By reason of insanity

17

Quinn Newberg pulled up to the black wrought-iron gate that protected the Schlesinger estate and entered the security code. As the gate swung open, Quinn goosed his Mercedes-Benz S350 down the winding driveway, jerking to a halt in front of the four-car garage. He glanced around as he climbed the marble steps to the front entrance of the stone-and-brick mansion. As usual, everything about the place-the waterfall out front, the lush green landscaping in the middle of the Vegas desert, the manicured lawn-was painfully immaculate. At one time or another, various parts of the house had been displayed in Vegas lifestyle magazines.

He rang the doorbell, greeted the Schlesingers' butler, and gave Allison Schlesinger a polite, high-society hug. He wanted to tell her that she looked good in her new face-lift but kept his mouth shut. The lady was thirty-five and, by Quinn's count, already on her third plastic surgery.

"Just in time for dinner," Allison said, as if she'd been cooking all day. "You want to go up and get Sierra?"

"Where's the old man?" Quinn asked.

"In the den, watching Mad Money."

Quinn groaned. Wayne Schlesinger was giving Trump a run for his money in Vegas real estate, but still he insisted on directing his own investments.

Control. Wayne Schlesinger was all about control.

About two years ago, Quinn had represented Schlesinger's firstborn son, the black sheep of the family, on charges of racketeering, money laundering, and fraud. The prosecutor had offered Andrew Schlesinger a deal in exchange for testimony against some higher-ups in the Vegas crime circles, but Andrew had refused and gone to trial. Quinn won the case, and Dad Schlesinger told Quinn that if he ever needed anything, he should call. "Anything," Schlesinger had stressed.

When Quinn's sister was arrested and Quinn learned that Judge Strackman had been assigned to the case, he had decided to call in the favor. Rookie lawyers might settle for researching a defendant's background or a judge's prior legal decisions when preparing for a bond hearing. But Quinn researched campaign contributions. His firm might not have any juice with Judge Strackman, but Wayne Schlesinger had juice to spare.

At Quinn's request, Wayne and Allison Schlesinger had agreed to take care of Sierra until Annie's trial was over. All of Wayne's children by his first marriage were grown and out of the household. He and Allison had no other kids.

And Quinn had a quasi-legitimate reason for asking. Possibility of flight was always a factor for the judge to consider at a bond hearing. Quinn had argued that Annie would never think about leaving the jurisdiction without her daughter. The Schlesingers would be sure to keep a good eye on her. Quinn didn't even have to mention how much money Sierra's proposed guardians had provided to Strackman's campaign. The result-Strackman had set Annie's bond at $250,000, imposed a few conditions like electronic monitoring, and ignored Carla Duncan's protests about an accused murderer getting bail.

"I'll go and get Sierra," Quinn told Allison Schlesinger. He took the stairs two at a time and headed straight for Sierra's room. The door was locked. Quinn knocked loudly and waited a moment before the door cracked open.

"Uncle Quinn!" Sierra exclaimed. She swung the door open, and Quinn entered the disheveled room, closing the door behind him.

Sierra gave Quinn a quick hug, and he felt the bones from her shoulder blades. Even before her mom was arrested, Sierra had been thin and gangly, all elbows, knees, braces, and long strawberry blonde hair. But she had been losing weight the last few months and had Quinn worried.

He threw some clothes off the bed and took a seat. "Are they treating you all right?" he asked.

Sierra made a face, then apparently decided to make the best of it. "They're okay."

"That doesn't exactly sound like a ringing endorsement."

Sierra shrugged. She started absentmindedly picking up some clothes, throwing them on the floor of her closet. "I'd rather stay with my mom; that's all."

Annie felt the same way, Quinn knew. But in order to get Annie out on bond, Quinn had agreed that she wouldn't have custody or unsupervised time with Sierra until after the trial. Annie had been second-guessing that decision ever since.

"Can we talk about it after dinner?" Quinn asked.

"Sure. I guess so."

Dinner was a stilted, formal affair where everyone avoided talking about the one subject on everyone's mind-Annie's retrial. The waiters cleared each dish as if Quinn and his hosts were dining at a five-star restaurant. Wayne Schlesinger opened a bottle of his best Chardonnay and tried to impress Quinn with how much he knew about it. Cognizant of Sierra's presence, Quinn stuck with ginger ale.

