By reason of insanity

7

After a celebration dinner with his sister and a dozen others who had helped on the case, Quinn hailed a cab and rode in the backseat with Rosemarie Mancini to her hotel. Rosemarie didn't really need an escort-she could handle herself-but this was Quinn's subtle way of thanking her. The dynamic little psychiatrist had served as both expert witness and unofficial counselor to the Newberg family, not to mention the thankless role of trying to serve as Quinn's conscience. As they rode, Quinn felt giddy and exhausted at the same time, the euphoria of avoiding defeat slowly succumbing to the reality that they still had a long road in front of them.

Quinn had watched Rosemarie at work during dinner and afterward, while others joked and swapped stories in the small, private room at the MGM Grand that Quinn's assistant had quickly reserved. Rosemarie had pulled aside Sierra, Quinn's thirteen-year-old niece, and spent most of the time with her. Out of the corner of his eye, Quinn noticed his niece smile for the first time in weeks. Rosemarie had been counseling Sierra for the past few months, and the two had somehow bonded, despite the generational differences between the fifty-five-year-old psychiatrist and her teenage client.

"How long before the retrial?" Rosemarie asked as they approached the Embassy Suites where she liked to stay-away from the strip. "I need to block some dates on my calendar."

"If I'm any kind of lawyer," Quinn said, "it won't be until after August thirty-first. Which, coincidentally, happens to be the day that Strackman retires."

"Why is he out to get you?" Rosemarie asked.

Despite what Quinn considered to be Strackman's obvious bias, Rosemarie had never asked this question before. Maybe she didn't want to know prior to taking the stand and testifying. Maybe she did better if she could just assume the system was fair. "Vegas is a juice town," Quinn said, watching the casinos pass by. "And our firm has no juice with Strackman."

"A juice town?"

"A few years ago, the L.A. Times wrote an article about the way we elect our judges in Nevada-the fact that 90 percent of the donations for the judges' campaigns come from lawyers and casinos. The article named names and gave examples of judges who had ruled in favor of lawyers who had been some of their main fund-raisers. The money quote in the article was from a friend of mine who said what all Vegas lawyers know but never state publicly: 'Vegas is a juice town, not a justice town. Financial contributions get you "juice" with a judge-not a guaranteed win, but at least the benefit of the doubt.'"

"And your firm didn't back Strackman?"

"Let's just say we would have had serious juice with his opponent."

"How can you operate like this?" Rosemarie asked, disgust evident in her voice. "What if we had lost and Strackman had been the one to sentence Annie?"

"That was my fear," Quinn said. "But we learned our lesson. Now we have some lawyers in our firm hosting fund-raisers for both candidates in any contested race. Guaranteed juice no matter who wins."

The cab pulled in front of the Embassy Suites, and Rosemarie handed a twenty to the driver. Quinn had lost enough battles trying to pay for Rosemarie's dinners and cab rides that he didn't even reach for his wallet.

Rosemarie opened the door and waited for her change.

"Thanks," Quinn said. "For everything."

Rosemarie looked at her friend and, as she seemed to do so often, must have read his mind. "They're going to be okay, Quinn. Annie and Sierra are going to be okay." She took her change and handed a five back to the cabbie. "It's you I'm worried about."

She climbed out of the cab but leaned back in before closing the door. "If I paid you an extra twenty, would you promise to take this man straight home to the Signature Towers?" she asked the cabdriver. "He's got a round of national television interviews tomorrow morning that start at about 4 a.m."

"Sure thing," said the driver. "Unless he pays me an extra forty after you're gone."

"That's what I was afraid of," said Rosemarie, closing the door.

Quinn smiled. He loved this town! Even the cabbies understood the concept of juice. "To the Venetian," he ordered. No sense wasting a lucky day.