"Vegas attorneys like Quinn charge a minimum of four hundred an hour," Bo said. "He'll charge for travel time back and forth, the time it takes him to get up to speed on Virginia procedure… everything. His retainer alone could be twenty-five, thirty thousand."
"It's a high-publicity case," Cat countered. "Won't he do it for a big discount? Maybe even for free?"
Bo gave her a sympathetic smile, the kind he probably reserved for clients with dumb questions. "Lawyers like Newberg don't discount their rates. The man's got enough publicity; he works for cash."
Cat felt desperation welling up in her again. The more she thought about this, the more she knew she needed Quinn for the capital phase. "Please? At least call?"
"I'll call him," Bo said, though his tone said it would be a waste of time.
"Thanks," Cat said. She steeled herself to return to jail.
37
"Line one," Melanie called out.
"Take a message," Quinn yelled back from his office.
"You'll want to take this one," Melanie said.
Quinn grunted and picked up the phone. "Quinn Newberg."
"Quinn, it's Marc Boland from Virginia Beach."
Boland explained that he represented Catherine O'Rourke, a reporter accused of being the Avenger of Blood. He said they needed "death counsel" on the case and that Catherine had suggested Quinn.
"I'm flattered," said Quinn. He thought he detected something less than enthusiasm in Boland's voice, and Quinn didn't blame him. The last thing Quinn ever wanted on a big case was another high-powered defense lawyer acting as co-counsel, second-guessing Quinn's every move. "Are you going to plead insanity?"
"We haven't decided yet," Boland responded, "but I doubt it. We'd really just be looking for you to handle the sentencing phase… if you're interested."
It didn't take a genius to pick up on that hint. "How do you feel about having me involved?"
When Boland paused, Quinn had his answer.
"I think you're a heckuva lawyer," Boland said eventually. "It's just that when you get involved, the public will automatically assume Catherine killed this guy and that she's lining up an insanity plea. I think she's innocent, Quinn, and I don't want to send conflicting messages."
Is that what it's come to? Anybody who hires me will automatically be assumed either guilty or insane? "I hear what you're saying, Marc, but I don't think my involvement leads to that conclusion. I've actually represented one or two sane people in my day. Why don't you tell me about the evidence?"
It took about twenty minutes for Quinn to conclude that his view of the strength of the commonwealth's case was far different from Boland's. The commonwealth had DNA evidence. They had a vial of methohexital in the neighbor's trash. They had O'Rourke's "visions." Eventually they would figure out the motive-according to Boland, O'Rourke had been raped in college, and the Avenger's victims were rapists and attorneys who represented rapists. O'Rourke had no alibi.
The visions bothered Quinn most of all. Boland said the jury would just conclude that his client had some kind of sixth sense. "If police rely on mediums to help solve cases, we can certainly argue that supernatural powers really exist. At first, even the criminal profilers thought maybe Catherine could help them solve the case, not be their number one suspect."
Quinn didn't want to argue the point now, but he was definitely part of the skeptic camp on this. In his view, "supernatural" phenomena always had natural causes. Cases were won on evidence and logic, not hunches that came from communications with another world. O'Rourke's visions, to Quinn's way of thinking, were powerful evidence that Catherine O'Rourke was insane. It seemed like a case of dissociative identity disorder, the hardest kind of case for any defense lawyer to win.
Yet something about this case was drawing Quinn. Maybe it was the magnet of national media coverage. Maybe it was seeing Catherine O'Rourke on television, an attractive woman at the mercy of the system. Maybe it was the challenge of a tough case or the fact that Quinn now saw high-profile insanity cases as his birthright. What lawyer knew the complexities of the human mind like Quinn did? Certainly not Marc Boland.
And besides, Annie's case would plead out in a couple of days. Quinn would have the time.
But he didn't really trust Marc Boland to deliver the right message to the client. Quinn didn't want to get involved just to carry Boland's briefcase. If he was going to be an equal partner, Quinn would need his own relationship with the client.
"I'd like to talk to Ms. O'Rourke," Quinn said. "Maybe I could help."
"I'll let her know," Boland responded, sounding skeptical. "But I also need to let her know your rates and retainer. She's a reporter. As you can imagine, funds are pretty tight."
Quinn wanted to ask Boland how much he was making per hour. But why get off on the wrong foot with a man who might end up being your co-counsel?
"That's okay," Quinn said. "I'll give her a call and see if we can work something out."
"Catherine prefers that you work through me," Boland said.
"She can tell me that when I call her," Quinn said. "And then I'll be glad to abide by her wishes."
38
Cat cried when she saw her mom and younger sister crammed into the small visitor kiosk. Even though Cat could only "meet" with them via closed-circuit TV from the visitors' station, just knowing they were in the same building gave her comfort.
"I took out a line of credit on the house," her mom said. "I'll give thirty thousand to Mr. Boland as a retainer."
"Mom, I don't want you to do that." But Cat knew there was no other choice. She had about fifteen thousand in savings. Her sister, Kelsey, had even less.
"Don't be ridiculous," said her mom. "What could be more important than proving my daughter's innocence?"
"I'll pay you back," Cat said, wiping away the tears. "Every penny."
"You'd better add interest to mine," Kelsey said, and they all smiled.
Later that night, Cat curled up on her mattress, facing Tasha and Holly on the iron bunk beds, exhausted but too afraid to let herself sleep. Her mind burned with worries and doomsday scenarios, the frayed edges of her nerves catching fire from the pressures of the day and nearly forty-eight hours without sleep. She lay awake for hours, staring straight ahead. Intermittently, one of the psychotic inmates in the pod would scream a string of curse words, which would, in turn, start the other inmates yelling and cursing as well.
At one point a deputy came around, shining her flashlight into the cell. Cat jerked her head up and stared at the blinding light.
"Go to sleep, O'Rourke," the deputy said.
Eventually the rhythmic breathing and congested snoring of her cellmates calmed Cat's nerves. Images blurred in her head; she saw people she knew doing bizarre things, the product of a troubled mind on the verge of sleep. She felt the last vestiges of reality slipping away, and she stopped fighting it.
The nightmares, unbidden, were not far behind.
Kenny and his fraternity brothers invaded her sleep again. They wore their Greek masks and ridiculed Cat, taunting her as they circled around, first one darting toward her, then another. She would turn and fend each off, ready to fight, and then someone else would come running at her from behind. She turned to face her new attacker, setting off a squeal of laughter from the others, while yet another frat boy darted toward her.
Abruptly they stopped, and Kenny, the only one not wearing a mask, stepped forward. He walked slowly toward Cat, and the look on his face said he would not be denied. She tensed, eyeing him warily as he approached, step by agonizing step. He lifted an index finger and curled it toward himself, commanding her to come, but Cat stood her ground. Slowly, almost playfully, Kenny kept coming until he was just inches away, his finger still bidding her come, a sneer curling on his lips.