For the most part, Sierra kept to herself, politely speaking only when somebody asked her a question. She picked at her food, following the example of Allison Schlesinger, who gave herself such miniature portions that Quinn was certain she must sneak down to the refrigerator at midnight to eat a snack under cover of darkness.

After the meal, Quinn and Sierra went for a walk around the gardens in back of the main house.

"I hate it here," Sierra said. "I want to come live with you."

"What's so bad about this place?" Quinn asked. "Other kids your age would give anything to stay one night in a place like this."

"I might as well be in prison," Sierra scoffed. "They won't let me talk on my phone or IM until my grades get up. Plus, they won't let me watch TV because they think I might freak if I see something about Mom." She shuffled a few steps in silence. "It's not like I don't go online at school. Or hear my friends talk about it."

"Sierra, I know it's not ideal, but it's the only way I thought we could keep your mom out on bail. The judge made it a condition that you stay here. I guess the judge figured that if you stayed with me, I might let your mom take you someplace far away."

"That's stupid."

"I know. But we can't change it."

In truth, Quinn thought he probably could talk the judge into letting him have custody. But did he want to? He could prepare for trial better without the responsibilities of being a surrogate father. The best thing for Sierra was to have Quinn focused on the case. That way, she could get her mom back for good.

But Quinn couldn't deny that there was another reason he didn't want custody right now-a less admirable one. Having Sierra around would definitely cramp his lifestyle. Quinn thought about his place-an elegant suite on the forty-second floor of the Signature Towers, a high-rise of luxury condos linked to the MGM Grand by a long, covered walkway. His condo featured Italian marble in the foyer and bathroom. A view of the Vegas strip. A flat-screen HD television hanging in the living room. He had decorated his suite with stark and contemporary furniture. Luxurious, yes, but not exactly designed for a thirteen-year-old girl.

Besides, what did he know about raising teenage girls?

Quinn glanced over at Sierra as they walked. He saw Annie's expressive eyes in her daughter, and a hint of Annie's beauty, camouflaged by the freckles and awkwardness of a teen. He also saw big crocodile tears forming in the eyes. His gallant little niece tried to fight them back.

"Can you stick it out here until the retrial? Your mom gets to come and see you just about every night."

"I'll try," Sierra said. "It wouldn't be so bad if the Schlesingers didn't try to act like they were my parents."

"I'll talk to them," Quinn promised.

They walked a few steps in silence. Sierra shuffled along with her head down, displaying the awkwardness of a middle school girl who had hit an early growth spurt. Quinn had seen Sierra with her friends, some of whom came up to the girl's chin. Quinn resisted the urge to tell her to straighten her shoulders and hold her head up.

"What's happening at school?" he asked.

Sierra shrugged. "Nothin'."

"Your mom says your grades are dropping off."

"I don't get math."

"You need some help? Maybe we could get you some tutoring or something."

"I already get tutoring." The statement, said matter-of-factly by Sierra, made Quinn realize how out of touch he was with his niece.

They talked about some of the issues at school, and Quinn inquired gently about what other kids said about Annie's case. "Not much," Sierra responded. "They hope my mom wins next time. Except some of the boys. They call her psycho."

"Boys can be jerks in seventh grade," Quinn said softly.

"They call me Daddy Long Legs," Sierra replied. It was almost a whisper, and Quinn wasn't positive he heard it right.

"Daddy Long Legs?"

"Yeah. Mostly the boys, but some of the girls too."

Quinn stopped walking and Sierra did the same. "Look at me for a second," he said. Sierra looked up, and Quinn saw too much sadness in her big round eyes. "Don't let those boys get to you. Women everywhere would kill to have your long legs. All the models have long legs, all the great actresses. You're a beautiful young woman, and in a few years, every one of those boys is going to be asking you out."

Sierra made a face. "Those boys are lame."

"You just keep a mental list of all their names," Quinn responded. "When you get to high school and they start asking you out, tell them to go find some girls with short, stubby legs."

Sierra didn't smile, but Quinn thought he detected a little glint of pride in her eyes. He realized that he would probably make a lousy dad, teaching a thirteen-year-old girl about the fine art of revenge in order to build her self-esteem. Some men just weren't cut out to be fathers.

There was another long silence as they headed back to the house. "Are we going to win next time?" Sierra eventually asked.

"Oh yeah," Quinn assured her. "We are definitely going to win."

"What happened last time?"

"We just got a bad jury. That's all. It won't happen again."