by Randy Singer
55
The next morning, Marc Boland took to the airwaves even before Quinn boarded his flight for Las Vegas. Marc was on the offensive, doing his best to take the sting out of the assault-and-battery charges Boyd Gates apparently planned on filing later in the day. Marc expressed sincere concern for the safety of his client. He said that Catherine had been harassed repeatedly by her cellmate in the past few days. He said the guards had not responded to her requests for protection because they were upset about the articles she had written about conditions in the jail.
He said Catherine finally had to take matters into her own hands and defend herself. Then, to Boland's great surprise, prison officials had punished Catherine by putting her in solitary confinement for several days. Now that Catherine was going back into the general inmate population, Boland said he would be filing a motion for a restraining order to keep Holly Stephenson away from Catherine O'Rourke.
It was, Quinn thought, a nice preemptive strike, but he knew it would get swept away later in the day when Boyd Gates released the pictures of Holly's bloody face.
* * *
Catherine O'Rourke stared at the wall during her last day in solitary confinement, pleading for another vision. What is this--some cruel cosmic joke? The visions had been vivid enough, and accurate enough, to land her behind bars. She hadn't asked for this power, this curse. But now that she needed the visions to come back with greater force and detail so she could actually help the authorities solve these crimes, now that she did everything within her power to enable them, the visions were nowhere to be found.
She tried to empty her mind. She tried focusing on the wall and then on the psychic power within her. She thought about the victims of the crimes and the night of her own rapes and the biblical verses the Avenger had cited.
But no matter how hard she tried, the visions would not come back. Catherine O'Rourke, infamous medium or hated serial murderer, depending on your perspective, could not conjure up even a hint of the Avenger's ghost. She stared at an empty wall, frustrated.
Where were these vaunted powers when she really needed them?
* * *
After Quinn survived the media gauntlet waiting for him at the end of his flight, he headed into his office. Melanie left at five and Quinn barely noticed, consumed by the mound of paperwork his three-day absence had generated. He was still hunched over his computer at 9 p.m. when the phone call came.
Annie's number registered on his cell phone. She was probably nervous about tomorrow's hearing, but he didn't have time right now. He hit Ignore. He would call her back in a few minutes, as soon as he finished with these e-mails.
Two minutes later, she called a second time. It wasn't like Annie to be so persistent. He picked up on the third ring.
"Quinn?"
She sounded stressed, enough so to squeeze his heart. "You okay?" he asked.
"No." Her voice cracked a little. "It's Sierra, Quinn. She . . ." Annie took a breath, obviously struggling to maintain composure, her voice thin and fragile. "She tried to kill herself, Quinn. Sleeping pills. Something like half a bottle . . ." Annie's words trailed off.
Quinn bolted from his chair. "Where is she now, Annie?"
"Desert Springs Hospital. The emergency room. The Schlesingers found Sierra in her bedroom and called me. I met them here."
"Don't move," said Quinn, already heading for the door. "I'll be right over."
56
"They think she's going to be all right." Annie had called Quinn back just a few minutes before he hit the hospital parking lot. The emergency room personnel had pumped Sierra's stomach and hooked up some IVs, Annie said. Sierra's vital signs had stabilized.
Quinn breathed an enormous sigh of relief, thanked Annie for the update, and felt his own racing heart slow just a little. He wasn't ready for this--a brush with death by someone so young and innocent. He had been thinking about Sierra the entire drive to the hospital. Her confused and endearing face. Her awkwardness as a girl struggling to become a woman. Her honesty and transparency with Quinn. What could he have done differently? What should he have said the last time he was with her?
He wouldn't have been able to live with himself if Sierra had died. Suicide. How could this nightmare be happening?
He parked in a handicapped spot and half walked, half ran into the hospital. Sierra had already been moved to a private room. He bumped into the Schlesingers in the waiting area, and Allison promptly had a meltdown.
