Randy Singer - By reason of insanity

When the Fasten Seatbelt light went off, Sierra broke out her iPod and moved into the center seat, closer to Quinn. Before long, the gangly teenager had curled into an awkward sleeping position, propping her pillow against Quinn's shoulder. Though it hurt the injured shoulder, he didn't move until Sierra fell asleep. Then he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. It was amazing how much his niece had already changed him.

Quinn's thoughts turned to Annie and her stoic good-bye with Sierra last night. Though being separated from Sierra tore at Annie's heart, she had put on a brave face and tried valiantly not to show her emotions.

Overall, Annie seemed to be weathering jail pretty well. She was a survivor. Plus, Quinn had called in some favors to get Annie her own cell in a minimum-security wing of the Vegas jail, with work responsibilities as a jail trustee. Doing time was never easy, but Annie's situation was certainly better than Catherine's.

Quinn and Sierra landed at the Norfolk airport, dropped their stuff at the Hilton Garden Inn in the Virginia Beach Town Center, and headed straight for the jail. On the way, they stopped at a Borders so Sierra would have something to read while Quinn met with Catherine.

Quinn's goal for today's meeting was not an easy one-convince Catherine to plead insanity. Marc Boland had broached the subject initially, and Catherine had resisted. If Quinn couldn't convince her, the attorneys had agreed they would petition the court to allow them to plead insanity over the objections of the client. It would be much easier if Catherine just agreed.

Quinn left Sierra reading in the visitors' area near the front desk of the jail and proceeded through the metal detector and two thick, remote-controlled doors that separated the jail proper from the lobby area. Going through the doors always gave Quinn a sinking feeling; the claustrophobic block walls of the narrow hallways had a way of sucking hope out of a person. Jail was no place for someone like Catherine O'Rourke. She needed help, not punishment.

Quinn took his seat in the phone-booth-size cubicle that served as the attorney interview room. Within minutes, Catherine arrived on the other side of the thick glass.

It had been only two weeks since Quinn had seen her, but the change was unmistakable. She still had the haunting beauty that had seared itself into Quinn's memory-the dark eyes and sculpted face-and her spiked hair actually looked stylish, the sort of look a movie star might sport a few weeks after shaving her head for an important role. But Catherine's eyes seemed less full of life than Quinn remembered, and her entire face had the contour of unshakable sadness-a downward sloping of the mouth and eyes that made no secret of her depression. Quinn expected her to look hardened. Instead, he saw melancholy.

She thanked him for coming, and he asked her a few questions about life behind bars. She answered politely and then had a question of her own. "How's Sierra?"

The question reminded Quinn that his family drama had played itself out on the world television stage and that inmates watch a lot of television.

"Doing better," Quinn said. "I actually brought her with me."

"Here?" Catherine asked. "To the jail?"

"Yeah. She's out in the visitors' area."

A small spark flickered briefly in Catherine's eyes. "You think I could talk with her tonight during visiting hours? I know a little about what she's going through. Maybe I could encourage her."

Quinn and Sierra had no specific plans that night. "I don't see why not," Quinn said, though the request took him a little off guard. Before receiving Rosemarie's report, Quinn had worked hard to separate these two cases-Annie's and Catherine's-filing them away in different emotional compartments. For some reason, it seemed a little dangerous to blur the lines.

"Thanks," said Catherine. "Visiting hours start at seven."

Quinn nodded. "For now, I want to talk about a possible insanity plea," he said. "I know that Marc has already broached this with you."

Catherine nodded and Quinn noticed her stiffen a little, reminding him that his client had a mind of her own.

He leaned forward. "I know you don't like the implications of an insanity plea, but my job is not to make you like me." Quinn paused, realizing that he cared very much whether this particular client liked him. He might even care a little too much. "My job is to keep you alive and get you out of here. My job is to keep a needle out of your arm."

"Do you believe I did these things?" Catherine asked. Her voice was flat but still conveyed resolve. "Do you think I kidnapped and killed those babies? Do you think I electrocuted Paul Donaldson-fried him to death and dumped his body into the Dismal Swamp Canal? Do you think that's me?"

"It doesn't matter what I think-"

"It matters to me," Catherine said.

Quinn swallowed and stayed fixed on her gaze. "I don't know whether you did or not." It was gut-level honest, and he knew Catherine could sense his sincerity. "I only know that right now, we don't stand a chance of convincing a jury that you're flat-out innocent."

"But I am innocent," Catherine said. "I need you to believe that. I know it doesn't seem that way. Sometimes I doubt it myself. But, Quinn, I could never hurt those kids. Not this Catherine. And not some other side of me either."

Quinn nodded. "I believe that," he said softly. In truth, he didn't know what to believe. Emotionally, Catherine made a compelling case. If he could just let her talk to the jury like this, the way she was talking to him right now, as if she wanted to reach out and grab his shoulders and make him look straight into her soul, a jury might believe her. But court didn't work that way. The path to justice was littered with the land mines of cross-examination. Emotion would yield to evidence and logic. And logic would always dictate the same unwanted result.

"That doesn't change my advice," said Quinn. "As a friend, I believe you. But as a lawyer, I've got to give you my best professional advice. That advice is to plead not guilty by reason of insanity."

"I didn't do it," Catherine insisted. "How can I say that I did?"

An idea hit Quinn. "State your name for the record," he said.

"What?"

"I'm going to show you. We can't possibly win this case on a straight-up not guilty plea if we don't put you on the stand. So you're on the stand, and I'm Boyd Gates. State your name for the record."

A look of determination hardened Catherine's face. "Catherine O'Rourke," she said, squaring her jaw.

"Do you consider yourself a medium, Ms. O'Rourke?"

"No. Not really."

"And yet you just happened to know information about the crimes committed by the Avenger of Blood-information that the police had not released to anyone?"

"I had visions," Catherine said. "I saw the crimes happen in my visions."

"Visions," Quinn repeated, just like a skeptical prosecutor would.

Catherine frowned, as if she hadn't expected him to play the part so enthusiastically.

"Did you happen to see the face of the Avenger in these visions?"

"No. His face was obscured."

" His face. So you could tell the Avenger was a male?"

"Actually, no. I couldn't see the face at all."

"How tall was the Avenger?"

"I don't know-average height?"

"What distinguishing features did the Avenger have?"

"I don't know, Mr. Newberg. These were visions, not police sketches."

"But they provided enough detail for you to know, for example, that Paul Donaldson had a gash on his head?"

"Yes, but that was different."

"You saw him bleeding from that gash on his head; isn't that correct?"

"Yes," Catherine admitted reluctantly, "but I didn't know it was Paul Donaldson. I'd never even met the man."