Catherine O'Rourke watched the dueling public statements on the shaded steps of the Las Vegas Regional Justice Center.
Richard Hofstetter Sr. appeared first, a cinder block of a man with dyed black hair, his face red with anger. "Justice failed our family and my son," he stated. "A cold-blooded killer remains free on bond, and her brother continues to defame my son and our family. Who stands up for the victims in this court? Certainly not District Attorney Duncan, who took the allegations of abuse at face value. The victims have no choice but to fend for themselves."
As soon as the man stopped for a breath, the reporters shouted their questions. He ignored them all, holding his wife's hand and pushing his way past the microphones, down the steps, and toward the black sedan waiting at the curb. Cat played the angles right and managed to intercept him just before he arrived at his car.
"What did you mean by your statement that the 'victims have no choice but to fend for themselves'?" she asked, thrusting her microphone at him.
To her surprise, Hofstetter stopped, assessing her with the steely gaze of a man not used to being crossed. Something about the look made her blood curdle.
"I'm not taking questions," he growled. Then he brushed away the mike and helped his wife into the car. After one more disturbing look at Cat, he climbed in the backseat and closed the door.
Catherine and her crew scrambled back up the broad steps to catch the next performance, this time featuring Carla Duncan. The subdued prosecutor expressed her disappointment in the mistrial but vowed to retry the defendant "as soon as humanly possible." The fact that eleven out of twelve jurors were ready to convict was a testament to the strength of the prosecutor's case, she said. Class act, Catherine jotted down.
Quinn and Anne Newberg emerged next, and Cat thought they might get crushed by the mob of reporters. Quinn issued a brief statement thanking Julia Richards for her honesty and courage. He called on Carla Duncan to drop the case and spend her time and resources chasing real criminals. He asked the press to give his sister a little private space in the days ahead. "All of the intimate details of her life have just been paraded in front of the entire world," he said. "Is it too much to ask for a little privacy for my sister and niece now that the trial's over?"
From the way the press hordes followed Quinn and Anne down the steps and across the street to the parking garage, shouting questions and capturing their every move on film, Catherine assumed that the answer was yes, it is too much to ask. Catherine and her own cameraman stayed back, preparing for a stand-up report from the steps of the Justice Center.
Bubbling with adrenaline, Cat tried to control her emotions and focus on her report. She would do three separate stand-ups for three different television stations, each one cutting live to the courthouse in rapid sequence. And it was almost as if central casting had constructed the Regional Justice Center for these special television pieces. The broad concrete steps angled up to a plaza in front of the eighteen-story glass building. Decorative palm trees provided shade for the afternoon camera shots. Cat found an open spot on the steps a few feet from one of the palms, put in her earpiece, and watched for the small red light on the top of the camera. A few seconds later, the anchor desk kicked it to her.
"Well, Richard, the last few hours have been filled with controversy and chaos here in the eighth judicial circuit in the city of Las Vegas," she began, looking earnestly at the camera. "Some might say that insanity carried the day…"
7
After a celebration dinner with his sister and a dozen others who had helped on the case, Quinn hailed a cab and rode in the backseat with Rosemarie Mancini to her hotel. Rosemarie didn't really need an escort-she could handle herself-but this was Quinn's subtle way of thanking her. The dynamic little psychiatrist had served as both expert witness and unofficial counselor to the Newberg family, not to mention the thankless role of trying to serve as Quinn's conscience. As they rode, Quinn felt giddy and exhausted at the same time, the euphoria of avoiding defeat slowly succumbing to the reality that they still had a long road in front of them.
Quinn had watched Rosemarie at work during dinner and afterward, while others joked and swapped stories in the small, private room at the MGM Grand that Quinn's assistant had quickly reserved. Rosemarie had pulled aside Sierra, Quinn's thirteen-year-old niece, and spent most of the time with her. Out of the corner of his eye, Quinn noticed his niece smile for the first time in weeks. Rosemarie had been counseling Sierra for the past few months, and the two had somehow bonded, despite the generational differences between the fifty-five-year-old psychiatrist and her teenage client.
"How long before the retrial?" Rosemarie asked as they approached the Embassy Suites where she liked to stay-away from the strip. "I need to block some dates on my calendar."
"If I'm any kind of lawyer," Quinn said, "it won't be until after August thirty-first. Which, coincidentally, happens to be the day that Strackman retires."
"Why is he out to get you?" Rosemarie asked.
Despite what Quinn considered to be Strackman's obvious bias, Rosemarie had never asked this question before. Maybe she didn't want to know prior to taking the stand and testifying. Maybe she did better if she could just assume the system was fair. "Vegas is a juice town," Quinn said, watching the casinos pass by. "And our firm has no juice with Strackman."
"A juice town?"
"A few years ago, the L.A. Times wrote an article about the way we elect our judges in Nevada-the fact that 90 percent of the donations for the judges' campaigns come from lawyers and casinos. The article named names and gave examples of judges who had ruled in favor of lawyers who had been some of their main fund-raisers. The money quote in the article was from a friend of mine who said what all Vegas lawyers know but never state publicly: 'Vegas is a juice town, not a justice town. Financial contributions get you "juice" with a judge-not a guaranteed win, but at least the benefit of the doubt.'"
"And your firm didn't back Strackman?"
"Let's just say we would have had serious juice with his opponent."
"How can you operate like this?" Rosemarie asked, disgust evident in her voice. "What if we had lost and Strackman had been the one to sentence Annie?"
"That was my fear," Quinn said. "But we learned our lesson. Now we have some lawyers in our firm hosting fund-raisers for both candidates in any contested race. Guaranteed juice no matter who wins."
The cab pulled in front of the Embassy Suites, and Rosemarie handed a twenty to the driver. Quinn had lost enough battles trying to pay for Rosemarie's dinners and cab rides that he didn't even reach for his wallet.
Rosemarie opened the door and waited for her change.
"Thanks," Quinn said. "For everything."
Rosemarie looked at her friend and, as she seemed to do so often, must have read his mind. "They're going to be okay, Quinn. Annie and Sierra are going to be okay." She took her change and handed a five back to the cabbie. "It's you I'm worried about."
She climbed out of the cab but leaned back in before closing the door. "If I paid you an extra twenty, would you promise to take this man straight home to the Signature Towers?" she asked the cabdriver. "He's got a round of national television interviews tomorrow morning that start at about 4 a.m."
"Sure thing," said the driver. "Unless he pays me an extra forty after you're gone."
"That's what I was afraid of," said Rosemarie, closing the door.
Quinn smiled. He loved this town! Even the cabbies understood the concept of juice. "To the Venetian," he ordered. No sense wasting a lucky day.
8
Two months later