She cried as she related the story of finding Sierra unconscious in her room, an empty bottle of Allison's Ambien on the bedside table. "It was awful, Quinn," she sobbed. "We called 911. We thought she was going to die before the ambulance even got there."
Quinn murmured a few sentences of empathy, telling Allison it wasn't her fault, then extricated himself and headed to Sierra's room. He didn't know what he would do once he got there. Quinn hated hospitals, and he wasn't good at providing comfort. Still, he had to see Sierra and be with Annie.
He gently pushed the door open and stopped just inside the threshold. Sierra was lying on the bed, eyes closed, a breathing tube in her nose and IV lines attached to her body. Annie was sitting in a chair on the opposite side of the bed, keeping one eye on the door.
Annie forced a thin smile when she saw Quinn and rose to greet him. She looked shell-shocked, like someone who had just escaped a battlefield littered with land mines and dead bodies. "I can't believe this," she whispered.
She took Quinn's hand and led him into the hall. She crossed her arms and spoke in a subdued tone, as if Sierra might wake up at any moment and overhear them. "The doctors said she's going to be okay. They think it's a cry for help. Girls this age who really want to take their life don't take a bunch of sleeping pills at home in the evening knowing that they'll be discovered right away." Annie stopped, working hard to keep her emotions under control. Quinn reached out to rub her shoulder.
"It's not a coincidence that she did this the night before my plea," Annie said. "Three years without a mother is an eternity when you're thirteen." She paused, measuring her words with care. "Plus, to have a mother who admits being a murderer . . ."
"That's not what this is about," Quinn said softly. "Sierra knows what really happened. A plea bargain doesn't change that."
But Annie was apparently in no mood to discuss it. "I want to call off the plea bargain," she said firmly. "This changes everything."
Quinn wasn't sure his sister was thinking clearly. Her harrowed face showed the strains of a mom's worst nightmare. She was reacting out of emotion.
"I'll call Carla Duncan," Quinn said. "We can postpone the hearing for a week or two, give us a chance to regroup and decide what to do."
Annie had been staring at the floor, but now locked her eyes on Quinn, the big sister coming back. "I don't want a postponement; I want to withdraw the plea. And, Quinn, she can't stay with the Schlesingers. They don't have a clue."
On this point, Quinn knew Annie was right. Sierra felt smothered there; she had said as much to Quinn. "What are you suggesting?"
Annie lowered her voice. "If Sierra can't live with me, it might be better if she could stay with you."
Quinn started to object, pointing out that the court wouldn't allow it, but it seemed his sister could always read his mind.
"Even if it means I have to stay in jail without bail until the retrial," she added.
Part of Quinn wanted this. But the other part, the logical Quinn, could think of a thousand reasons why this was a bad idea, though Annie's desperate look vaporized most of them. "We'll talk about it," he said. "Right now, let's just focus on getting Sierra the help she needs."
"You are the help she needs," said Annie.
"I'll call Carla Duncan," said Quinn. "We'll take it from there."
* * *
Quinn's misgivings disappeared a few minutes later when he and Annie returned to Sierra's room. The girl looked younger than thirteen, frail and vulnerable, her hair spilling in a tangled web o
nto the pillow.
Physically, she would recover. But her brittle psyche had been shattered by the overwhelming events of the past few months. Quinn knew the feeling from his own troubled childhood. He had blamed himself for most of the events that spun wildly beyond his control, devastating those he loved most.
They could not lose the next generation. Quinn reached out and touched Sierra gently on the arm, surprised by the coolness of her skin. Instinctively, he wrapped his fingers around her slender forearm, feeling the thin bones. In that moment he had his answer. He would do whatever needed to be done.
Quinn looked at his sister, tears brimming her eyes. "I hope she knows how to cook," Quinn said.
