By Reason of Insanity

by Randy Singer

  "Thanks for coming, Quinn," Espinoza began, as if Quinn had a choice in the matter. "We've all been watching the news, so we're somewhat familiar with the case." He leaned back and started spitting out facts. "You've got a serial killer running around Virginia terrorizing rapists and their defense attorneys. Two kidnappings and at least two presumed murders. Two of the victims--Paul Donaldson and Rex Archibald--are connected, right?"

  Quinn nodded as Espinoza continued. "Archibald represented Donaldson in a rape case. The kidnapping victims include the children of a criminal defense lawyer and an alleged rapist who beat the rap."

  "Right," said Quinn, his headache returning with a vengeance. "At this point our client has only been charged with the murder of Paul Donaldson."

  "Fair enough," Espinoza said. "So far, the authorities haven't found the babies or the bodies of either Donaldson or Archibald. But our client apparently had some visions about the murders, and these visions contain confidential information known only to police. Right? And then they search her place and find all sorts of DNA evidence and a drug used to subdue the victims."

  Quinn glanced around at the committee, his own patience wearing thin. Espinoza had painted the case in the worst possible light. "I must have been out when we passed the rule about only representing innocent clients," Quinn said.

  "I didn't say she had to be innocent," Espinoza said quickly. "I'm just trying to figure out what the defense is going to be."

  "She got framed," said Alfred Pennington, an old codger who made no secret of his disdain for Quinn's hotshot antics. "Mark Fuhrman placed the bloody paper towels in the neighbor's trash. It was really Kato Kaelin's hair on the envelope flap. Quinn can figure out some Alice-in-Wonderland defense. I'm more concerned with how we get paid. What's the retainer? What's the collateral for our fees as the case moves forward? What hourly rate are you charging?"

  "I'm taking the case pro bono," Quinn said. "Our pay will be the millions of dollars in free publicity."

  Pennington looked shocked, as if Quinn had just suggested assassinating the president.

  For the next thirty minutes, the lawyers vigorously debated the merits of Quinn's proposal. Fortunately for Quinn, Melanie had armed him with a profitability analysis for several national law firms, correlated with the amount of publicity each firm had generated on its high-profile cases the preceding year. The conclusion: It didn't matter if you won or lost. Getting your name in the paper was all that counted. Profits followed publicity.

  Just when Quinn thought his head might split open on the spot, Espinoza dismissed him so the committee could deliberate in private. Ten minutes later, Espinoza came to Quinn's office to announce the firm's decision.

  "The committee will allow you to stay in the O'Rourke case on two conditions," said Espinoza. "First, you make your billable-hour goal apart from the O'Rourke case. And second, you conclude your sister's plea agreement immediately so you aren't spending all your time on two nonpaying clients."

  Quinn didn't know whether to thank the man or tell him off. Quinn was a partner. These conditions sounded like something you would impose on an associate or something a parent might dictate to a rebellious teenager. On the other hand, Quinn was surprised they were letting him take the case at all.

  "Okay," Quinn said. Not thanks. Not I'll make this work and you won't be sorry. Just okay.

  Espinoza stood gazing out one of Quinn's windows, his arms crossed over his chest. "I had to go to bat for you on this one, Quinn. Your partners were not happy that you circumvented the system. They probably would have rejected the case if we hadn't already been knee-deep in it."

  Which is exactly why I filed first and asked for permission later. "I appreciate it," Quinn said. He was already wondering how he could possibly handle this case and make his billable-hour requirement. Maybe that requirement was just a setup to run him out of the firm. "Tell my partners I appreciate their dedication to the principle that everyone is entitled to a defense under our system of justice."

  Espinoza shook his head and turned to Quinn. "Don't push any harder on this one, Quinn. I can't go to the mat for you again."

  As always, Quinn knew that his managing partner would require the last word, and this comment seemed as good a candidate as any. Accordingly, Quinn thanked Espinoza and watched the man head for the door.

  Espinoza surprised Quinn by turning around just before he left. "Myself, I prefer Chaser Plus," he said, his lips curling into a half-smile.

