By reason of insanity

67

Too late, Quinn connected the dots. Hofstetter's thugs had probably used their connections with the security personnel at The Rogue, Hofstetter's casino, to convince the security guards at New York-New York to quickly review the digital security tapes of Quinn entering the casino. Ubiquitous digital cameras recorded every inch of the casino floor. In a matter of minutes, the security guards would have traced Quinn into the Coyote Ugly club.

Quinn shuffled along, led by his two thick captors, the gun still buried in the small of his back. They walked Quinn outside, shoved him into the backseat of a waiting limo, and blindfolded him.

They rode silently together for about ten minutes. When the engine stopped, the men hauled Quinn out of the car and led him into a musty-smelling building. When they removed the blindfold, Quinn glanced around at what appeared to be an abandoned retail store with empty shelf space and dusty counters.

The bigger of the two men-a white guy with bulging biceps, tattooed arms, and a skintight black T-shirt-had the gun in plain sight now, pointed at Quinn's midsection. He still had on shades and a ball cap, but Quinn tried to cement the contours of the man's blocky face and square jaw into his own memory.

"Our client thinks you're being a little hardheaded, Mr. Newberg," the man said. "He could have sworn your sister was going to take the plea bargain today."

"Tell your client to kiss my-"

Umph! The other man sucker-punched Quinn in the kidney, buckling Quinn's legs as he crumpled to the ground. Quinn grimaced for a second as the pain subsided, then struggled slowly to his feet, more wary now and not quite as cocky.

"Don't make this hard on yourself," said the man with the gun. The Hispanic man who had punched Quinn just smiled, white teeth lighting up a hard countenance.

They shoved Quinn toward a counter, where they pulled out a laptop computer and turned it on. They took the first few minutes to show the same video evidence of Quinn cheating at poker that Hofstetter had shown a few weeks ago in his office. Next, the men pulled up a document entitled "Quinn Newberg Gambling Winnings," asking Quinn if he recalled reporting those earnings to the IRS.

After that, they showed him a picture of Sierra.

The bigger man turned from the computer and got in Quinn's face. "If our client wanted you dead, Mr. Newberg, that would have happened by now. But he doesn't. All he wants is for two gentlemen to work out a deal. All he wants is for this case to go away without further embarrassment to his family. Is that so hard to understand?"

"I understand," said Quinn, choosing his words carefully. "But it's not that easy. This is Annie's call, not mine."

The man clenched his jaw and turned back to the computer. He clicked the mouse a few more times, and pictures of some scantily clothed women popped on the screen. Young women. Women Quinn had never seen before.

"These girls, Mr. Newberg, are prepared to testify that you had sex with them when they were underage. This one-" he stopped on the photo of a particularly young-looking girl-"will say she was fifteen years old at the time. Surely, Mr. Newberg, this might impact your upcoming custody battle. No?"

Like a second kidney punch, the implications become painfully clear. "Tell your boss I don't scare easy," Quinn said, his words sounding braver than he felt. "Tell him I'll do what's best for my client."

"Of course," the thug replied, his words dripping with mock sincerity. "We wouldn't dream of asking you to do anything else."

Without warning, the Hispanic man punched Quinn again, this time in the gut, the wind fleeing Quinn's lungs as he doubled over. Before he could even process the blow, the man had locked on Quinn's right arm, some kind of martial arts hold next to the armpit, wrenching the arm up and back with such violence that Quinn felt like his arm had been yanked from the socket. The rotator cuff in Quinn's shoulder shredded with a nearly audible tearing of the ligament.

Quinn screamed. The pain seared his vision, and the arm went limp. Hot stabs of pain radiated from his shoulder as if he had been impaled by the knives of an errant magician.

"We find," said the first man, "that constant pain can serve as an effective reminder."

Later that night, Quinn put on a brave face for Sierra, explaining that he had torn a muscle when he slipped on the steps and grabbed the railing. His obvious pain brought out the nurse in his niece. She fixed up an ice pack and tried to convince Quinn to go to the hospital. But Quinn was stubborn, and eventually Sierra retreated to her bedroom and went to sleep.

Quinn raided his medicine cabinet for some muscle relaxers and painkillers. But every time he dozed off, the arm would fall into an uncomfortable position, and the pain would jerk him awake. At 6:00 a.m., Quinn left Sierra a note and headed to the emergency room.