By Reason of Insanity (21 page)

"Maybe
I
should apply for a grant," Quinn muttered. "Most of my clients certainly qualify as paranormal."

Rosemarie ignored him. "You know that NBC show called
Medium
?"

"I've seen the advertisements."

"That's based on a real person. Allison DuBois. I'll give you her entire story some other time, but she's helped resolve lots of actual cases. She's part of a study at Arizona called the Asking Questions Study--basically an attempt to communicate with dead people through mediums and ask questions that dead people never seem to answer. Stuff like, 'What do you do every day?' and 'What type of body or container for the soul do you have?' and 'Do you eat? Do you engage in sex?' That kind of stuff."

Quinn shook his head. You could apparently get a government grant for anything. "What's the answer to that last question?"

"Seems like all the mediums have their own take on things," Rosemarie said. "They're probably projecting their own biases."

Quinn knew that Rosemarie had both feet firmly anchored in the present dimension, so he decided to get her take. "What about you, doc? Do you think some people actually have this ability to communicate through some other dimension--dreams, premonitions, that type of thing?"

Quinn heard horns honking and, knowing Rosemarie Mancini, assumed she had just cut somebody off. "You asking me as an expert witness or as an individual?"

"As an individual, based on your psychiatric training."

Uncharacteristically, Rosemarie hesitated. "There are some interesting studies on phenomena called 'crisis apparitions,'" she said after a few seconds. "That's when somebody has a strange sense of foreboding or a dark premonition about a relative or someone else just before they die. It's basically what your potential client is saying happened to her."

This surprised Quinn. "You believe that stuff?" For Quinn, if you couldn't touch it, then it wasn't real.

"I'm not saying I buy it. I'm just saying there is some statistical data. Personally, my take focuses more on the spiritual angles."

This didn't surprise Quinn. Rosemarie's diagnoses always seemed to include a spiritual dimension. "Like what?" he asked.

"There's another realm out there, Quinn. A spiritual realm inhabited by real demons and also forces for good. I think God sometimes gives people dreams or visions about things that haven't yet happened or, occasionally, extraordinary insights about things that have already occurred. I'm not sure why, but I'm pretty certain the phenomena exist."

Quinn thought about this for a moment. He wasn't buying this theory that hinged on Catherine O'Rourke's being an innocent conveyor of visions. In Quinn's thinking, Catherine had to be guilty. The "visions," if they were even real, were probably nothing more than manifestations from a repressed personality desperately trying to communicate with the Catherine that everybody knew.

But if this case went to trial, and if Catherine insisted on trying to prove her innocence, it would be heard by a jury in Virginia Beach not Las Vegas. Those folks might be more open to a spiritual explanation than one based on communicating with ghosts of dead people or even "crisis apparitions." Rosemarie might not be Southern, and her northeast accent might grate on the jury, but she could speak their spiritual language. And even if O'Rourke ultimately pled insanity, an expert like Rosemarie Mancini would be priceless.

The doctor seemed to be in a good mood. Quinn decided he might as well push his luck. "If I take this case, will you help me?"

"I'm sure what you really meant to ask," Dr. Mancini said, her tone chiding, "was if you took the case, would I evaluate the potential client and give you my professional opinion about these visions."

"Right. Of course."

"Can your potential client afford me?"

"What?" asked Quinn. "I think you're breaking up."

"I asked if your client can afford me," Rosemarie repeated, raising her voice and speaking more slowly.

"Absolutely," Quinn said. "We both adore you."

Dr. Mancini laughed. "That's what I was afraid of."

But Quinn knew she would do it, especially after the check he had just sent her for Annie's case.

"Does that mean you're in?" he asked.

Even over the cell phone, Quinn could hear her sigh. "Against my better judgment," she said.

41

The news shows on the wall-mounted television in Catherine's pod carried extensive coverage of her arrest and arraignment for the second straight day. The commentators had dubbed her "the Bikini Killer," a reference, Cat knew, to the repeated footage of her arrest on Sunday afternoon, wearing her swimsuit top and greased down in suntan oil. "Yo, woman," hooted an inmate. "That's what I call a 'killer bod.'"

A few of the women guffawed while others watched Cat to see how she handled it. She tried to force a playful smile.

"She's innocent!" another shouted at the TV. "What's wrong with you people? It was al-Qaeda. Barbie's getting framed!"

Cat tried to react good-naturedly as the inmates rode the subject matter into the ground. Eventually they moved on to something else.

While the inmates played cards or watched TV, Cat grabbed a copy of the
Tidewater Times
and headed into her cell. She had been dreading this moment all day. She knew it would be smart to stay abreast of developments, but the thought of her colleagues writing about her arrest as the Avenger of Blood was almost more than she could handle.

She settled onto her mattress, alone in her cell, and digested the lead story. Front page, above the fold, the headline screamed at her:
ALLEGED KILLER PLEADS NOT GUILTY.
The article had a picture of Cat standing in court as well as a picture on page A7, where the story continued, of Cat being arrested in her bathing suit. Brian Radford, a young reporter who had started at the paper within six months of Cat, had written the main story.

Today's story was much worse than yesterday's initial coverage of her arrest. In this article, Brian had detailed the evidence against her;
DNA
appeared at least a dozen times. An unidentified "law enforcement source" mentioned that they had found methohexital, believed to belong to Cat, in her neighbor's trash. There were comments from the families of the victims, though seeing a rapist like Paul Donaldson called a "victim" made Cat's stomach curl. It seemed to Cat that the crimes of Donaldson and Milburn were downplayed, making them seem more sympathetic.

