By Reason of Insanity (3 page)

Quinn tried to take his mind off the case by returning phone calls and e-mails that had stacked up during the trial. He divided them into four stacks--media, friends, other cases, and potential new clients. The last stack was the thickest. Over the course of his career, Quinn had developed a reputation as a flashy criminal defense attorney for white-collar crooks. But Annie's case had generated so much national publicity that it seemed Quinn was now the go-to guy for insane defendants of all stripes. Apparently there were a lot of crazy people in the world.

The call he had been waiting for came at ten minutes after three on Wednesday afternoon. "Judge Strackman would like you back in the courtroom," the clerk said. "We have a verdict."

4

Catherine O'Rourke felt her Stomach Clench when she heard the news, almost as if she were the one standing trial. She knew firsthand the type of pain that Annie Newberg had experienced and found it hard not to project her own feelings onto the defendant in the Newberg case. In some ways, it felt like the Newbergs were speaking for all abuse victims, for all victims of sexual crimes.

She tried to maintain a reporter's objectivity as she settled into her third-row seat next to the other beat reporters. Her paper had been randomly selected under a lottery system for one of the coveted media seats inside the courtroom for this latest "trial of the century," a media phenomenon that veteran observers compared to the Scott Peterson trial.

Courtroom 16D was a small, modern courtroom with only three rows of bucket seats for spectators. Most reporters had to watch via closed-circuit TV.

Catherine typically wrote for just one paper in Norfolk, Virginia--the
Tidewater Times
--but on this case her employers had decided to leverage her presence in the courtroom. Her stories on the trial appeared in all four newspapers owned by the McClaren Corporation, and she did stand-up reports "live from Vegas" for the three McClaren television stations as well. The feedback, especially on the television side, was surprisingly positive. "You've got a face for television," a news producer once told her. He'd tried to talk Catherine into using her nickname on air--"like Katie Couric does"--but
Cat O'Rourke
sounded too informal for a serious reporter.

Stuart Sheldon, seated on Catherine's left, covered the case for the
Las Vegas Review-Journal
and therefore had one of the seats reserved for local media. He also ran the reporters' pool. When the jury first retired, Quinn Newberg had been a three-to-one underdog. "It's the insanity defense," Stuart had said, as if no further explanation were needed.

Most reporters had shared Sheldon's skepticism. Nevada insanity law did not favor defendants. "This state is a little unusual," Catherine had explained during one of her stand-up reports, "in that the jury has the option of returning a verdict of guilty but mentally ill. The defendant gets basically the same punishment, but also gets psychiatric treatment while in jail. Some experts are predicting that type of verdict here."

But that comment was before Quinn's closing argument and this prolonged stalemate by the jury. Now, Sheldon's pool had the odds at
fifty-fifty.

Cat jotted down a few words to describe the moment--
tension, fatigue, stress
--they all seemed so inadequate.

The Hofstetter family had settled into their usual seats in the first two rows on the other side of the courtroom, behind the prosecution table. They had been outspoken in their criticism of both Quinn Newberg and Carla Duncan. Newberg because he was trying to spring their son's killer. Duncan because she had painted an unflattering but truthful figure of Hofstetter as a womanizer and abuser, just one step above plankton in the prosecutor's view of the world.

Richard Hofstetter Sr. had taken to the airwaves in an effort to rehabilitate his son's name. Richard Jr. was an exemplary businessman. He gave to charity. He provided for his wife, giving her every material thing she craved--no small feat for a man married to someone as extravagant and greedy as Anne Newberg. Yes, he should have sought help in controlling his anger. But the arguments went both ways. Anne was no saint either.

It was enough to make Catherine O'Rourke sick. Smear the victim. She knew how that game was played.

The air hummed with tension when Quinn and Anne Newberg entered the courtroom looking grim, their eyes straight ahead.
Resolve,
Catherine jotted down as the Newbergs took their seats.
Anne Newberg seems resigned to her fate.

