By Reason of Insanity (23 page)

When the other inmates returned from work duty late in the afternoon, Tasha was not among them. "One of the male guards tried to take one of the Widows into the woods along North Landing Road," a gang member explained. "When Tasha jumped in and started cursin' him out and makin' a big scene, she ended up in solitary."

While Cat was fretting about spending the night alone with Holly, more trouble showed up, this time in the form of a television newscast. DNA testing on the paper towels found in Cat's neighbor's trash revealed traces of Paul Donaldson's blood and contained a match from Cat's saliva. On hearing the news, Cat stepped from the pod into her cell so she could brood alone.

By now, she was almost immune to the avalanche of incriminating evidence. Though she still believed in her own innocence, it no longer surprised her when seemingly rock-solid scientific evidence pointed straight at her. Somebody was setting her up. And that somebody was doing a very good job.

The noise from the pod and the general chaos that now defined Cat's life made it hard to think rationally. But one question kept haunting her: how had the police even known to look in the neighbor's trash? And a corollary question: how would the person setting her up know that the police would look there?

The more she thought about it, the more she realized there was only one logical conclusion: Cat was being set up by somebody on the police force or in the prosecutor's office. Somebody who could guarantee police would find this evidence. But also--and this was the part that freaked Cat out--somebody who had access to Paul Donaldson's blood even though the body had not yet been found.
Could the Avenger of Blood be a cop?

Actually, there was one other possibility, and the very thought of it made Cat want to puke. Multiple personality disorder. Or dissociative identify disorder, whatever you wanted to call it. A demon-possessed Catherine exacting revenge on those who raped and got away with it, then attempting to hide evidence next door. She put her face in her hands and closed her eyes, rubbing her forehead.

It couldn't be. For starters, there was just no possible way that Catherine could harm innocent babies like the Carver twins and Rayshad Milburn. Sure, she still felt rage boil up when she thought about that night at the frat house. But it was rage directed at Kenny and his frat brothers, not others who Catherine didn't even know. Especially not attorneys like Rex Archibald and Bobby Carver. They were just doing their jobs, detestable as they might be.

There had to be some other explanation. Because if Catherine truly believed she had done these awful acts, Boyd Gates wouldn't have to worry about prosecuting her. There wouldn't be any need for a trial.

She would take her own life first.

46

That evening, Catherine hit rock bottom. Depression reached out to embrace her as the last vestiges of hope faded away. Her visitors were fewer that night, and she saw the first signs of skepticism even among her closest friends. Her sister, Kelsey, always upbeat, couldn't manage a smile. And Cat couldn't blame her; she had her own doubts.

The new evidence seemed to shake even the confidence of Marc Boland, who stopped by to see how Cat was doing. He asked her point-blank questions about the paper towels, but Cat couldn't help. She could think of no way those paper towels, with their incriminating evidence, could have ended up in her neighbor's trash. She still suspected it was a setup, she told Bo, and he tended to agree with her. But tonight, unlike their prior visits, he warned Cat that this would be a tough trial and that nothing was guaranteed. Cat nodded stoically, too numb for any emotional reaction. She wondered if Quinn Newberg would stay on the case.

Cat promised Bo that she would cancel her interview with the
Tidewater Times.
Cat's editor reacted by sending his own message through a coworker who visited Cat--the paper wouldn't be able to run Cat's journal from jail. They had already done a similar series right after Cat's contempt sentence, the coworker explained. And, to be frank, the public was obsessing over Cat, wondering whether she was a ruthless serial killer. People probably weren't in any mood to read her complaints about jail food or lack of a soft bed.

In other words,
thought Cat,
my own paper has already convicted me.
That troubled Cat the most--that her coworkers and some of her friends had turned so quickly against her.

That night in the cell, Cat did her best to ignore Holly's mindless rants. Holly, of course, had heard about the new evidence against Cat and prowled around the cell, complaining about being cellmates with a serial killer. Holly would recite the evidence over and over and tell Cat to face it, she was going to get the needle.

Cat shook her head in disgust. "Take your medication."

"Mind your own business, Barbie."

Minutes dragged by, and eventually Holly settled down. When the lights went out for lockdown, Cat sat in her bed with her back to the wall, staring into the dark void of the cell. Before long, Holly's rhythmic breathing and occasional snorting indicated she had fallen asleep. It gave Cat time to think and process the emotions she had been holding at bay through most of the day.

More than anything, Cat was struck by the realization that she needed help. She had always been strong, savvy, and self-sufficient. But now, she was merely Catherine O'Rourke, inmate number 08-317. She needed help from the Widows to survive prison. She needed Marc Boland and Quinn Newberg to help her survive the trial. She needed family and friends for emotional support.

And for the first time in her life, she realized how much she needed professional psychiatric help. Cat could repress her emotions and avoid issues with the best of them. But actually dealing with her emotions required vulnerability. Until she had nothing left to lose, she just wasn't willing to be quite that vulnerable.

The stigma of seeking psychiatric help no longer mattered. Who cares about such things when most of the world thinks you're a serial killer?

She would check out what types of services were available first thing in the morning. In the meantime, she lay on her side and curled up on the mattress. She wouldn't go to sleep, she promised herself, but she could at least lie down in a more comfortable position.

As she relaxed, her swirling thoughts seemed to calm, like the still waters of a river following a section of harrowing whitewater. She tucked her hands up under her pillow and closed her eyes. She drifted in and out for a few minutes, mindful of the danger lurking in her own cell but exhausted to the bone.

Ten minutes later, Cat fell into a fitful sleep.

47

Quinn squirmed in his seat at the Mirage high-stakes table, realizing that this was the moment. He had played methodically throughout the night, netting nearly fifteen thousand dollars. Not bad, considering he was playing everything straight by the book--no signals, no allies, just Quinn and his carefully calculated risks.

