, left leg crossed over right, and kept an eye on the door behind the judge's dais.

"How can you stay so calm?" Annie whispered. "Feel this." She touched Quinn's cheek with the back of an ice-cold hand.

"It's out of our control," Quinn said, though he knew this wasn't entirely true. He still had one more ace to play, something that would keep the legal commentators wagging their tongues for a long time. If he had the guts to lay it down.

Quinn placed a blank yellow legal pad on the table and wrote "Verdict:" at the top of the page, drawing a line next to the word. He checked under the last page of the legal pad just to make certain his ace was still there-a single sheet of paper, folded in half and signed under oath.

"All rise! This honorable court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Ronald Strackman presiding."

Strackman took his place on the bench. "Be seated." He paused, took a sip of coffee, and surveyed the courtroom.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it appears we have a verdict in this case. I'm going to say this only once. I will not tolerate any outbursts when the verdict is read. I have full contempt powers to control this court, and I will not hesitate to use them."

Under the counsel table, Annie put a trembling hand on Quinn's leg.

He reached down and held it. "Remember," he whispered, "all that stuff about whether or not the jurors look at the defendant as a way to determine their verdict is meaningless. On a case like this, they'll have their poker faces on."

Annie nodded bravely and squeezed Quinn's hand.

"Bailiff," Judge Strackman said, "bring in the jury."

Catherine O'Rourke watched the jury members file in-eyes downcast, a mask of solemn duty on every face. Juror five, the single mother of two, had been crying again.

"Is it too late to put twenty bucks on the prosecution?" Catherine asked.

When Stuart Sheldon shrugged, she slipped a twenty into his greasy hand and made another note on her legal pad. The pain she felt as she did so reflected her own assessment of the case.

Guilty, she wrote.

"Ladies and gentlemen, do you have a verdict?"

"We do," answered the forewoman. She was a schoolteacher with four grown kids. Quinn had found her impossible to read.

She handed the verdict form to the bailiff, who handed it to the judge. Strackman looked over the form, his face expressionless. He took another swig of coffee and handed the form to the court clerk.

"Will the defendant please rise?" the clerk said.

Quinn and Annie stood shoulder to shoulder, like two prisoners facing the firing squad, as the clerk read the verdict aloud.

"On the count of murder in the first degree, we the jury find the defendant, Anne Newberg…" The clerk paused for what seemed like an inhumane length of time. "… guilty as charged."

Gasps came from the gallery. Somebody in the Hofstetter section said, "Yesss!" Quinn's knees nearly buckled, but he managed to stand tall and keep his chin up. He glanced at his sister and saw a look of uncomprehending shock.

He couldn't believe it had come to this.

Quinn reached down and picked up his legal pad, removing and unfolding the single sheet of paper. The reporters were probably too busy scribbling down their reactions to even notice. If only they knew. Juries delivered verdicts every day. But if Quinn followed through on this next move, it would be unprecedented.

"I have a motion to make, Your Honor."

"Yes, of course," Strackman said, undoubtedly expecting a routine motion for a new trial based on an assortment of evidentiary rulings. "But before you make that motion, would you like me to poll the jury?"

"Sure," Quinn said, gladly taking his seat. He needed another minute to think. Once he launched his grenade, there would be no taking it back.

As Strackman polled the jury members, asking them one by one if this represented their verdict, Quinn tried to sort through his jumbled emotions. Anger. Despair. Heartbreak for his sister, sitting next to him in shell-shocked silence. Apprehension about whether to make this next move-a self-destructive bombshell, but one that might gain his sister's freedom.

"Juror number three, is this your verdict?"

"Yes."

"Juror number four, is this your verdict?"

"Yes."

Quinn stared at each juror, trying to shame them into changing their minds. But like every other case he had ever lost, they ignored him and looked straight at the judge, affirming the verdict like good little soldiers.

"Juror number five, is this your verdict?"

The woman swallowed hard and hesitated. Tears rimmed her eyes, and a brief flicker of hope stirred in Quinn. C'mon… C'mon… I know you didn't want this.

"Yes."

Another gut punch-the cruelty of hope created and shattered.

"Juror number six, is this your verdict?"

"Yes."

"Juror number seven-" Judge Strackman stopped midsentence, his face twisted with concern. Juror five had her hand in the air. "Yes?" Strackman asked.

"It's not my verdict," the woman blurted out. She stole a glance at Quinn, who quickly nodded his encouragement. "I'm sorry, Your Honor. I only agreed to the verdict so I could get this ordeal over with-to get these people off my back. It's not my verdict. I think she's innocent."

A few of the other jurors shook their heads in disapproval; the Hofstetters let loose with a few muted curses. The entire courtroom buzzed with excitement. This was better than Cirque du Soleil!

Energized, Quinn jumped to his feet, demanding a mistrial. Carla Duncan stood as well, but the look on her face said it all. Juror five had just blown this trial right out of the water.

"Order!" Strackman barked, banging his gavel with uncharacteristic force. "Order in the court!"

He glared at the juror, and Quinn knew what was coming. "Ms. Richards," the judge began, taking the unusual step of calling the juror by name, "you have just nullified this entire trial, causing this court a tremendous amount of frustration, wasted tax dollars, and wasted time. If you had reservations, I wish you would have stayed in the jury room and tried to work them out. As it is, I have no choice but to declare a mistrial."

Julia Richards, juror five, nodded solemnly. But she held her head up, as if she might actually be proud of what she had just accomplished. Though she wasn't really his type, Quinn wanted to walk over to the jury box and kiss the woman.

He thought about that old cliche- a tie is like kissing your sister. But after hearing the word guilty, this "tie" felt like cause for celebration. He placed his arm around Annie's shoulder and settled for a reserved hug. Then, ever so carefully, he folded the single piece of paper in front of him and slid it back into the legal pad. Still abuzz, the reporters all thought they had a blockbuster story for the evening news.