57
Quinn headed straight for the hospital the next morning, calling Melanie along the way so he could tell her to reschedule the day's appointments. He had called Carla Duncan the night before, and she had agreed to reschedule the plea hearing. "I'll give the judge some vague reason," she assured Quinn. "I'll do my best to keep this out of the press."
When Quinn told her that Annie might change her mind about the deal, Carla was not happy. "If you reject it now, you can't come back on the eve of trial," she warned. "I worked hard to get this deal approved. Don't leave me flailing in the wind."
Quinn thanked her for her efforts but explained that Sierra's suicide attempt had changed things. "We'll let you know one way or the other next week," he said.
Because he had already put the prosecutor in a sour mood, Quinn decided this wasn't the best time to talk about a possible change in Sierra's custody. Given the circumstances, he decided he would employ a vintage Quinn Newberg strategy--act first and seek forgiveness later.
At the hospital, Quinn felt a queasiness develop in his gut. What could he say to a thirteen-year-old girl who'd just attempted suicide?
He rode the elevator to the third floor and shuffled slowly toward Sierra's room. Last night, fueled by adrenaline and remorse, he had practically run into the room. Now, knowing that Sierra would be awake, he took his time, procrastinating the awkward moment as long as possible.
"Hey," Sierra said when she saw Quinn step inside the door. The tubes and IV had been removed, and Sierra had brushed her hair. She looked tired but peaceful.
"Hey," Quinn said. He walked to her bedside. Annie was fast asleep in a reclining chair in the corner, her mouth open. A TV hanging from the wall at the foot of Sierra's bed featured an MTV reality show.
"Mom fell asleep about an hour ago," Sierra said. "I tried to get her to go home."
"She's stubborn," Quinn whispered. He wondered if he should bring up last night. What was the protocol? So, Sierra, you had any death wishes this morning?
"You feeling okay?" Quinn asked.
She nodded and looked away. "My stomach hurts. Plus, my throat's raw where they jammed that tube down."
"You scared us," Quinn said.
"I know, Uncle Quinn. I'm sorry."
Her voice was so frail that Quinn decided not to push it. "You hungry?"
"They already made me eat."
This was so awkward. What do I talk about? Where are the points of connection?
A long minute passed. "What are you watching?" Quinn asked.
"MTV."
No kidding. "Did they say if you could go home today?"
"You mean to the Schlesingers'?"
"Yeah."
"I think so. Mom talked to the doctor, but she didn't really say if I could or not." Sienna hesitated then turned her pleading eyes on Quinn. "I don't like it there, Uncle Quinn."
"We'll work something out," Quinn said. "I promise."
He stayed for a few more minutes, awkwardly trying to jump-start a conversation while both of them avoided talking about the night before.
Finally he had an idea. "What's your favorite movie?" he asked.
"I don't know. Maybe Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End. I like Johnny Depp."
"You want to watch it?"
Sierra looked skeptical. "How?"
"Give me an hour."
Fifty minutes later, Quinn was back. He brought his laptop and DVDs of all three Pirates movies, just to make sure he had the right one. Annie was awake this time, and Quinn made her go home and take a shower. He pulled a stiff wooden chair next to Sierra's bed, put his laptop on her tray table, and popped in the third Pirates movie.
It was nearly two-thirds over when Quinn heard his niece sniffle. He looked over to see the tears dripping down her cheeks.
"You all right?" he asked, his heart aching for the girl.
"I'm sorry, Uncle Quinn. Please don't hate me."
He leaned over next to Sierra, and she put her arms around his neck. He held her and let her cry. "Of course I don't hate you," he said. "I love you, Sierra. Your mom loves you." He paused, because he had to convince himself first before he could say this next sentence.
"Everything's going to be okay."
* * *
Quinn nearly lost it himself when he received a call later that day from Rosemarie Mancini. He could hardly hear her with all the background noise.
"Where are you?" Quinn asked.
"Sin City."
"What?"
"I heard about Sierra," said Rosemarie. "I came to see if I could help."