The young woman had already lost both parents--her estranged father in a single car accident when he was forty; her mom to a heart attack nearly ten years later. Now she faced the potential loss of her freedom and, along with it, the opportunity to raise her only child.

The trial had exacted its toll on Quinn, too. His face looked drawn, and his expensive suit seemed to hang a little looser on his frame. Quinn was just over six feet, angular and lean, with the fluid movements of an athlete, though Cat's research did not reveal any sports background. He had this mysterious look, not unlike a Vegas illusionist, with straight black hair and a trim beard that covered only the tip of his chin. Dark eyebrows shaded the man's best feature--the expressive almond eyes that seemed to dance and spark in ways that made Cat feel like nodding her head when he spoke.

Quinn's sister reflected his dark allure in her own feminine features. In Cat's view, this accounted for much of the nation's fascination with the case.
The Menendez brothers. Scott and Lacie Peterson. The Simpson case.
They all had one thing in common--the leading players were easy on the eyes.

Would anybody have cared,
Catherine wondered,
if the Newbergs had been poor, rural, and not quite so dashing?

Quinn felt his stomach corkscrew while his heart slammed against his chest. On the inside, turmoil. But on the outside, another day at the office. He leaned back in his chair, left leg crossed over right, and kept an eye on the door behind the judge's dais.

"How can you stay so calm?" Annie whispered. "Feel this." She touched Quinn's cheek with the back of an ice-cold hand.

"It's out of our control," Quinn said, though he knew this wasn't entirely true. He still had one more ace to play, something that would keep the legal commentators wagging their tongues for a long time.
If
he had the guts to lay it down.

Quinn placed a blank yellow legal pad on the table and wrote "Verdict:" at the top of the page, drawing a line next to the word. He checked under the last page of the legal pad just to make certain his ace was still there--a single sheet of paper, folded in half and signed under oath.

"All rise! This honorable court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Ronald Strackman presiding."

Strackman took his place on the bench. "Be seated." He paused, took a sip of coffee, and surveyed the courtroom.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it appears we have a verdict in this case. I'm going to say this only once. I will not tolerate
any
outbursts when the verdict is read. I have full contempt powers to control this court, and I will not hesitate to use them."

Under the counsel table, Annie put a trembling hand on Quinn's leg.

He reached down and held it. "Remember," he whispered, "all that stuff about whether or not the jurors look at the defendant as a way to determine their verdict is meaningless. On a case like this, they'll have their poker faces on."

Annie nodded bravely and squeezed Quinn's hand.

"Bailiff," Judge Strackman said, "bring in the jury."

Catherine O'Rourke watched the jury members file in--eyes downcast, a mask of solemn duty on every face. Juror five, the single mother of two, had been crying again.

"Is it too late to put twenty bucks on the prosecution?" Catherine asked.

When Stuart Sheldon shrugged, she slipped a twenty into his greasy hand and made another note on her legal pad. The pain she felt as she did so reflected her own assessment of the case.

Guilty,
she wrote.

"Ladies and gentlemen, do you have a verdict?"

"We do," answered the forewoman. She was a schoolteacher with four grown kids. Quinn had found her impossible to read.

She handed the verdict form to the bailiff, who handed it to the judge. Strackman looked over the form, his face expressionless. He took another swig of coffee and handed the form to the court clerk.

"Will the defendant please rise?" the clerk said.

Quinn and Annie stood shoulder to shoulder, like two prisoners facing the firing squad, as the clerk read the verdict aloud.

"On the count of murder in the first degree, we the jury find the defendant, Anne Newberg . . ." The clerk paused for what seemed like an inhumane length of time. ". . . guilty as charged."

Gasps came from the gallery. Somebody in the Hofstetter section said, "Yesss!" Quinn's knees nearly buckled, but he managed to stand tall and keep his chin up. He glanced at his sister and saw a look of uncomprehending shock.

