By Reason of Insanity

by Randy Singer

  Quinn and Sierra landed at the Norfolk airport, dropped their stuff at the Hilton Garden Inn in the Virginia Beach Town Center, and headed straight for the jail. On the way, they stopped at a Borders so Sierra would have something to read while Quinn met with Catherine.

  Quinn's goal for today's meeting was not an easy one--convince Catherine to plead insanity. Marc Boland had broached the subject initially, and Catherine had resisted. If Quinn couldn't convince her, the attorneys had agreed they would petition the court to allow them to plead insanity over the objections of the client. It would be much easier if Catherine just agreed.

  Quinn left Sierra reading in the visitors' area near the front desk of the jail and proceeded through the metal detector and two thick, remote-controlled doors that separated the jail proper from the lobby area. Going through the doors always gave Quinn a sinking feeling; the claustrophobic block walls of the narrow hallways had a way of sucking hope out of a person. Jail was no place for someone like Catherine O'Rourke. She needed help, not punishment.

  Quinn took his seat in the phone-booth-size cubicle that served as the attorney interview room. Within minutes, Catherine arrived on the other side of the thick glass.

  It had been only two weeks since Quinn had seen her, but the change was unmistakable. She still had the haunting beauty that had seared itself into Quinn's memory--the dark eyes and sculpted face--and her spiked hair actually looked stylish, the sort of look a movie star might sport a few weeks after shaving her head for an important role. But Catherine's eyes seemed less full of life than Quinn remembered, and her entire face had the contour of unshakable sadness--a downward sloping of the mouth and eyes that made no secret of her depression. Quinn expected her to look hardened. Instead, he saw melancholy.

  She thanked him for coming, and he asked her a few questions about life behind bars. She answered politely and then had a question of her own. "How's Sierra?"

  The question reminded Quinn that his family drama had played itself out on the world television stage and that inmates watch a lot of television.

  "Doing better," Quinn said. "I actually brought her with me."

  "Here?" Catherine asked. "To the jail?"

  "Yeah. She's out in the visitors' area."

  A small spark flickered briefly in Catherine's eyes. "You think I could talk with her tonight during visiting hours? I know a little about what she's going through. Maybe I could encourage her."

  Quinn and Sierra had no specific plans that night. "I don't see why not," Quinn said, though the request took him a little off guard. Before receiving Rosemarie's report, Quinn had worked hard to separate these two cases--Annie's and Catherine's--filing them away in different emotional compartments. For some reason, it seemed a little dangerous to blur the lines.

  "Thanks," said Catherine. "Visiting hours start at seven."

  Quinn nodded. "For now, I want to talk about a possible insanity plea," he said. "I know that Marc has already broached this with you."

  Catherine nodded and Quinn noticed her stiffen a little, reminding him that his client had a mind of her own.

  He leaned forward. "I know you don't like the implications of an insanity plea, but my job is not to make you like me." Quinn paused, realizing that he cared very much whether this particular client liked him. He might even care a little too much. "My job is to keep you alive and get you out of here. My job is to keep a needle out of your arm."

  "Do you believe I did these things?" Catherine asked. Her voice was flat but still conveyed resolve. "Do you think I kidnapped and killed those babies? Do you think I electrocuted Paul Donaldson--fried him to death and dumped his body into the Dismal Swamp Canal? Do you think that's me?"

  "It doesn't matter what I think--"

  "It matters to me," Catherine said.

  Quinn swallowed and stayed fixed on her gaze. "I don't know whether you did or not." It was gut-level honest, and he knew Catherine could sense his sincerity. "I only know that right now, we don't stand a chance of convincing a jury that you're flat-out innocent."

  "But I am innocent," Catherine said. "I need you to believe that. I know it doesn't seem that way. Sometimes I doubt it myself. But, Quinn, I could never hurt those kids. Not this Catherine. And not some other side of me either."

