By reason of insanity

11

Quinn was in a foul mood when his plane landed at the Norfolk International Airport. The small terminal could probably have fit inside a Vegas casino lobby with room to spare. He pulled his luggage behind him and looked for the driver with the Quinn Newberg sign who would be taking him to Regent Law School in Virginia Beach.

Quinn was here as a favor to Rosemarie Mancini. She had agreed to debate the propriety of the death penalty for mentally impaired defendants but then had found out a few days ago that her testimony would be required at the same time in federal court in California. She had called and begged Quinn to take her place. She reminded him of all the flak she had taken for testifying on behalf of his sister. How could he say no?

His opponent would be a prominent young Virginia defense attorney named Marc Boland. Boland was one of the rarest of breeds-a high-profile defense lawyer who supported capital punishment. In capital cases, Boland handled only the guilt and innocence phase of the trial. For the penalty phase, he entrusted the clients to other lawyers, die-hard opponents of the death penalty. "I'm not against proportionate punishment for capital defendants," his firm's promotional brochure quoted "Bo" as saying. "I'm just against proportionate punishment for innocent capital defendants."

It apparently worked in the red state of Virginia. Boland, a former Richmond prosecutor, had a reputation as a top lawyer who knew how to exploit weaknesses in the system on behalf of high-profile criminal defendants.

On the way to the law school, Quinn reviewed his notes and the materials Dr. Mancini had sent him. As a Las Vegas lawyer arguing against capital punishment in a more conservative state like Virginia, he felt out of his element.

"Are there any casinos around here?" Quinn asked the driver. "Riverboat gambling? Horse tracks? Anything?"

The driver, a Pakistani man with a heavy accent, smiled and nodded. "Yes, yes," he said enthusiastically. "Beautiful day."

Catherine O'Rourke was beginning to understand how real criminals felt. Immediately upon leaving court, she called the office of Marc Boland. Catherine had been impressed with Boland when she saw him argue a few cases that she reported on for the paper. She had also called him a few times when she needed a quote from a criminal defense attorney, like the day before on the sidebar piece about the Carver law firm, and he seemed to appreciate the free publicity. He owes me, thought Catherine. And if anybody could talk Rosencrance into changing her mind, maybe Marc Boland could.

Unfortunately, the best lawyers were also the busiest. According to Boland's legal assistant, Boland had been in federal court all afternoon, handling some motions in a complicated criminal case.

"It's an emergency," Catherine said, emphasizing that she worked for the paper. "I've got a state court judge threatening to throw me in jail if I don't reveal a confidential source."

"I'm sorry," said the assistant. She sounded unimpressed. After all, most of Boland's clients were probably facing jail time. "They won't let him take a cell phone in court with him. I'll leave a message, and I'm sure he'll call as soon as he gets out."

"Can you give me his cell phone so I can leave a message too?"

"I'm sorry. We're not allowed to do that."

"But I need to meet with him tonight," Catherine insisted. "I have to be back in front of this judge at nine tomorrow morning. I know Marc would want to take my call."

This time the assistant sounded annoyed. "I'm sure he'll get back to you as soon as he gets out of court." She hesitated, perhaps wondering if her boss might chew her out if he missed getting in on this case. "If for some reason you don't hear from him, he's doing a presentation tonight at Regent Law School at 7:00. I'm sure you can track him down there."

Following her conversation with the legal assistant, Catherine drove from the Virginia Beach courthouse to Norfolk federal court. By the time she arrived, fighting traffic the entire thirty-five-minute drive, Marc Boland was long gone. She tried his office again but this time couldn't even reach his legal assistant. She waited for Boland to call, checking her phone at least three different times to make sure it wasn't on silent. At 6:15, she decided to head to the law school.

She arrived at 6:45 and pulled into the parking lot of the ornate, colonial-style redbrick building that housed the law school. She drove through the horseshoe-shaped lot once but couldn't find a spot. After a loop through the adjacent lot for the law school library, she still couldn't find one. She checked her watch and drove to the side of the building, where a few coned-off spots were being jealously guarded by serious-looking students.

Catherine rolled down her window and flashed her newspaper credentials. "Where do press members park?" she asked.

The student looked confused. "There are some open spots across the street," he suggested.

Cat turned in her seat and glanced at the big Amerigroup office building located on the other side of the road. She turned back to the student with a pained expression. "For the press?" she asked.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, that's all we have available."

Now he'd done it-called her "ma'am" as if she were fifty years old with gray hair in a bun. "Can I get your name?" Cat asked. She took out a pen and a little flip notebook-a prop she carried for times like this.

"Hang on a minute," the student said.

A few seconds later, the students moved one set of cones for the school's newly designated press parking spot.

Pleased with herself, Catherine walked toward a small gauntlet of protesters who had gathered outside the side entrance to the building. They held signs blasting gays and lawyers and "the sodomites in Sin City." Catherine recognized the stocky ringleader as the Reverend Harold Pryor, a notorious pastor from Kansas who ran around the country pronouncing God's judgment on everyone who didn't attend his church. Because she had parked in the VIP section, the protesters all turned toward her as she approached the side door.

"What's the matter," Cat asked, "couldn't find any military funerals to disrupt?"

Pryor stared at her with small, dark eyes that he narrowed into condemning slits. His face glistened with sweat, and his red complexion matched nicely with his auburn hair. "Woe to you experts in the law," Pryor said, "because you have taken away the key to knowledge. You yourselves have not entered, and you have hindered those who were entering."

A thought hit Catherine, chilling her even in the midst of the warm, humid air of a spring night. What was Pryor doing clear across the country at an event like this? It wasn't exactly the kind of high-profile gathering that fit his MO. How long had he been in Hampton Roads?

She made a mental note to call Jamarcus Webb once she got inside the building. Then she made a face. "You need to get some new deodorant," she said as she disappeared into the massive brick building that served as the home to Regent Law School.

She found Marc Boland in the front of the lecture hall and pulled him aside, rapidly explaining her dilemma. He apologized for not calling her back. "I haven't even had time to check my messages," he said. "Twenty-two e-mails and six phone messages just from the time I spent in court."

They agreed to meet as soon as the seminar was over.