58
Catherine O'Rourke returned to the general prison population as a conquering heroine. All the other inmates in the pod knew Holly Stephenson deserved whatever she had coming to her. Forget the fact that it wasn't a fair fight; O'Rourke could draw blood. The pictures of Holly's face, unconscious and red with blood, had been broadcast to televisions across the nation, including those inside the pod at the Virginia Beach jail. Catherine's short, spiked hair only accentuated her new tough-guy image. Catherine O'Rourke, street fighter.
The Widows welcomed her back as one of their own. The name "Barbie" was no longer uttered with such disdain. Her thirty-second fight had given her the one thing every inmate craved: respect.
Helping matters along, Marc Boland had apparently pulled the right strings to get Holly moved to another pod. Jail was no picnic, but at least now the inmates were picking on other fish. Catherine was one of the girls.
That morning, Brian Radford, Cat's former coworker at the paper, had called again requesting an interview. This time, Cat said yes without running it by Marc Boland. Cat was being demonized in the press. The visions, the DNA evidence, the vial of methohexital, and now the jailhouse brawl had combined to convict her in the eyes of the public even before a jury could be impaneled.
Radford initially scheduled the interview for 7:00 p.m., the start of visiting hours, but then apparently called the prison officials with a conflict. Incredibly, a prison guard came to Cat at 4:30 and hauled her into a conference room to accommodate Radford's schedule. The guards bending over backward for her? Marc Boland must have rattled somebody's cage big-time.
Brian arrived wearing jeans and an untucked T-shirt, obeying the unwritten rule that cool newspaper reporters had to dress more casually than anybody else with an advanced degree.
Cat knew Radford's chubby young face was deceiving; he could stick the knife in your back and turn it with the best of them. She would be cautious, but she would also be authentic. From their seven years covering stories together, Radford knew Cat was no serial killer.
Brian apologized for the schedule change and placed his tape recorder on the table. He started the tape.
"Is it okay if we tape this session?" he asked, pulling out his reporter's pad.
"Sure," said Catherine, though Brian's businesslike manner bothered her. They were former coworkers. He could have at least asked how she was doing.
Brian recited some background information into the tape and then started with his questions.
"Are you the serial killer who calls herself the Avenger of Blood?" he asked.
"No warm-ups?" asked Catherine. "Just, 'Have you stopped beating your wife?' right out of the blocks?"
"I believe in getting to the point.
"
"I used to know a guy named Brian Radford," Catherine said. "He was fair and cared about the truth." She sighed. "No, I'm not the serial killer who calls herself the Avenger of Blood. I am not a killer at all. I'm a newspaper reporter just like you."
Brian showed no reaction, and Catherine started to second-guess her decision to grant this interview.
"How do you explain a piece of your hair on the envelope flap of the Donaldson letter?"
Catherine paused before answering. His tone was more hostile than she had anticipated, though she had expected the question. "I can't explain it," she confessed. "I guess the Avenger somehow managed to find a piece of my hair."
"And the DNA evidence on the paper towels?"
For the next twenty minutes, Radford dragged Catherine through all the evidence, piece by piece, without ever really giving her much of a chance to explain. She became frustrated with the adversarial nature of his questions and found herself saying "I don't know" entirely too much. If she had known Radford was going to treat her this way, she would never have agreed to the interview. It felt like a chess match, and she knew that Radford had enough material to write the article with any slant he wanted.
Cat had been on the other side of the table too often. You could massage a quote here, add a fact there, and pretty soon the defendant looked guilty as sin.
"Can we go off the record?" Cat asked.
Radford looked surprised. "Sure." He put down his notepad.
Cat reached over and turned off the recorder.
"What's going on here, Brian?" She tried to read her former colleague, but his eyes had an aloof coldness to them, the type of emotional detachment reporters employed when they were going to skewer the person on the other side of the interview table. "I thought you wanted to hear my side. I thought you'd give me a fair shake."