He couldn't believe it had come to this.

Quinn reached down and picked up his legal pad, removing and unfolding the single sheet of paper. The reporters were probably too busy scribbling down their reactions to even notice. If only they knew. Juries delivered verdicts every day. But if Quinn followed through on this next move, it would be unprecedented.

"I have a motion to make, Your Honor."

"Yes, of course," Strackman said, undoubtedly expecting a routine motion for a new trial based on an assortment of evidentiary rulings. "But before you make that motion, would you like me to poll the jury?"

"Sure," Quinn said, gladly taking his seat. He needed another minute to think. Once he launched his grenade, there would be no taking it back.

5

As Strackman polled the jury members, asking them one by one if this represented their verdict, Quinn tried to sort through his jumbled emotions. Anger. Despair. Heartbreak for his sister, sitting next to him in shell-shocked silence. Apprehension about whether to make this next move--a self-destructive bombshell, but one that might gain his sister's freedom.

"Juror number three, is this your verdict?"

"Yes."

"Juror number four, is this your verdict?"

"Yes."

Quinn stared at each juror, trying to shame them into changing their minds. But like every other case he had ever lost, they ignored him and looked straight at the judge, affirming the verdict like good little soldiers.

"Juror number five, is this your verdict?"

The woman swallowed hard and hesitated. Tears rimmed her eyes, and a brief flicker of hope stirred in Quinn.
C'mon. . . . C'mon. . . . I know you didn't want this.

"Yes."

Another gut punch--the cruelty of hope created and shattered.

"Juror number six, is this your verdict?"

"Yes."

"Juror number seven--" Judge Strackman stopped midsentence, his face twisted with concern. Juror five had her hand in the air. "Yes?" Strackman asked.

"It's not my verdict," the woman blurted out. She stole a glance at Quinn, who quickly nodded his encouragement. "I'm sorry, Your Honor. I only agreed to the verdict so I could get this ordeal over with--to get these people off my back. It's not my verdict. I think she's innocent."

A few of the other jurors shook their heads in disapproval; the Hofstetters let loose with a few muted curses. The entire courtroom buzzed with excitement. This was better than Cirque du Soleil!

Energized, Quinn jumped to his feet, demanding a mistrial. Carla Duncan stood as well, but the look on her face said it all. Juror five had just blown this trial right out of the water.

"Order!" Strackman barked, banging his gavel with uncharacteristic force. "Order in the court!"

He glared at the juror, and Quinn knew what was coming. "Ms. Richards," the judge began, taking the unusual step of calling the juror by name, "you have just nullified this entire trial, causing this court a tremendous amount of frustration, wasted tax dollars, and wasted time. If you had reservations, I wish you would have stayed in the jury room and tried to work them out. As it is, I have no choice but to declare a mistrial."

Julia Richards, juror five, nodded solemnly. But she held her head up, as if she might actually be proud of what she had just accomplished. Though she wasn't really his type, Quinn wanted to walk over to the jury box and kiss the woman.

He thought about that old cliche--
a tie is like kissing your sister.
But after hearing the word
guilty,
this "tie" felt like cause for celebration. He placed his arm around Annie's shoulder and settled for a reserved hug. Then, ever so carefully, he folded the single piece of paper in front of him and slid it back into the legal pad. Still abuzz, the reporters all thought they had a blockbuster story for the evening news.

They should have seen the one that got away.

6

Catherine O'Rourke watched the dueling public statements on the shaded steps of the Las Vegas Regional Justice Center.

Richard Hofstetter Sr. appeared first, a cinder block of a man with dyed black hair, his face red with anger. "Justice failed our family and my son," he stated. "A cold-blooded killer remains free on bond, and her brother continues to defame my son and our family. Who stands up for the victims in this court? Certainly not District Attorney Duncan, who took the allegations of abuse at face value. The victims have no choice but to fend for themselves."