By Reason of Insanity (13 page)

Catherine took a seat and noticed that the men all gathered on the other side of the table. She refused their offer of a drink, and Gates laid out the ground rules.

"This conference is at your request. You have indicated that you might have some information relevant to the Carver kidnappings. You have the right to have counsel present but have chosen not to do so."

Catherine nodded and felt like she had eaten lead for breakfast. Why did this seem like an interrogation?

"Do you mind if I record this?" Gates asked. He slid a recorder into the middle of the table and turned it on.

Of course I mind.
"No, that's fine."

"The floor is yours," said Gates. He leaned back and studied her, the way you might eye a life insurance agent who had snaked his way to the kitchen table for a presentation.

Catherine shot a quick look at Jamarcus for reassurance, then began describing the background and substance of her first jailhouse vision. When she described the handwriting on the wall, Gates caught Chief Compton's eye and sat up straighter in his chair.

"Tell me again what that handwriting said?" Gates asked.

"I can't remember word for word. But it was something to the effect of 'He will visit the sins of the fathers unto the third and fourth generations.'"

Gates lowered his eyebrows and didn't try to mask the skepticism in his voice. "This just came to you. Sitting in your cell. Like a dream or something."

Catherine felt herself blushing and reminded herself that
she
had done nothing wrong. "Not so much like a dream. More like a vision. I don't think I ever really went to sleep."

"A vision."

"Right. Like a vision."

"Okay," Gates said, with a tone he might have used to pacify a nutcase. "And this confidential source you have--he didn't provide you with any information about messages the Avenger might have sent to the Carvers."

"He,
or she,
did not."

"You said there were two visions," Gates said. "Tell us about the second one."

Catherine walked them through the second vision, step-by-step. She recited from memory the words of the handwriting. "The offspring of evildoers will never be remembered. Prepare a place of slaughter for the sons because of the iniquities of their fathers."

This time, the men's faces betrayed no emotion. She waited. During the few seconds of silence, she heard the air vents kick in.

At last, Gates spoke. "Ms. O'Rourke, I'm going to tell you a few things and ask you a few questions. But first, I need you to pledge that this entire conversation will remain totally off-the-record and out of the paper. Are we clear about that?"

"Okay."

"You've just described, almost to the word, the two messages sent by this person who calls himself--" Gates paused--"or
herself
, the Avenger of Blood." He leaned forward and folded his hands, elbows on the table. "And frankly, I'm not at all sure what to make of this."

Gates held the pose for a moment, frowned, and took a sip of his soda, all for dramatic effect, displaying the showmanship of a trial lawyer even in a conference room. "Either you're some type of psychic, or somebody from inside the investigation leaked this information to you, or somehow you've been in contact with the Avenger of Blood. Can you think of any other options I'm missing?"

"I hadn't really thought about it in those terms," Catherine said.

"Well, I suppose," said Gates, "that you could actually be the Avenger. But let's dismiss that one as somewhat unlikely, at least for now."

"You had me worried for a minute," said Catherine, but nobody smiled. Not even Jamarcus.

"Since I don't really believe much in psychics, let me ask you this--have you discussed with your confidential source, either before or after you had these visions, anything relating to the substance of these messages?"

The question sounded accusatory and Catherine tried hard not to be defensive. "No," she said.

The chief leaned forward. "It seems to me," he said, in a slow and friendly Southern drawl, "that the first thing I might do if I had one of these visionary deals would be to contact my source who had been providing me with all this information and bounce it off him. Or her."

"Maybe my source is a little gun-shy about talking to me right now."

"Will you tell us who your source is?" Gates asked.

"I just spent two days in jail protecting him. Why would I give him up now?"

"Or her," said Gates with a thin smile.

"Whatever," said Catherine. Despite her efforts to remain calm, she felt anger bubbling to the surface. She was trying to help. And her reward? Getting questioned like a criminal. "Are we done?"

"You're free to go at any time," Gates replied. "This meeting is entirely noncustodial. But I think it would be in your best interest to cooperate with us."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Are you willing to take a lie detector test? We need some kind of assurance that your source is not leaking bits and pieces of this investigation to you."

Catherine surveyed all three men, giving her a chance to bore into Jamarcus with a quick and accusatory look before locking her eyes back on Gates. "If my source is feeding me information, you think I'm going to come in here claiming I saw it in a vision? For what purpose?"

"Does that mean you'll take a lie detector test?" Gates asked.

"No. I don't trust their reliability."

"Oh, they're pretty dependable," Chief Compton chimed in. "A polygraph measures your pulse, breathing, and galvanic skin response when you answer a question. Stress is increased if you try to tell a lie. Only the most experienced liars can control all three physiological functions at the same time. I think it might help clear things up if you took one."

"Am I some kind of suspect?" Catherine asked.

"Should you be?" asked Gates.

"Of course not. Am I?"

"No," Gates said. He took another drink, keeping his eyes on Catherine the entire time. "I would have given you a Miranda warning if you were a suspect. I'm just trying to rule out possibilities here."

"Let's assume your source didn't talk to you about the case," Jamarcus said, breaking his silence. "Can you tell us anything about what the man in the robe looked like?"

"No. I didn't really see his face."

"Are you sure it was a man?" Jamarcus asked.

Catherine thought he was trying to keep the focus away from her source. "No. I can't say."

"Have you ever had these types of visions before?" the chief asked.

"Not like this. No."

"Have you had any other visions like this," Jamarcus asked, "either before or since?"