  Quinn nodded. "I believe that," he said softly. In truth, he didn't know what to believe. Emotionally, Catherine made a compelling case. If he could just let her talk to the jury like this, the way she was talking to him right now, as if she wanted to reach out and grab his shoulders and make him look straight into her soul, a jury might believe her. But court didn't work that way. The path to justice was littered with the land mines of cross-examination. Emotion would yield to evidence and logic. And logic would always dictate the same unwanted result.

  "That doesn't change my advice," said Quinn. "As a friend, I believe you. But as a lawyer, I've got to give you my best professional advice. That advice is to plead not guilty by reason of insanity."

  "I didn't do it," Catherine insisted. "How can I say that I did?"

  An idea hit Quinn. "State your name for the record," he said.

  "What?"

  "I'm going to show you. We can't possibly win this case on a straight-up not guilty plea if we don't put you on the stand. So you're on the stand, and I'm Boyd Gates. State your name for the record."

  A look of determination hardened Catherine's face. "Catherine O'Rourke," she said, squaring her jaw.

  73

  "Do you consider yourself a medium, Ms. O'Rourke?"

  "No. Not really."

  "And yet you just happened to know information about the crimes committed by the Avenger of Blood--information that the police had not released to anyone?"

  "I had visions," Catherine said. "I saw the crimes happen in my visions."

  "Visions," Quinn repeated, just like a skeptical prosecutor would.

  Catherine frowned, as if she hadn't expected him to play the part so enthusiastically.

  "Did you happen to see the face of the Avenger in these visions?"

  "No. His face was obscured."

  "His face. So you could tell the Avenger was a male?"

  "Actually, no. I couldn't see the face at all."

  "How tall was the Avenger?"

  "I don't know--average height?"

  "What distinguishing features did the Avenger have?"

  "I don't know, Mr. Newberg. These were visions, not police sketches."

  "But they provided enough detail for you to know, for example, that Paul Donaldson had a gash on his head?"

  "Yes, but that was different."

  "You saw him bleeding from that gash on his head; isn't that correct?"

  "Yes," Catherine admitted reluctantly, "but I didn't know it was Paul Donaldson. I'd never even met the man."

  "Yet somehow," Quinn said, leaning forward, "Donaldson's blood and your saliva ended up on the same paper towel in a trash can at your neighbor's house?"

  "I never met the man," Catherine insisted.

  "How do you explain the paper towels that the police found in the neighbor's trash containing his blood and your saliva?"

  "Somebody set me up," Catherine said, sounding defensive.

  "How do you explain the methohexital found in your neighbor's trash--another setup?"

  "Yes."

  "But if somebody decided to frame you, why would they plant incriminating evidence in a neighbor's trash can, where the police might not even find it, as opposed to your own trash can?"

  Catherine didn't blink. "Maybe someone on the investigative team did it."

  "And planted a strand of your hair on the seal of an envelope sent by the Avenger as well?"

  "I don't know."

  "Accusing the police of framing you for murder is a very serious thing, Ms. O'Rourke." Quinn sharpened his tone. "Do you have one shred of evidence to suggest that anybody on the Virginia Beach police force holds a grudge against you and would want to cover up the crimes of a serial murderer by framing you
?"

  "No."

  "Then what could possibly be the motive for setting you up?"

  "I don't know."

  "Speaking of motive, Ms. O'Rourke, are you aware that Mr. Donaldson was accused of rape but was found innocent?"

  "Yes."

  "And the other victims of the Avenger were either accused rapists, attorneys who represented accused rapists, or the children of such persons?"

  "I'm sorry," Catherine said, her tone weary. "I don't understand the question."

  "Fair enough. I'll withdraw it. But let me ask you this--have you ever been raped?"

  The question seemed to shrink Catherine, her self-esteem wilting before Quinn's eyes. "Yes," she said softly.

  "What was the man's name?"

  "Kenny Towns. I knew him in college."

  "Was he a former boyfriend?"

  "Yes."

  "Were there others involved as well?"

  "Possibly."

  Quinn lowered his voice to match Catherine's tone. "What exactly did he do to you? How did it happen?"

  The examination was staged, but the pain on Catherine's face was real. She looked down, her voice growing even quieter. "I don't want to say, Quinn. I get your point."

