"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?"