  "What?"

  "For hangovers. You might want to keep some in your medicine cabinet."

  50

  After her fight with Holly, Catherine O'Rourke was placed in an isolation cell pending a psychiatric evaluation. First she was handcuffed so the jail barber could cut the chunks of gum out of her hair. It was such a mess that the barber eventually resorted to a rock-star spike. It looked terrible, giving Cat a hard, street-savvy look, but she knew it was probably the best the barber could do.

  After a few hours in solitary, Cat was led into one of the sterile conference rooms with bolted-down furniture so she could be evaluated by the prison psychiatrist. Cat learned from the psychiatrist that Holly would survive with no long-term disabilities. For a few moments Cat couldn't even talk as a wave of relief flooded her body.

  "Are you okay?" the psychiatrist asked. She was an older and soft-spoken woman named Dr. Glissen or something like that. Cat couldn't remember; her thoughts had been totally focused on Holly when the lady introduced herself.

  "I'm fine," Cat said.

  The woman asked Cat all the usual questions, and Cat answered them honestly. She was tired of pretending to be brave and tough. She needed help.

  "Have you ever considered suicide?" Dr. Glissen asked. "Or have you tried to hurt yourself in any way?"

  "Yes," said Cat. "To the suicide question, I mean." She paused, embarrassed to admit such a thing. "I was thinking about what this person did, this serial killer, and, well, I know it's not me, but I was thinking that if I was wrong and it somehow really was me . . ." Cat's voice trailed off and she felt herself trembling a little. It all sounded so bizarre, actually voicing the possibility out loud, like somehow it made the prospects more real.

  Dr. Glissen slid forward a little. "What would you do, Catherine, if you found out that you really were this serial killer?"

  "I'm not sure," Catherine admitted. "But I think I'd find a way to take my own life."

  There. She had said it. Strangely, there was something therapeutic about just saying it out loud.

  The two women talked for a long time about Catherine's feelings, the stresses of being in jail, and the pressure of being accused of such horrible crimes. Cat felt safe opening up with this woman. It seemed like the doctor actually cared about what was going on inside Cat's head. At the end of the visit, Dr. Glissen said she would prescribe some antidepressants. She gave Cat a lecture about how important it would be for her to take her meds faithfully.

  "A lot of patients quit taking their medication prematurely," Glissen said. "They don't like the way it makes them feel, or they don't like the stigma associated with it, or they just pronounce themselves cured. You've got a lot on your shoulders right now. There's nothing wrong with getting help."

  Cat thanked the doctor and returned to solitary confinement, where she spent her time second-guessing herself. She had lost control in a way that scared her. For a brief moment, she had wanted to kill Holly. And she nearly had. A part of? Cat that she never even knew existed had virtually taken control of her body. It was like the adrenaline and rage had fueled a different Catherine O'Rourke, one blind to consequences, intent on exacting vengeance and inflicting harm. During the fight, these emotions seemed to disembody Cat, as if she had merely been watching in horror while this other person attacked Holly, using Cat's body as the weapon.

  This other Catherine had bought into the prison's moral code--survival of the fittest, kill or be killed--completely. Sure, Holly had done everything within her power to instig
ate the fight. And Catherine had a right to stand up for herself, especially in prison, where women like Holly picked mercilessly on women like Catherine, hoping to find an inmate they could intimidate and ultimately "own." But what scared Cat was the blind intensity of her rage. For an instant, her entire focus had been on hurting Holly badly enough so that she couldn't fight back. In that single dark moment, Cat knew, she had been capable of murder.

  Was this the first time?

  Perhaps the answer lurked somewhere deep inside her own head, waiting for her to dig out the hard truth of past wounds and her own festering rage. On the other hand, perhaps this morning was just a courageous response to a relentless bully, Cat's way of screaming that she'd had enough.

  Maybe she was overanalyzing this entire incident. Who wouldn't have attacked Holly after what she had done? And besides, Cat remembered every second of the fight. In that respect, this was totally different from having another, unknown personality actually take control of her body.

