Catherine sighed. Was she being paranoid? "I'm not going to give you up," she promised.
"I knew you wouldn't," Jamarcus replied. Yet Catherine heard the relief in his voice-the man hadn't been certain. "There's no reason to."
"I agree," said Catherine. "At least not yet."
Jamarcus hesitated, apparently absorbing the implications of Catherine's carefully selected words. "Any more visions?" he asked.
"No," said Catherine decisively. "No more visions."
Though he had been trying cases against Carla Duncan for the last eight years, Quinn had never set foot in her office before. The austere decor did not surprise him. She had hung a diploma and bar certificate on the wall and propped some pictures of children and grandchildren on her credenza. That was it. Carla Duncan was not a showy woman.
She sat behind her desk, looking grave and somewhat sympathetic. "Thanks for coming in," she said. "I thought it would be better to discuss this in person."
Quinn crossed his legs. "No problem."
"I'm ready to deal," Carla said, skipping the preliminaries. The words ignited a small flicker of hope. Driving over, Quinn had speculated this might be the reason Carla wanted to meet. And Carla knew by now the deal would have to be good or Quinn would reject it out of hand.
She placed her forearms on her desk and leaned toward Quinn. "I know you might find this hard to believe, but I do sympathize with your client… your sister. It's been no fun prosecuting this case, Quinn. I'm doing my job, but I can't help despising the victim."
It was almost like a confession. What did she want-forgiveness? She wasn't forced to pursue this prosecution; they both knew that. And in Quinn's opinion, she had pursued the case with the zeal of a true believer. He intentionally let the silence grow uncomfortable.
"In my opinion," Carla continued, "it's time to put this case behind us. You know I can't just slap your sister on the wrist and make her promise not to shoot her next husband. But I do realize she's got a daughter to take care of. Justice in this case is a murky concept. Your sister doesn't need to spend most of her adult life behind bars."
"What are you suggesting?"
"Manslaughter. I'll recommend six to ten." Carla waited a beat, her intense green eyes conveying the fact that this offer was nonnegotiable. "If she behaves and gets counseling, you can apply for parole after three years, and I won't oppose it."
The offer was better than Quinn expected, though he didn't let on. If Carla had suggested a slap on the wrist, Quinn would have argued for a love tap.
"Sierra is thirteen," Quinn said. "That's an age when she really needs her mom. By the time she's sixteen, she'll be a different girl. I can't ask Annie to just walk away from her chance to be a mother during these critical teenage years."
"Perhaps she should have thought about that before she pulled the trigger," Carla countered. "Look, Quinn, I've got my own kids. Grandkids. I'm putting a very generous offer on the table and one for which I'll probably receive a lot of criticism." She sighed and leaned back in her chair. "If you force the issue, I'll try this case again. Next time, I'll get a conviction. What will that do for Sierra?"
"Guilty but mentally ill," Quinn countered. "She gets four years with all but twelve months suspended. Three years of probation and psychiatric counseling."
Carla snorted. "This isn't a DUI, Quinn. In good conscience, I've just given you my best offer. I'm not looking for a counter. Think of it as Deal or No Deal."
Quinn nodded. "Had to ask." He stood, thanked Carla, and shook her hand. "I'll get back to you."
"The end of the week," Carla said. "I'll give you until 5 p.m. Friday."
30
Managing partner Robert Espinoza plopped down in the client chair in front of Quinn's desk. Quinn quit typing and turned around, regarding the man with idle curiosity.
Melanie stood in the doorway. "Can I get you anything?" she asked. What she really meant, from the look on her face, was I couldn't stop him and didn't have time to warn you-he barged right in.
"We're fine," Quinn said. "Don't worry about it."
Melanie left, and Quinn turned to Espinoza. "Twice in one week," Quinn said. "Pretty soon you won't have to ask for directions."
"You're a funny guy," Espinoza replied, unsmiling. "You might want to save it for someone with a sense of humor."
"Good point." Quinn leaned back in his chair.
"It's a good offer, Quinn. You ought to take it."
Quinn gave his managing partner a sideways look and picked up a pen to keep his hands occupied. Not many people unnerved him like Espinoza. "How'd you find out?"
The question brought a thin smile. "We all have our sources, Quinn. Manslaughter. Six to ten. She's out in three. I would have bumped off a few ex-wives myself if I could have been assured of that deal. Cheaper than divorce."
"She's my sister, Robert. I don't find it funny."
Espinoza's face returned to its normal scowl, wrinkles of concern pulling at the corners of his narrow eyes. "I'm not trying to be funny, Quinn. She might be your sister, but she's also your client. She shot her husband in cold blood. It's a good deal. In fact, it's a great deal." Espinoza paused and seemed to be studying Quinn's very thoughts, trying to decipher whether this was all sinking in. "We need you back on some of these white-collar cases," he said. "Don't play games with your sister's life. Take the deal."
Quinn bristled at the tone, more of a command than a suggestion. "I'll be talking with Annie tonight." His voice had the sharp edge he had perfected for cross-examination. "I'll be sure to let her know you think it's a blue light special."
Espinoza scooted to the edge of his seat. "You're too close to this, Quinn. I'm just trying to give you an unbiased perspective from somebody who really does care." He stared at Quinn for a moment and then stood. "It's the deal of the century, buddy. Your sister would be well-served to take it."
Quinn called Bobby Jackson on his way to the Rogue, one of the newest casinos on the south end of the strip. It featured a lush and bustling tropical paradise decor, accentuated by dozens of fountains, sculptures, and flora. Many tourists were drawn by its bad-boy aura, complete with pirate themes and edgy burlesque shows. But Quinn liked it for other reasons. The high-stakes room always had plenty of action involving fresh money from inexperienced gamblers. And Richard Hofstetter Sr. was part owner of the Rogue, bringing Quinn an extra surge of satisfaction at the idea of making a little money at one of Hofstetter's joints.
This wouldn't be the first time Quinn and Bobby had worked together at the Rogue. The last time they'd been here, a few of the floor security guards had paid a little closer attention to their table than Quinn had liked. Bobby was nervous about coming back, but Quinn talked him into it. Quinn's friends sometimes accused him of having a death wish, which might explain why he had chosen this casino out of dozens of others that could have worked just as well.
Maybe he did have a death wish, Quinn supposed. But he was tired of taking heat from his firm's managing partner just because Annie couldn't pay her legal bills. A few more nights of "moonlighting," and he could at least slip her enough to make a decent down payment.
As Quinn meandered past the blackjack tables, a block of a man wearing a blue blazer moved in just behind his left shoulder.
"Hotel security," the man said, keeping his voice low and discreet. "I'll need you to come with me."
Quinn turned to look at the man and, out of his peripheral vision, saw another guard taking up a position about ten feet away.
"Something wrong?" Quinn asked.
"We can talk in Mr. Hofstetter's office," the man said gruffly. He put a hand on Quinn's elbow, directing Quinn toward the nearest wall. "There's a concealed door straight ahead, built into that wall."