The more she read, the more her anger flared. To appear balanced, the article contained a few quotes from Marc Boland, who promised that Cat would be vindicated, and a few of Cat's friends, who said they couldn't imagine Cat committing such grievous crimes. But other friends seemed less willing to jump to Cat's defense, saying it seemed out of character for the Catherine they knew, or some other vague comment. Cat's duplex neighbors expressed their shock at the arrests, explaining that Cat seemed so normal they never realized they were living so close to a possible serial killer. "I guess we could have been the next victims," the husband said.

It was trial by press, a phenomenon that Cat had experienced only from the other side. She was enraged by the way the article appeared on the surface to be so evenhanded and professional, because she recognized the cheap tricks of the trade that left every reader with the distinct impression that Cat was guilty. She thought about her mom, her sister, her college friends, and her friends at the beach. The anguish she had unwittingly caused them. If Cat read such an article about someone else, she would automatically assume the person was guilty.

That's when she made her decision. She had always been frustrated by the way accused persons would hide behind "no comment" while the prosecutors would systematically convince the public of their guilt. Cat would call her colleagues and offer an interview. Plus, she would write more journal columns from inside the Virginia Beach jail. She would argue for needed reforms in the incarceration system. Sure, she had made the deputies mad with her last set of columns. But if they realized that Cat was writing some new columns, naming names and detailing specific abuses, maybe they would shape up and protect Cat from the other inmates. Plus, if some quick reforms occurred, Cat could be hailed as a hero in her pod.

Survival of the fittest required the maximization of every available asset. Cat's best asset was her pen. She would fight back in the only way she knew.

42

Quinn talked to Catherine O'Rourke by phone on Tuesday afternoon. The potential client made a strong impression on Quinn, once Quinn convinced her that she didn't need to call him "Mr. Newberg." She sounded poised and articulate, very much in control for a young woman facing a possible death sentence. She answered his questions succinctly and without pretext. Like a lot of his crazy clients, Catherine sounded entirely sane. While he talked, Quinn stared at a downloaded image of her face on his computer screen.
What's going on inside that head of yours, Catherine O'Rourke?

She became hesitant only when the conversation turned to money. "I can't pay you right now," Catherine admitted. "Honestly, I can barely afford Bo." Her tone turned from embarrassed to determined. "But I'm not a charity case. I'll pay back every penny over time."

Unless you get convicted,
thought Quinn.

In a diplomatic way, Catherine made it clear that Marc Boland would be the lead attorney. Though Quinn had expected this, it still came as a blow to his ego. Some lawyers weren't designed to sit in the second chair, and he was one of them.

He had met Marc Boland only once, at the Regent Law School seminar, but Quinn had made a few phone calls today to get a scouting report. Boland came highly recommended--a big Southern boy with down-home charm, a former prosecutor in Richmond, Virginia, a true "courtroom lawyer" who liked to play his cases by instinct.

For the moment, Quinn put aside his misgivings about being second chair. If Catherine pled insanity, he would end up taking the lead.

"I'll get involved under one condition," Quinn said after he had checked off all the questions on his legal pad. "I want you to get evaluated by a forensic psychiatrist I know. She's one of the best in the country."

"Dr. Mancini?" Catherine asked.

At first, Catherine's answer surprised Quinn. Then he remembered that Catherine had covered Annie's case. "Yes, Dr. Mancini."

"Agreed."

"Good. I'll file my appearance tomorrow. I'll try to make it to Virginia to meet with you and Marc Boland early next week."

"Thanks," said Catherine. "And Mr. Newberg?"

"Quinn."

"Sorry. Quinn." Catherine paused, then made one final point. "I'm not crazy. Dr. Mancini will tell you that."

After Quinn ended the call, he asked Melanie to set up a new file. "Our client is Catherine O'Rourke. Criminal defense. Standard rates apply."

"Did you get a retainer?" asked Melanie. She was young and bookish, but she knew how to follow the money.

"Twenty-five thousand. Check's in the mail."

"In other words--no."

"This case is worth a million dollars in free publicity," Quinn argued, but even to him it sounded lame. "We should be paying her."

Melanie sighed and started filling out the new client form. "Are you
trying
to get fired?"

Catherine stayed busy during visiting hours, talking with her mom and sister as well as several friends and coworkers, all via closed-circuit television. Her editor, Ed Shaftner, was too busy to stop by, but Catherine's friends at the paper promised to deliver her message. She would agree to an exclusive interview with her fellow reporter Brian Radford. Also, she would be willing to write an exclusive daily column for the paper about her experience behind bars.

"Didn't you do that last time?" a friend asked.

"That was different. This will be real-time, not after the fact. It will focus on solutions and personalities, almost like a reality show, except printed."

Her friend seemed skeptical.

After a while, the steady stream of visitors wore Cat down. Her mom cried while Kelsey tried hard to stay upbeat, though her eyes were beet red too. With Cat's friends, it was the same questions, the same answers. "How are you doing?" Okay. "What's it like in there?" You don't want to know. "Is there anything I can do for you?" Not really.

When the last visitor departed, a deputy escorted Cat back to her cell.

Tasha was meeting with one of her own visitors, leaving Cat alone with Holly. Without speaking, Cat grabbed her pen and legal pad to make notes for her anticipated column. She looked for the pages she had churned out earlier. She noticed that Holly was watching her.

"Have you seen some notes I made earlier?" Cat asked.

"Yes."

"Do you know where they are?"

"Yes."

Cat raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

"We ran out of toilet paper," Holly said, smiling. "I used them and flushed them."

Cat looked at the nearly full roll of toilet paper sitting on the floor next to the toilet. Anger exploded in her head, ignited by a lack of sleep, the frustrations of the day, and her cellmate's unbridled arrogance. "You jerk," Cat said, seething.