  These questions, and dozens more like them, were driving Cat mad. She had plenty of time to think about them, her paranoia growing by the minute. She needed the medication as soon as possible. And she needed some noise. For the first time since her arrest on Sunday, Cat longed for the chaos created by the other inmates.

  Even the little things could drive you nuts in prison. Like never seeing the sun. Cat desperately needed some sunshine.

  But there were no windows in her cell, only muted artificial light and an eerie silence. The only sounds were the voices of doubt echoing in her head. Wondering. Questioning. Convicting.

  Was this the first time? Or had she done it before?

  She folded her hands, put her elbows on her knees, and looked down at her flip-flops. She looked around and noticed there were no sheets on this bed, just the bare mattress, grubby and stained, and an old pillow. She had been given no spare clothes in this cell. Cat immediately understood why. They couldn't trust her with anything that could be ripped apart and fashioned into a rope.

  She was not just in isolation.

  Catherine O'Rourke was on suicide watch.

  51

  Three days later

  The screening process at the Virginia Beach city jail made Quinn think he had stepped back in time and ended up at Alcatraz. Perhaps this was the way they always treated out-of-state lawyers, or perhaps he should have stopped to change out of the jeans, boat shoes, and polo shirt he had been wearing on the plane. Whatever the reason, Quinn endured two pat downs, a metal detector, and a hand search of his briefcase before he found himself waiting in a cinder block-walled cubicle for Catherine O'Rourke.

  He was separated from the prisoner's side of the cubicle by a block wall and a window of heavy glass. There was a slit at the bottom of the window for passing notes or pleadings--anything else and a lawyer could lose his visitation rights.

  They brought Catherine in ten minutes later, her wrists cuffed together. She slumped forward as she took her place on the opposite side of the glass, watching Quinn with a certain wariness.

  "Thanks for coming," she said.

  "No problem."

  Quinn stared at her for a moment, surprised by the transformation. He had watched the video of her arrest a dozen times, till the image had been burned in his brain. Plus, the networks had been running stories about Catherine all weekend, once they learned about the altercation at the jail. They used stock footage with photos that showed a captivating young woman with a sly half smile and mysterious dark eyes.

  But the woman sitting before Quinn had short, unkempt hair, dark circles under those eyes, and the beginnings of a red rash on the side of her neck.

  She managed a wan smile. "That bad?"

  Quinn felt himself blush. "I've seen worse," he said. "A lot worse." He jotted the date on his legal pad. "Jail's no picnic."

  "So I've learned."

  Quinn launched into his standard spiel about the need for honesty and full disclosure. He learned Catherine was taking some antidepressants, 20 mg per day of Lexapro, which she said she intended to stop taking once she left solitary confinement. He asked questions about her alibi and the methohexital and the DNA evidence against her. He had her describe in detail the rape by Kenneth Towns and possibly others, as well as the cover-up by Towns's frat brothers. As she did, Quinn put down his pen and studied her carefully, struck by the way she narrated the episode in an even voice, looking mostly at the slit in the glass, as if the entire event had happened to another person.

  "How did that make you feel?" he asked.

  Catherine looked at him, the almond eyes turning hard as they came into focus. "Violated. Ashamed because I didn't report it. Angry." Her tone underscored the lingering effects. "I've had nightmares for years."

  "Tell me about them."

  In a subdued voice, Catherine described the recurring scenes of Kenny and his frat brothers. Occasionally she would stop to collect her thoughts or scratch the side of her neck. Quinn probed for specifics, asking follow-up questions that clearly made her uncomfortable.

  Next he turned to the matter of Catherine's visions--what she had seen, how she had felt, the differences between her visions and her nightmares. When he felt his client wearing down, he packed up his briefcase and emphasized the importance of Catherine's being absolutely forthcoming with Dr. Mancini. He asked Catherine if she had any questions.

  "Aren't you going to ask me if I did it?"

  Quinn furrowed his brow and studied his client. "I normally have the psych eval done first."