  Quinn thought for a moment about stopping, but there would be no calling time-out on the witness stand. Catherine had to understand how hard a prosecutor would push. "Is it fair to say the pain is still very real, Ms. O'Rourke?"

  Catherine sighed, then apparently decided to keep playing along. "Rape never goes away, Mr. Newberg."

  "Was Mr. Towns ever convicted? Was he ever even prosecuted?"

  "No. I never reported it to the police."

  "Do you hate him, Ms. O'Rourke? Do you hate Kenny Towns?"

  Catherine lifted her eyes and drilled them into Quinn. "Yes, I despise him."

  "You hate him because he's a rapist. Because he violated you and because nobody ever held him to account--isn't that true, Ms. O'Rourke?"

  Catherine answered with a stare. The pretend world of cross-examination had burned away in the smoldering anger of unresolved hurt. "I said I don't want to do this anymore."

  "This is not a game, Ms. O'Rourke," Quinn responded. "Answer the question."

  "It's not a game for me either, Quinn," Catherine said. She stood, nearly knocking her chair over backward. "Rape is not a game." Catherine's face was flushed in anger, her eyes piercing Quinn through the glass. "He violated me, Quinn. He drugged me and forced himself on me and then probably went out and rounded up his friends so they could have a turn. He bragged about it. He made me the laughingstock of the fraternity."

  Her body sagged. "I know you're just trying to make a point, but I'm sick of this whole thing. Sick of sitting behind bars while Kenny Towns is out there living as if nothing happened."

  She turned away from Quinn and retreated to the door behind her chair. She knocked on the door and waited for the guard.

  "Catherine, sit down," Quinn said. "I'm sorry. I just wanted you to see what you're up against."

  "You made your point," Catherine said. "I've got to think about it."

  The guard came and ushered Catherine out, leaving Quinn alone in the small booth, staring at the empty chair of his troubled client.

  "That went well," Quinn said.

  74

  Quinn and Sierra were less than ten minutes away from the jail when a collect call came on his cell phone. The jail number. Catherine O'Rourke was going to be a high-maintenance client.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I know you're just trying to help."

  She sounded better, so Quinn decided to keep it light. "I'm used to it. I represent crazy people, remember?"

  "I should fit right in."

  Quinn let the comment pass.

  "Are you still going to bring Sierra back tonight?" Catherine asked. "I promise not to flip out on her."

  At this point, Quinn wasn't so sure that tonight's visit would be a good idea. But he also felt a little guilty for what he had just put Catherine through. Maybe Sierra could help mend that rapport.

  "We'll be there," he said.

  * * *

  That evening, Quinn registered Sierra at the front desk of the jail and took her into the visitors' room. The room looked like a dingy call center for an infomercial company--it had dozens of small kiosks in three long rows. Each kiosk had a phone and a computer screen, and tonight most of the spaces were full.

  Sierra sat down at the designated kiosk and picked up the phone. Quinn stood behind her. They stared at the image of a small booth in the bowels of the jail for a few minutes until Catherine entered the booth and picked up the phone.

  Catherine introduced herself and asked Sierra a few polite questions. Catherine still looked haggard to Quinn with blotchy skin and red eyes, but she was more upbeat than she had been earlier that day. She was trying hard to win Sierra's confidence.

  She leaned toward the screen and kept her eyes locked on Quinn's niece. "I was at your mom's trial, Sierra. A lot of us who watched think your mom's a hero. What she did wasn't wrong. She was trying to protect you, and that's a mother's most important job."

  Sierra nodded, and Quinn inched a little closer; it was difficult to hear because Sierra had the phone pressed against her ear. Quinn felt a growing queasiness from this conversation. How much of this was Catherine just trying to encourage a confused young teenager, and how much of it was the Avenger? Did Catherine's alter ego envision herself and Annie as fellow blood avengers--the furies of Greek mythology exacting vengeance on modern-day America?

  "Some of the jurors voted against your mom because they felt like they had no choice--they had to follow the law. But there's a difference between law and justice. Do you understand that?"

