By Reason of Insanity

by Randy Singer

  "The kidnapped baby in Washington, D.C., was Rayshad Milburn, a three-month-old baby taken in a parking garage from his mother, Sherita Johnson. The father is a twice-convicted felon named Clarence Milburn who beat a rape and murder charge several months ago based on an invalid warrantless search. The cops thought they had exigent circumstances, but the judge disagreed."

  Cat typed furiously while processing this new piece of the puzzle. "Was he represented by the Carvers?"

  "No. But the MOs for the crimes were very similar. In both cases, a victim was immobilized and then injected with the same type of powerful sedative. There are other connections, but that's all I can say for now."

  "What other connections? What else can you give me?"

  "We never had this phone call," her source said. "Not unless you get tied to that rotting corpse."

  "I understand," Catherine said.

  Without another word, her source hung up the phone.

  10

  The next day, Catherine scored another front-page article, trumpeting the news that the Carver kidnapping was not a stand-alone crime. Predictable panic spread among mothers of infants, matched only by the consternation in the Virginia Beach Commonwealth's Attorneys' office. The Carver investigation had sprung a leak! Determined to plug it, the chief deputy commonwealth's attorney subpoenaed Catherine to a grand jury hearing to ask about her source. When Catherine refused to reveal her source, he scowled and threatened to have a circuit court judge hold her in contempt. When Catherine scowled back, he set up a hearing for late afternoon in the Virginia Beach Circuit Court.

  At a few minutes after 4:00, Catherine took her place in the witness box and swore to tell the truth. She crossed one leg over the other and then switched them back, trying to get comfortable.

  "Please state your name and place of employment," said Boyd Gates, chief deputy attorney. He was a former Navy SEAL and the top prosecutor at the Beach, doing the heavy lifting in court while his boss, Commonwealth's Attorney Anthony Brower, gave political speeches and media interviews about being tough on crime. Gates was bald, midforties, and a bulldog during trials.

  Catherine looked at William Jacobs, the lawyer hired by the newspaper. Jacobs was a bookish man with thin gray hair and a worried look on his face. The reporters hated it when the conservative Jacobs got involved in libel-proofing their stories. Scared to death of getting the paper sued, he would always make the reporters water down the good stuff. Jacobs gave Catherine a curt nod.

  "Catherine O'Rourke. I'm a reporter for the Tidewater Times."

  "Is this an article you wrote for this morning's paper?" Gates handed a copy to Catherine and a second copy to the judge.

  "Yes," Catherine said. "That's generally what it means when we put our name on it."

  Jacobs shot Catherine a disapproving look.

  "Do you think this is funny?" Gates demanded. "Do you find something humorous in the kidnapping of the Carver twins?"

  "No," Catherine fired back. "I don't think this is funny at all. I'm being threatened with jail time if I don't reveal a confidential source."

  "Read the last paragraph to the court."

  Catherine wanted to say that she thought the judge could read those big words all by herself, but she thought better of it.

  She read in a slow monotone, her voice trembling just a little. "According to a law-enforcement source familiar with the investigation, the Carver kidnapping may be linked to a similar kidnapping two months ago in Washington, D.C., in which the three-month-old child of Clarence Milburn and Sherita Johnson was abducted in a parking garage. Investigators are reviewing a host of other kidnappings nationwide to determine if other occurrences fit a similar pattern."

  "Who was that source, Ms. O'Rourke?"

  William Jacobs stood and lodged a halfhearted objection. "For the reasons I explained at the start of this hearing, Your Honor, we don't think Ms. O'Rourke should be required to testify at all, much less reveal a confidential source."

  "A reporter's privilege is not absolute," Gates countered. He spoke curtly, as if lecturing the judge. "A compelling governmental interest can override the qualified privilege in a case like this. We are dealing with an extremely sensitive investigation in a high-profile case. As with any investigation, the police held back certain details so they could filter out frauds and trip up the real perpetrator." Gates motioned to the front row of the courtroom at an athletic African-American detective named Jamarcus Webb. "As Mr. Webb testified earlier, the link with another kidnapping was one of the facts held back. And for good reason--"

  Judge Amelia Rosencrance cut him off with an impatient flip of her wrist. "Yes, yes, I know how the argument goes, Mr. Gates. And, for the reasons stated earlier, I tend to agree with you. I'm going to overrule Mr. Jacobs's objection and instruct the witness to answer. The government's interest in finding a leak on an investigation of this magnitude overrides Ms. O'Rourke's right to protect her sources."

  "Note my objection," Jacobs said politely. When he sat down, all eyes turned to Catherine O'Rourke.

  She folded her clammy hands in her lap and swallowed hard. She felt alone in the courtroom as the prospect of facing jail became real.

  "Ms. O'Rourke," Judge Rosencrance said, "I've overruled the objection. Please state your source."

  "I can't say," Catherine testified. "With respect, Your Honor, I'm not willing to reveal my source."