  Catherine returned his gaze. "I'm innocent, Quinn. I need you to know that." She paused, glancing down for just a moment. When she returned her gaze, tears rimmed her eyes. "With God as my witness, I didn't even know those people."

  Quinn wanted to reach out and touch her, a hand on her arm, anything to show his support. But three inches of bulletproof glass separated them. "I believe you," he said.

  He wondered if she could sense his doubt.

  * * *

  Catherine shuffled back to her solitary-confinement cell, a place that had become hell on earth. Her spirits had sunk lower each day, her isolation interrupted only by an occasional visit from the jail psychiatrist and one brief visit from Marc Boland. The rest of the time, Catherine wrote in her journal and obsessed over the mounting evidence against her, demoralized by her inability to do anything about it.

  But Quinn, like Marc Boland, seemed to believe in her case. She liked Quinn's style--thorough, confident, realistic. She could understand why the man did so well with juries. He didn't seem as outgoing as Marc Boland, but Quinn had a quiet intensity that he expressed through his eyes, the smoldering look of a man who knew more than he was saying. You wanted Marc Boland to be your friend. You wanted to make sure Quinn Newberg was not your enemy.

  She took a few deep breaths in the quietness of her cell. Day by day, the place seemed to be closing in on her. But for once, it seemed like she could actually fill her lungs, the vicelike pressure on her chest relaxing just a little. She stood and headed for the rinse basin. For the first time since going into solitary confinement, she felt like washing her face and what little hair she had left. It wasn't a nice warm shower at her beach duplex, but the feel of water trickling down her face and dripping from her chin made her feel close to human again.

  She had opened up about some painful moments to Quinn, though she had tried to do it on autopilot, keeping her feelings at bay. It felt therapeutic. Yet there were still a lot of things he didn't know. Like her guttural revulsion when a recent boyfriend had tried to get intimate, releasing a flood of horrific memories.

  She was smart enough to know that some thoughts are so painful, some memories so intense, you need to hide them even from your own lawyer.

  52

  Quinn decided to conduct his interviews of potential investigators in a corner of the Westin lobby bar, munching on peanuts and drinking iced tea. The first two candidates were unimpressive.

  When Quinn saw the third and f
inal candidate meandering toward him, he knew he would have to ask Melanie to go back to the drawing board. Billy Long was a thick bowling ball of a man, about five-ten, with rounded shoulders, a stubble of dark, receding hair, a five-o'clock shadow, and seriously hairy arms and chest. He was dressed in khakis and a Hawaiian shirt.

  "Billy Long," he said, squeezing Quinn's hand in a bearlike grip. "I understand you need a private investigator."

  "I'm interviewing a number of folks," Quinn said, as Billy took his seat. "I just have a few questions."

  Unfortunately, Billy called for a waitress. "I'll take a Bud," he said.

  "I'm good," Quinn said. "I need to be leaving soon."

  Quinn fired off a list of perfunctory questions and was somewhat impressed with Billy's responses. He struck Quinn as being one of those "dumb like a fox" guys who puts you at ease and then steals you blind. Billy told some fascinating war stories about his prior life as a detective. His wife's job had caused the couple to move around Virginia a little--Hampton, Williamsburg, Richmond--before they got a divorce and Billy moved to Virginia Beach to start work as a private investigator. He had been in Virginia Beach for six years now and seemed to know all the major personalities. Still, Quinn had pretty much decided not to hire the guy; he needed someone more professional.

  And then Billy pulled out his ace.

  He swallowed the last of his beer and slid a manila folder across the table to Quinn. "This one'll be on the house," he said. "It's gonna be a long day for you boys tomorrow."

  Quinn assessed Billy with a sideways look. Billy stood and Quinn did likewise, taking Billy's card before he shook the PI's hand. After Billy left, Quinn opened the manila folder.

  It was a summons for Virginia Beach General District Court, Criminal Division, on charges of assault and battery. The named defendant was Catherine O'Rourke, and from the description, the charges were obviously the result of Catherine's attack on her cellmate, a woman named Holly Stephenson.