Randy Singer: By reason of insanity

"Ms. O'Rourke," Judge Rosencrance said, "I've overruled the objection. Please state your source."

"I can't say," Catherine testified. "With respect, Your Honor, I'm not willing to reveal my source."

Judge Rosencrance leaned toward the witness box and seemed to hover over Catherine, like an eagle ready to swoop in for a field mouse. "Your counsel has made his argument," the judge said tersely. "I have overruled it. The law does not protect your right to withhold critical information in the midst of a kidnapping investigation."

Gates took a few steps closer to the witness box, hemming Catherine in. She cast a pleading look toward her own lawyer, motionless at counsel table. Her eyes darted toward the judge, then down at her hands.

"I won't," Catherine said softly, barely above a whisper.

"Then I'll have no choice but to hold you in contempt," Rosencrance responded, her voice sharp.

"I'm sorry, Judge."

Looking up, Catherine thought she detected a flash of sympathy in the judge's eyes. Or maybe uncertainty. No judge in her right mind wanted to put a newspaper reporter in prison. Catherine would probably be reporting for a very long time, including future stories about this judge.

But Boyd Gates had no such ambivalence. "Ninety percent of all kidnapping cases are solved within the first forty-eight hours," he snapped. "Most of the children recovered during that time survive. After forty-eight hours, the odds drop precipitously. While we're here playing games, trying to determine which officers we can trust with confidential information and which ones might be leaking information to the press, the lives of two innocent babies are slipping away."

Catherine felt her heart racing. In journalism school, it all seemed so clear. You made a promise to your sources, you kept your word. Jail was a badge of courage.

But now, with jail actually looming and the lives of two babies at stake, things seemed murky. She shook her head slowly and set her jaw. She faced Judge Rosencrance for one final plea. "If I must, Your Honor, I'm prepared to go to jail. But if the court could just give me a short recess-just overnight so I can talk to my source-maybe this entire standoff could be avoided."

Rosencrance turned to Gates and raised her eyebrows. "Mr. Gates?"

"It's out of the question, Your Honor. We have a compromised investigation. Time is of the essence. We need to know what other confidential information was released to the press and who released it."

"Mr. Jacobs?"

Catherine's lawyer stood and gathered his thoughts. "These are substantial issues of law, Your Honor. If there is a chance of avoiding this dilemma, we should seize it. I know the court doesn't want to curtail my client's First Amendment rights if it can be avoided."

"I'll give you one night," Rosencrance said brusquely. "I want all parties back in my courtroom at 9:00 tomorrow morning."

Gates voiced another objection, but the judge proved she had a stubborn streak too. Finally she banged her gavel and adjourned court.

Catherine got off the witness stand as quickly as possible and gathered her things from the counsel table.

"I hope you can get your source to agree to let you divulge his or her name," William Jacobs said, emotionless as ever. "I don't think we can win this on appeal. You could be serving for an indeterminate time."

Catherine stood to her full height and stared at the man who was supposed to be protecting her. She had heard that the paper paid Jacobs more than $300 an hour. She had also heard he was golfing buddies with the publisher.

"You're fired," said Catherine.

Jacobs did a second take, confusion wrinkling his face. "I work for the paper," he said. "You can't fire me."

"I just did," Catherine shot back. "The paper's not going to jail. I am." She turned and stalked out of the courtroom. On the way, she brushed up against Jamarcus Webb, the investigator who had taken the stand to testify about the confidential nature of the information Catherine had printed.

Her message to Jamarcus was unmistakable. You owe me, Officer Webb.

And keep the info coming.

Quinn was in a foul mood when his plane landed at the Norfolk International Airport. The small terminal could probably have fit inside a Vegas casino lobby with room to spare. He pulled his luggage behind him and looked for the driver with the Quinn Newberg sign who would be taking him to Regent Law School in Virginia Beach.

Quinn was here as a favor to Rosemarie Mancini. She had agreed to debate the propriety of the death penalty for mentally impaired defendants but then had found out a few days ago that her testimony would be required at the same time in federal court in California. She had called and begged Quinn to take her place. She reminded him of all the flak she had taken for testifying on behalf of his sister. How could he say no?

His opponent would be a prominent young Virginia defense attorney named Marc Boland. Boland was one of the rarest of breeds-a high-profile defense lawyer who supported capital punishment. In capital cases, Boland handled only the guilt and innocence phase of the trial. For the penalty phase, he entrusted the clients to other lawyers, die-hard opponents of the death penalty. "I'm not against proportionate punishment for capital defendants," his firm's promotional brochure quoted "Bo" as saying. "I'm just against proportionate punishment for innocent capital defendants."

It apparently worked in the red state of Virginia. Boland, a former Richmond prosecutor, had a reputation as a top lawyer who knew how to exploit weaknesses in the system on behalf of high-profile criminal defendants.

On the way to the law school, Quinn reviewed his notes and the materials Dr. Mancini had sent him. As a Las Vegas lawyer arguing against capital punishment in a more conservative state like Virginia, he felt out of his element.

"Are there any casinos around here?" Quinn asked the driver. "Riverboat gambling? Horse tracks? Anything?"

The driver, a Pakistani man with a heavy accent, smiled and nodded. "Yes, yes," he said enthusiastically. "Beautiful day."

Catherine O'Rourke was beginning to understand how real criminals felt. Immediately upon leaving court, she called the office of Marc Boland. Catherine had been impressed with Boland when she saw him argue a few cases that she reported on for the paper. She had also called him a few times when she needed a quote from a criminal defense attorney, like the day before on the sidebar piece about the Carver law firm, and he seemed to appreciate the free publicity. He owes me, thought Catherine. And if anybody could talk Rosencrance into changing her mind, maybe Marc Boland could.

Unfortunately, the best lawyers were also the busiest. According to Boland's legal assistant, Boland had been in federal court all afternoon, handling some motions in a complicated criminal case.

"It's an emergency," Catherine said, emphasizing that she worked for the paper. "I've got a state court judge threatening to throw me in jail if I don't reveal a confidential source."

"I'm sorry," said the assistant. She sounded unimpressed. After all, most of Boland's clients were probably facing jail time. "They won't let him take a cell phone in court with him. I'll leave a message, and I'm sure he'll call as soon as he gets out."

"Can you give me his cell phone so I can leave a message too?"

"I'm sorry. We're not allowed to do that."

"But I need to meet with him tonight," Catherine insisted. "I have to be back in front of this judge at nine tomorrow morning. I know Marc would want to take my call."

This time the assistant sounded annoyed. "I'm sure he'll get back to you as soon as he gets out of court." She hesitated, perhaps wondering if her boss might chew her out if he missed getting in on this case. "If for some reason you don't hear from him, he's doing a presentation tonight at Regent Law School at 7:00. I'm sure you can track him down there."