Randy Singer - By reason of insanity

"It was Annie's idea to take the rap. We both knew that a battered wife would have a better chance at acquittal. At first, I wanted to put together a case for self-defense, but I realized the forensic evidence wouldn't justify it. I shot Hofstetter from ten feet away while he was kneeling on the floor. I knew that the angle of entry and lack of stippling around the bullet wound would show that Hofstetter was shot from that distance. Plus, I knew it would be virtually impossible to quickly fabricate evidence of a fight to make it look like Annie had acted in self-defense without her getting tripped up in her story.

"That's why we decided to go with the insanity defense. It could be consistent with a shot from ten feet away. I put on a pair of plastic gloves Annie had in the house and wiped down the handle of the gun. I squeezed Hofstetter's hand around it so his fingerprints would register, then handed the gun to Annie. As soon as I left, she called the police.

"Later, I secretly typed up a confession that I was ready to submit to the court in case we lost. I never intended for Annie to spend any time in jail."

Quinn rubbed his face, exhausted from telling his tale. "When Catherine told me about her latest dream, it was like God had pointed a finger at my chest and pronounced me guilty. Bo, our client clearly has some kind of supernatural gift. Combine that with what we know about the Carver baby, and I think she's innocent." Quinn paused. "The problem is that proving her case means I would have to testify."

Quinn swallowed hard as he stared into Marc Boland's contemplative eyes. In the few minutes it took Quinn to tell his story, Boland had totally transformed-from roaring beast to seasoned counselor.

"I need some advice," Quinn said.

Bo squinted past Quinn, as if the wisdom of the ages might be written on the conference room wall. He shook his head slowly and blew out a breath. "I'm not even sure if I can give you advice," he said. "Seems to me that I'd have a terrible conflict if I tried to represent both you and Catherine."

"That may be true," Quinn said. "But I don't know who else to ask. And I know we really don't have much of a choice. If I don't testify and the prosecution finds out the Carver baby is still alive, we don't stand a chance of winning."

Boland furrowed his brow. "You really think she got set up?"

"I know this much," Quinn said. "Those visions are real. And that Carver baby is still alive. You can take it from there."

"I need some time to process this," Bo said.

The two lawyers agreed to meet at 9 p.m. on Bo's yacht. In the interim, Quinn needed to meet Billy Long at the airport and prepare him to testify. Bo wanted to do a little research.

Bo apologized for losing his cool earlier, and Quinn apologized for not talking to Bo before he made his motion.

Bo even managed a smile before he left the conference room. "You Vegas guys sure know how to mess things up," he said.

"No!"

Catherine bolted upright on her cot, her hair matted with perspiration. Her breath came in short, hard bursts. The other visions had terrified her, but they were nothing compared to this.

She grabbed the bars of her cell and shouted for a guard. Other inmates cursed at Catherine or told her to shut up, but she kept right on yelling. Finally a young female deputy appeared.

"I've got to talk with my lawyer," Catherine gasped. "It's an emergency."

"You're in solitary confinement," the guard said. "If your attorney wants to talk with you, he needs to come here." She turned and started walking away.

"Come back!" Cat yelled, pounding the bars in frustration. "Get Jamarcus Webb on the phone! I'm ready to confess!"

The guard stopped. "You've got lawyers," she said. "Talk to them tomorrow."

"Forget about lawyers," Catherine shouted. "I waive my right to lawyers! I need to confess! My conscience is killing me! Killing me! Get Detective Webb-now!"

The deputy left without another word, leaving Catherine calling out after her.

Three minutes later, the deputy returned with the head of the evening shift. This time, Catherine tried to act a little more sane.

"I understand you're ready to confess," the woman said.

Cat nodded.

"We'll need you to sign some forms waiving your right to counsel."

"I thought you'd never ask."

Quinn walked down the pier of the Cavalier Yacht and Country Club, his steps illuminated by foot lamps mounted on each side of the wooden planks, his mind weighed down with the life-altering decisions in front of him.

The August night was hot and muggy, the quarter moon hidden by a bank of clouds, the sky as dark as Quinn's mood. He had changed into shorts, an oxford shirt, and boat shoes. He'd left his briefcase in the rental car but carried two beers that dangled from a plastic six-pack holder in his left hand. He finished off the beer in his right hand and threw the empty into the Lynnhaven River, stumbled, then climbed aboard the Class Action. He circled around to the sliding doors in the back and saw Bo in the lighted salon area, hunched forward on the soft leather couch, reams of trial documents spread around the room and covering the coffee table in front of him.

Bo waved Quinn inside and managed a half smile. "I was going to ask if you wanted a drink," he said.

Quinn held the remainder of his six-pack aloft. "BYOB." He slid into the easy chair on the opposite side of the room from Bo, his legs sprawled out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He popped another beer.

"I'm not testifying tomorrow," Quinn announced. "I'm not testifying ever. Not about my brother-in-law's death anyway."

Bo regarded Quinn with curiosity, as if trying to figure out whether this was the beer talking or Quinn's actual decision.

"And that stuff I told you in the conference room-" Quinn halfheartedly motioned toward Bo-"that's attorney-client privilege. Take it to your grave."

"Not necessarily," replied Bo, his face stern and indecipherable. "I told you I couldn't represent you and Catherine at the same time. My first obligation is to her. I never agreed to be your attorney."

Quinn sat up a little straighter in the chair. "Meaning what?"

"I've got to do what's best for Catherine." Marc Boland spoke slowly, condescendingly. "My duty to the client comes first." He picked up a black remote and pushed a button. Blinds started descending on the tinted windows all around the salon. "But don't worry, Quinn; I'm not going to put you on the stand. Our client is insane. This bizarre vision that triggered your guilty conscience doesn't change that."

Quinn took another swig. "You're quite the actor, Bo. All that sanctimonious, high-sounding lawyer talk; your self-righteous sneer. You think you're better than me?"

Bo narrowed his eyes but didn't answer.

"I think we're a lot more alike than you'd care to admit," Quinn said. He set his beer down and straightened up in his chair, his feigned intoxication instantly gone. It was time for some real cross-examination.

"Did you love her, Bo? Did you love Sherri McNamara?"

Quinn sucked in a breath, stood up, and put his hands in his pockets. He started pacing as he zeroed in on the man sitting on the couch, his former co-counsel, now prime suspect number one.

Quinn shook his head in scorn. "I must be slipping, Bo. It took me too long to see it. You worked in the Richmond Commonwealth's Attorney's office when Paul Donaldson was prosecuted. You were young and idealistic, assisting victims who testified. You and Sherri McNamara got to know each other, maybe even became lovers." Quinn spoke with the sharp edge that characterized his cross-examinations.

"When your colleagues lost that case and Sherri killed herself, you started plotting your revenge."