  Judge Rosencrance leaned toward the witness box and seemed to hover over Catherine, like an eagle ready to swoop in for a field mouse. "Your counsel has made his argument," the judge said tersely. "I have overruled it. The law does not protect your right to withhold critical information in the midst of a kidnapping investigation."

  Gates took a few steps closer to the witness box, hemming Catherine in. She cast a pleading look toward her own lawyer, motionless at counsel table. Her eyes darted toward the judge, then down at her hands.

  "I won't," Catherine said softly, barely above a whisper.

  "Then I'll have no choice but to hold you in contempt," Rosencrance responded, her voice sharp.

  "I'm sorry, Judge."

  Looking up, Catherine thought she detected a flash of sympathy in the judge's eyes. Or maybe uncertainty. No judge in her right mind wanted to put a newspaper reporter in prison. Catherine would probably be reporting for a very long time, including future stories about this judge.

  But Boyd Gates had no such ambivalence. "Ninety percent of all kidnapping cases are solved within the first forty-eight hours," he snapped. "Most of the children recovered during that time survive. After forty-eight hours, the odds drop precipitously. While we're here playing games, trying to determine which officers we can trust with confidential information and which ones might be leaking information to the press, the lives of two innocent babies are slipping away."

  Catherine felt her heart racing. In journalism school, it all seemed so clear. You made a promise to your sources, you kept your word. Jail was a badge of courage.

  But now, with jail actually looming and the lives of two babies at stake, things seemed murky. She shook her head slowly and set her jaw. She faced Judge Rosencrance for one final plea. "If I must, Your Honor, I'm prepared to go to jail. But if the court could just give me a short recess--just overnight so I can talk to my source--maybe this entire standoff could be avoided."

  Rosencrance turned to Gates and raised her eyebrows. "Mr. Gates?"

  "It's out of the question, Your Honor. We have a compromised investigation. Time is of the essence. We need to know what other confidential information was released to the press and who released it."

  "Mr. Jacobs?"

  Catherine's lawyer stood and gathered his thoughts. "These are substantial issues of law, Your Honor. If there is a chance of avoiding this dilemma, we should seize it. I know the court doesn't want to curtail my client's First Amendment rights if it can be avoided."

  "I'll give you one night," Rosencrance said brusquely. "I want all parties back in my courtroom at 9:0
0 tomorrow morning."

  Gates voiced another objection, but the judge proved she had a stubborn streak too. Finally she banged her gavel and adjourned court.

  Catherine got off the witness stand as quickly as possible and gathered her things from the counsel table.

  "I hope you can get your source to agree to let you divulge his or her name," William Jacobs said, emotionless as ever. "I don't think we can win this on appeal. You could be serving for an indeterminate time."

  Catherine stood to her full height and stared at the man who was supposed to be protecting her. She had heard that the paper paid Jacobs more than $300 an hour. She had also heard he was golfing buddies with the publisher.

  "You're fired," said Catherine.

  Jacobs did a second take, confusion wrinkling his face. "I work for the paper," he said. "You can't fire me."

  "I just did," Catherine shot back. "The paper's not going to jail. I am." She turned and stalked out of the courtroom. On the way, she brushed up against Jamarcus Webb, the investigator who had taken the stand to testify about the confidential nature of the information Catherine had printed.

  Her message to Jamarcus was unmistakable. You owe me, Officer Webb.

  And keep the info coming.

  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 massiv
e 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.

  12

  Quinn Newberg sat at a table in front of the standing-room-only crowd in the expansive moot courtroom that doubled as an auditorium. He listened as Marc Boland gave a stirring defense of capital punishment. Bo, as the moderator referred to him, was tall, maybe six-four or so, and big boned, but with a soft-edged baby face that looked like it only required shaving once or twice a week. He had short blond hair and an engaging way with the audience--the style of a Southern gentleman that belied the killer instinct Quinn had already heard about. Bo had played linebacker at Virginia Tech before a torn ACL short-circuited his senior season.

  Bo looked impressive in a tailored blue suit and bright tie with bold crimson and yellow horizontal stripes. Quinn had dressed in Vegas casual--khaki slacks, a blue blazer, an open-necked shirt. The event coordinators weren't paying him enough to sport a tie.

  Boland didn't spare any of the gory details when he described the crimes committed by those who claimed mental illness. His word pictures of rape, murder, and mayhem would have made Stephen King proud. "These types of crimes are not committed by ordinary citizens," Boland said. "The grotesque nature of these crimes serves as Exhibit A for the defendants' mental imbalance."

  Quinn noticed some heads nodding as Boland continued. He had stepped out from behind the podium and was partway up the middle aisle. "If we adopt the philosophy of people like Mr. Newberg, death penalty jurisprudence would be flipped on its head. The more grotesque the crime, the more likely a defendant can make a case that he was mentally impaired, thus avoiding the death penalty. What kind of system is that? If you're going to shoot them, you might as well slice them up and maybe eat a bite or two of your victim." Boland shook his head at the absurdity of it. "That way you can claim the devil made you do it."