Catherine thought about her dream last night.
I wish you hadn't asked me that question.
Was her dream another vision? It felt entirely different, but it featured the same hooded figure. "No," she said.
Plus, it's none of your business.
A vision about a kidnapping was one thing. A dream involving her own victimization was quite another.

"Are you sure?" said Gates, as if he already had the lie detector hooked up.

Catherine stared him down. "I'm sure."

On the way home, Catherine decided it had been a mistake to agree to meet with the men. In addition to asking her to take a polygraph, Gates had asked her about alibis for the nights of the kidnappings. Unfortunately, she had been alone both nights.

When she was nearly home, Jamarcus called and tried to put her mind at ease. "They had to give you a hard time," he said. "You stung their pride when you beat that contempt citation at the Virginia Supreme Court. Plus, they had to be sure you weren't just rubbing their noses in it."

"Why would I do that?"

"They can't figure that out. It's why they tend to believe you."

"They have a funny way of showing it."

"Don't be surprised if they ask you to come back," Jamarcus said. "They may want you to work with a behavioral psychologist who's in charge of profiling our bad guy. If we catch this guy, you could have your own television show."

"Spare me," Catherine said. But she did feel a little better after Jamarcus's call. Later that afternoon, she headed to the beach and played volleyball with some friends. It was the first time in nearly a week that she was able to take her mind off the Avenger of Blood.

25

When Quinn finally strolled into the office at 9:30 Monday morning, Melanie pounced. Though Quinn's young assistant could be annoying at times, he still considered her one of the three smartest persons in the sixty-lawyer firm of Robinson, Charles, and Espinoza, behind only Robert Espinoza and Quinn himself, not necessarily in that order. Though Melanie had dropped out of college to get married, she still possessed twice the street smarts of most lawyers in the firm, their diplomas from the big-name California law schools notwithstanding.

"You're up to twenty-six unreturned phone calls," Melanie announced as Quinn tried to slide past her desk. She handed him the telephone slips. "The top four are potential new clients. Eleven media calls are next. On the bottom are calls from other lawyers and bill collectors."

Quinn grabbed the pink slips, his schedule for the day, and a printout that showed the billed and collected numbers for the firm's attorneys. On top of everything else, he knew his unanswered e-mails could easily be in the hundreds.

"And Mr. Espinoza said he wanted to see you as soon as you arrived," Melanie said. "He asked me to call him."

"About what?" Quinn asked, though he already knew. Managing partners cared about two things: billable hours and collections. With Annie's case dominating his year, Quinn had done just fine on billable hours. Collections were another matter. If Quinn lost his sister's case, she would be ineligible as a beneficiary of her husband's estate, including his life insurance proceeds. If Annie had been any other client, Quinn would have resigned by now.

Quinn took his seat and started working through his e-mails. He had fired off at least ten responses by the time Espinoza came in and closed the door. The sixty-year-old attorney with salt-and-pepper hair, an angular face, and a long pointed nose took a seat on the other side of Quinn's desk.

"You know why I'm here?"

Quinn shrugged. "This?" He tossed the firm's latest billing and collections report on his desk. "You know I'll hit my numbers again as soon as Annie's case is over. She's my sister, Robert. I can't just leave her hanging."

"I'm not asking you to drop the case, Quinn. But I am worried about the rest of your files. You used to do a lot of white-collar stuff. I've been watching the new file list lately. It's a lot of insanity plea work." He said it with disdain, as if Quinn had a lineup of clients in straitjackets right outside his office door. "Can these folks even pay?"

Quinn shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He didn't like lying to his managing partner. "I'll make it work somehow. Work a few more hours. Only accept
rich
crazy folks." He tried the famous Newberg grin, but it didn't seem infectious this morning. Maybe he should rely on his track record--six strong years as an associate and two even stronger years as a partner. "Have I
ever
missed my numbers for an entire year, Robert?"

"No. And that's what's got me worried now." Espinoza crossed his legs, obviously trying to keep it casual. "Quinn, I think what you're doing is great work. Somebody's got to take these cases. But the other partners are grousing. Your comp is tied to your white-collar work. Plus, they're worried about the reputation of the firm."

At this, Quinn laughed. "That white-collar work, as you describe it, is about 90 percent mob work. Interesting how nobody cared much about the reputation of the firm as long as the bills got paid."

Espinoza frowned. "You remember Dennis Rodman in the NBA?"

"Sure."

"Well, nobody cared about how many tattoos he had or whether he was into cross-dressing as long as he got his rebounds. But you know what happened when he stopped getting his rebounds, Quinn?"

"They turned him into a point guard?"

"Not quite. He became trade bait." Espinoza stood. "So here's what I need you to do. Beat the heck out of Carla Duncan. Get a unanimous not guilty verdict for your sister. But make your numbers, Quinn. I want you around this firm a long time. But your partners aren't willing to subsidize someone to represent the mentally insane, no matter how famous you become."

Quinn had a thousand retorts but knew how the game was played. Espinoza was managing partner. Espinoza got the last word. To this point, Quinn had only been worried about paying his experts and the consultants in Annie's case. But now his own partners were grousing about the firm's unpaid legal bills, most of which were comprised of Quinn's own work. They would never fire Quinn, not with the name recognition he had brought to the firm. But Espinoza had delivered his message. Getting famous was no substitute for his partners getting rich.

When Espinoza left, Quinn leafed through his reports and found the totals for Annie's case. The legal bills alone, not counting consultants and experts, totaled more than three hundred thousand. Not a single dime of the attorneys' fees had been paid.