  Again, Sierra gave Catherine a small nod of the head. She seemed intensely interested in Catherine's take on the matter.

  "Just because something's legal doesn't make it right. And just because something's illegal doesn't always make it wrong."

  Catherine lowered her voice, making it even harder for Quinn to hear. He studied her lips as she talked, filling in the words he couldn't hear.

  "I was raped in college, Sierra. Did your uncle tell you that?"

  "No," Sierra murmured.

  "To make it worse, the guy who raped me used to be my boyfriend. A guy I trusted."

  Catherine hesitated, and Quinn could see the pain on her face.

  "For a while, Sierra, I couldn't trust any men. But I eventually learned that not all men are the same. There are some really good men in this world . . . and your uncle's one of them."

  "I know," said Sierra.

  "I guess what I'm saying is that your stepdad was an awful man, Sierra. And I know he did some awful things. But don't let him keep hurting you now by making you hate other people. I'm not asking you to forgive him, because honestly, I don't think I'll ever forgive the man who raped me. But you can't let your stepfather control your life by making you hate other people. That was my mistake for too many years." Catherine paused, swallowing hard. "Does that make any sense, Sierra?"

  "I think so."

  "Good," Catherine said, speaking a little louder and more confidently. "Some people think I'm some kind of medium because I have these visions. Well . . . that's pretty ridiculous if you know me. But I am a good judge of character. I see strength in your eyes and a great deal of love for your mom. She needs you to be strong now; do you know that?"

  Sierra nodded, keeping her eyes on the screen.

  "Your Uncle Quinn's going to win that case, Sierra, and your mom is doing better in jail than I am. She's a lot stronger. A lot more together. But she's counting on you to do your part and be strong too. Can you do that?"

  Sierra shrugged. "I guess so."

  The response seemed noncommittal, but Quinn sensed a whole lot more going on. He could almost see willpower flowing from Catherine to Sierra, from one victim to another. While listening to Catherine talk so convincingly about forgiveness and strength of character, it was hard
to continue thinking of her as a deranged psychotic. At the start of the conversation, she had seemed to fit the mold. But now, she just looked like a wounded victim. Maybe that was the whole point--two personalities in one body.

  "I'm sorry I sound so dramatic," Catherine said. "Next time, we can just talk about American Idol or something. I get to watch a lot of TV in here."

  "I hope my uncle wins your case," Sierra said.

  "I'm sure he will," Catherine said, stealing a quick glance at Quinn. "If he can keep his client under control."

  75

  In the morning, Quinn and Sierra checked out of the Hilton and drove around for about ten minutes to make sure they weren't being followed. Eventually they headed into downtown Norfolk, parked the car, and walked over to the Waterside complex, a collection of shops and restaurants bordering the Elizabeth River.

  They walked through the Waterside, taking in the odor of french fries and Mongolian barbeque and New York style pizza. They continued out the back door of the complex, found a spot on a concrete bench, and watched the seagulls bother a mom and a few toddlers who were trying to eat ice cream. Sierra laughed, and Quinn thought about how much he would miss her.

  A few minutes later, Rosemarie Mancini showed up, looking stylish in jeans, a pullover, sandals, and sunglasses.

  Quinn bent over to hug Rosemarie, then watched as Sierra and Rosemarie embraced. Rosemarie had developed quite a rapport with Quinn's niece during their counseling sessions after Sierra's suicide attempt. If nothing else, they enjoyed picking on Quinn together.

  Quinn had decided he needed to get Sierra out of Vegas, at least temporarily. He needed her someplace far away, someplace Hofstetter's goons wouldn't suspect. It was actually Rosemarie who first suggested that Sierra stay with her. Sierra would be safe with Rosemarie. Plus, the psychiatrist claimed to know a number of middle school girls from her church who could be counted on to befriend Sierra. The fact that Rosemarie could provide some informal counseling was a bonus.

  The Quinn Newberg from a few months ago--or even a few weeks ago--would have jumped at the chance to get his apartment back to himself. But something was different now. He was already starting to miss Sierra, just thinking about flying back to Vegas without her.