By reason of insanity

108

Catherine O'Rourke found out about Quinn's ploy while watching the news on Wednesday morning, her first full day of freedom. The euphoria of sleeping in her own bed and watching the sun rise over the ocean was swept away by the despair of seeing Quinn torn apart on national television. He didn't deserve this; he was a good man. Watching the coverage literally made her sick, yet she couldn't pull herself away from it.

She had thought about him a lot during the first few months of her incarceration, even before the trial started. Dreamed about him, really. He was part of a fairy-tale ending she knew could never happen: being found innocent by the jury, starting a normal relationship with Quinn outside the pressure cooker of the case, falling in love. She allowed herself to dream this dream even though she had pled insanity, even though a not-guilty verdict would lead to institutional treatment, not a relationship with Quinn Newberg.

During the trial, she had felt a deep bond develop, more than a lawyer-client relationship-way more. They had leaned on each other. Needed one another. Quinn had stood with her when others had run away. Not to mention that her vision Monday evening had saved Quinn's life.

And now she was free, just like in her dreams. But Quinn was gone. And Carla Duncan was holding a press conference, announcing a plea bargain that would send Quinn to jail for three years.

He would essentially serve the same length of time that had been offered to his sister, Duncan said. The prosecutor had taken into account the fact that Quinn was trying to protect his sister and had probably saved her life. But the shooting wasn't technically defense of others, because Hofstetter had already dropped the knife when Quinn shot him. And Quinn was also a lawyer, Duncan argued, an officer of the court. He had committed a massive fraud on the system and could not go unpunished. Moreover, he had committed other crimes that were wrapped up in this plea deal as well, including the unauthorized tape-recording of others without their consent.

In a related matter, Duncan announced the indictment and arrest of Richard Hofstetter Sr. and several of his associates on racketeering, fraud, and assault charges. Networks showed Hofstetter's "perp walk"-his trademark scowl, hands cuffed behind his back. Duncan said she intended to prosecute Hofstetter and his cohorts, including Claude Tanner, to the fullest extent of the law.

There were some who rallied to Quinn's defense. His law partners, personified by a man named Robert Espinoza, defended Quinn's overall integrity, while admitting some lapses of judgment on this one case that was so personal to him. Abuse groups still hailed Quinn as a hero. Annie staunchly defended him, telling the world through tears that her brother should not have to spend a single day behind bars.

Catherine would join the cause-it was the least she could do. Though she had sworn off media interviews after her acquittal, she decided to make an exception for Quinn. She would write an op-ed piece and send it to all the major newspapers. And she would make herself available to the local news stations. What he had done was not right, but she still cared about the man too much to sit this one out.

Some were comparing Quinn to Marc Boland, noting that both lawyers had taken justice into their own hands and then allowed others to take the blame. Vigilante justice with a scapegoat, they said. But Catherine saw the two situations as totally different. Boland had hunted people down and murdered them in cold blood. Quinn had protected a sister whose life had been threatened. Who among us wouldn't have been tempted to do the same?

Before she wrote her editorial, Cat needed to clear her head. She threw on a pair of workout shorts and a running bra. She grabbed her Rollerblades and took them out to the front steps of her duplex so she could lace them up in the warm sunlight that she no longer took for granted. She knew she would be seriously out of shape from months of wasting away in the city jail, but she would hit the workout hard. It would be great to smell the salt water in the air and feel the muscles burn.

The vision hit her as she sat on the steps, tying a double knot in her left Rollerblade. It began with a familiar pressure building in her head like a migraine, a tropical storm sucking her conscious thoughts into a vortex of otherworldly images. Ghostlike and hazy, the figures seemed to materialize from the scalding concrete of the sidewalk as if the heat waves had taken on human flesh and now stood before Cat, unaware of her existence. There was an argument… shouting… a fight. Cat watched the entire event unfold, almost as if she could reach out and touch the apparitions before her. She sat there in fascinated horror, unable to turn away.

Unlike her previous visions, this time she saw the detailed outlines of the faces-every wrinkle of the man's leathery skin and angry scowl, the determined look on his wife's familiar face. The other visions seemed like they had taken place in a dark tunnel, with nebulous figures and shrouded identities. But this one unfolded in the light of day. This time, Cat could name names.

The gunshot startled Cat and exploded the vision, leaving her shaken and confused. She didn't want this power, this awful knowledge of facts concealed from others, knowledge too dreadful for one person to bear.

She dialed Rosemarie Mancini immediately. "We've got to talk," Cat said. "I've had another vision."

"I'm at a conference in Colonial Williamsburg," Mancini said. "Can we talk by phone?"

Colonial Williamsburg was less than a two-hour drive. Cat could use the time to collect her thoughts and get hold of herself.

"I'll come to you," Cat said. She knew her voice sounded frantic, but she didn't care. "We need to talk in person."