Randy Singer - By reason of insanity

"Thank you, Your Honor," said Quinn. He left as quickly as possible before the judge could change her mind.

Catherine waited in the holding tank for the deputy to return and take her back to jail.

He showed up about ten minutes later, put the cuffs on her, and opened the door. "You're going in solitary confinement," he said. "Judge's orders."

He escorted Catherine through the long underground tunnel that connected the courthouse to the jail, through the double solid-metal doors that sealed off the jail facility and through another set of double doors to the isolation cells.

"You missed dinner, but I'll see if I can get something brought in," he said.

The man locked Catherine in her cell and had her slide her wrists through the bars so he could release the handcuffs. She thanked him and collapsed onto her cot, emotionally exhausted.

That night, she slept fitfully, awakened by nightmares of hooded executioners coming to her cell and calling her name.

She woke at 4 a.m. and couldn't go back to sleep.

She had survived three months in jail by telling herself that the trial would set things straight. She had two of the best lawyers in the business helping her. She was being tried by a jury of her Virginia Beach peers. But now, after the first day of testimony, it seemed things could only get worse.

If convicted, she would spend years on death row exhausting one appeal after another. And even if she won, the press and public would demonize her. She should know. How many criminals had she demonized in the past?

She could see the headlines now: Confessed Killer Found Not Guilty. She might survive the trial, but the real test of strength would be surviving the public scorn.

All she could do was take it one day at a time. Today, Marc Boland would get a chance to cross-examine Jamarcus Webb. In a few days, Catherine would take the stand and tell her story. She thought about the way Boyd Gates would tear into her on cross-examination. She envisioned the news stories that would follow, even the ones that would be printed by her own paper. She tormented herself with these thoughts for another half hour before the deputies came around clanging their flashlights against the prison bars.

Another cruel day had begun.

After a long night of research and trial prep, Quinn slept through his alarm and awoke in a panic thirty minutes later. He fought Virginia Beach traffic, searched in vain for a parking spot within a half mile of the courthouse, elbowed past Reverend Harold Pryor and his brood, and arrived in Virginia Beach Circuit Court 7 just a few minutes before 9:00.

He walked past Jamarcus Webb, seated in the front row, without so much as acknowledging the man. Quinn felt bad that he wouldn't get to spend a few minutes with Catherine before court started. He hoped she wouldn't read anything into it.

Marc Boland had dressed down for the occasion, trading in the suits he had worn the first three days for a sports coat and khaki pants, apparently trying to pull off the common-man look. Quinn had taken the opposite approach today, dressing like the big-shot Vegas lawyer the jury expected him to be-a thousand-dollar suit, cuff links, and a monogrammed shirt. If only he'd found time for a haircut, he might actually look presentable.

Quinn took his seat at counsel table and reviewed some notes while Marc Boland chatted with Jamarcus Webb as if they were fraternity brothers rather than enemy combatants in a court of law. They talked baseball and swapped stories about their kids. Quinn would never talk to a witness before he cross-examined him on the stand. It was hard to intimidate somebody who knew your favorite baseball team.

"All rise," the bailiff called out. Judge Rosencrance took the bench, and a deputy escorted Catherine into the courtroom. "Sorry I got here late," Quinn whispered.

"No problem," Catherine whispered back. "Can you come by after court today?"

"Sure."

A few minutes later, Detective Webb took his place on the witness stand, and Marc Boland changed from the nice guy next door into a legal pit bull.

"You mentioned in your direct testimony that you were a confidential informant for Ms. O'Rourke, who at the time was a reporter for the Tidewater Times. True?"

"Yes."

"And in that capacity, you would pass along information about certain investigations, right?"

"Information that I thought the public might need to know. I never compromised the integrity of any investigations."

Marc Boland looked surprised. "Oh, then I take it you must have cleared this information with your superiors to make sure they didn't believe it would compromise the investigations."

"No. I used my own judgment."

"And lied to your superiors about it, correct?"

Jamarcus Webb hesitated, looking indignant. "I didn't lie. I just didn't discuss it with them."

"Is that so?" Boland reached down to his counsel table and grabbed some notes. "Isn't it true that you leaked to the press the fact that the Carver kidnappings and the Milburn kidnapping were related?"

"I thought the public had a right to know."

"And when Catherine O'Rourke's article containing that information ran in the paper, she was subpoenaed before a grand jury and asked who her source was. Is that correct?"

"I wasn't in the grand jury hearing," Webb countered. "But I believe that's true."

"You weren't in the grand jury hearing, but you were present in court when Catherine was cited with contempt for refusing to identify her source. And rather than come clean and put yourself in jeopardy, you just let Catherine go to jail."

Webb took a drink of water, his discomfort showing. "We both knew that was the deal from the start. We would even joke about it. I would ask Catherine about various forms of interrogation and whether-"

"Maybe you didn't understand the question," Boland interrupted, taking a step toward Webb. "Rather than voluntarily coming forward and putting yourself at risk, you let Catherine go to jail. Isn't that correct? "

Webb cast a glance at Gates, perhaps hoping for an objection. "Yes, that's correct."

Boland let the answer hang for a minute. "And this is the lady you called-" he checked his notes-"a 'personal friend' yesterday. Is this the way you treat all your friends?"

"Objection!"

"I'll withdraw it, Your Honor," Boland said calmly. He turned a condescending tone on Webb. "Are you really asking this jury to believe that, at the same time Mr. Gates was prosecuting Catherine O'Rourke and sending her to jail for not revealing her source, you and others in the department were never even asked if you might be that source?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying. We were all asked."

"Then let me repeat my earlier question," said Marc Boland firmly. "Isn't it true that you lied to your superiors about being a source for the newspaper?"

Jamarcus hesitated. "Yes. I told them I was not the source."

"Now we're making progress," said Boland.

Gates leaped to his feet but the judge spoke first. "That comment will be struck from the record. Mr. Boland, you know better."

"Sorry, Judge."

As Boland launched into another line of questioning, Quinn's thoughts turned to Catherine. She seemed better today. Even her posture was more confident-sitting forward in the chair, erect and attentive, taking notes like the reporter she was.

"You doing okay?" Quinn whispered.

"I hate this for Jamarcus," Catherine replied. "But I'm fine."

"Your friend," Quinn reminded her, "is trying to get you the needle."

"He's doing his job," Catherine replied, keeping her eyes on the witness.

Meanwhile, Marc Boland kept hammering away. "Did your extensive investigation reveal any connection between Ms. O'Rourke and Mr. Donaldson?"

"Other than the fact that she stalked him and his girlfriend and murdered him?"