But fifteen thousand was not going to get it done. There were high-stakes tables where Quinn played all the time, and there was
the
high-stakes table, where the ante alone was a thousand dollars. Two hours ago, Quinn had claimed his seat at
this
table, cashing in a marker for fifty thousand. He had two more fifty-thousand markers still in his pocket.

One hundred fifty thousand.

Quinn had a knack for making money, but his real gift was spending it. His Mercedes and his plush address in the Signature Towers did not come cheap. Plus, he had used every dime of his recent gambling winnings to pay the expert witnesses on Annie's case. Which was why, earlier this week when he decided to liquidate his financial assets for tonight's big play, he could scrounge together only a hundred and fifty thousand.

This afternoon, he had checked on a few things and done the math. It would take at least four hundred thousand to start his own firm. He would have preferred to stay at Robinson, Charles, and Espinoza, but he didn't like where things were headed. Quinn was now focused on his insanity trials, not the white-collar cases that had been so lucrative in the past. He was tired of trying to justify every case and having the managing partner breathing down his neck about billable hours and fee collections. Quinn needed space and freedom to take the cases he believed in. He needed his own firm.

But there was a problem. He also needed cash flow for office space, support staff, malpractice insurance, and supplies. The fees wouldn't start coming in for a few months. Four hundred thousand would be bare-bones minimum.

He decided to give himself three nights at the high-stakes table to parlay his hundred fifty thousand into four hundred thousand. He would work the games patiently, waiting until the odds were unmistakably in his favor to strike. He would do it on his own, concerned that Robert Hofstetter had already passed the word to other casino owners about his tag-team approach with Bobby Jackson. If Quinn won this much money, he wanted it to be squeaky clean.

Quinn had never expected his opportunity to come so quickly. He was holding the ace and ten of diamonds and, after the turn card, was sitting on an ace-high flush. The community cards were the four of diamonds, the queen of spades, the nine of diamonds, and the king of diamonds.

Two other players had yet to fold. An Asian gentleman sitting to Quinn's immediate left had been hard to read, but the fifty-five-year-old in the gray ponytail across the table might as well be wearing mirrors for glasses, allowing Quinn to see every card in his hand. His lip curled up a little, and his neck muscles tightened whenever he drew a good hand. When the river had turned up the king of diamonds, the lip curl and neck muscles had gone on overdrive.

The Asian guy bet first and tapped the table. All eyes turned to the man with the ponytail, gold neck chain, and earrings. He had supposedly made his money in the movie business. Hollywood smirked as he counted out the chips. "Fifty thousand," he said, trying hard to suppress his excitement.

Quinn studied the pot for a moment and took another look at his cards, an attempt to convey indecision. Each man already had twelve thousand in. If Quinn called Hollywood's bet, the pot would swell to more than a hundred and forty-three thousand, counting the amount already in by virtue of the blinds and early betting.

"I'll see your fifty," said Quinn, shoving his chips into the middle, "and raise it twenty-five." Quinn resisted the urge to go all in. He didn't want to intimidate Hollywood, causing him to fold early. Quinn cashed in a marker, counted his chips, and slid the piles to the middle of the table.

"I'm out," said the Asian man, tossing down his cards.

Hollywood didn't even hesitate. He must have figured that he had already suckered enough of Quinn's money into the pot. He spread his palms and shoved his chips forward. "All in," he announced. He stood and started pacing in tight little circles behind his chair, just the way they did on TV.

The dealer counted the chips--an additional ninety-five thousand. "It will cost you seventy to stay," he told Quinn.

Cards in his left hand, Quinn picked up a stack of chips with his right, then let them sift through his fingers as he restacked them on the table. He did this once. Twice. He knew the tension was killing Hollywood and thought the man might burst a blood vessel at any moment. Quinn could tell the man wanted to shout, "Put it in, Lawyer Boy!" Instead, he managed to keep his mouth shut while his neck muscles pulled ever tighter.

An ace-high flush. Only a full house, four of a kind, or a straight flush could beat it. With the cards already showing, Quinn knew that he was the only person who could draw a straight flush. Quinn figured that the king of diamonds had completed Hollywood's own flush. Maybe the man had the queen, thinking he would probably win unless Quinn had the ace of diamonds. Or maybe Hollywood was sitting on two pairs, or three of a kind. Unlikely, since then he would have to assume that Quinn had a flush. Only a guy with as much naive swagger as Hollywood would like the odds of trying to draw a full house or four of a kind.

"I'll call," Quinn said. He cashed in his last marker and counted his chips, sliding seventy thousand to the middle of the table.

Hollywood stopped pacing long enough to reach down and flip his cards--the queen of diamonds and the queen of hearts. Three of a kind. Without so much as changing his facial expression, Quinn calmly did the same. Hollywood grimaced, cursing under his breath.

With one card still to be dealt, the odds were strongly in Quinn's favor. The only cards that could bail Hollywood out were another four, another nine, another king, or the queen of clubs. Any of the remaining thirty-two cards would mean victory for Quinn.

The dealer waited for just a moment, the tension building, then burned a card and flipped over the river. The king of clubs!

"Yes!" Hollywood pumped his fist and did a clumsy little dance. "Unbelievable!" He slapped a high five to anyone around him, demonstrating a complete lack of class.

"Nice job," Quinn said.

"Yeah," responded Hollywood. He smiled and shook his head. "What are the odds?"

About four to one,
thought Quinn,
you lucky jerk.

Still beaming, Hollywood sat down and pulled the enormous pile of chips toward him. He started stacking them and glanced over at Quinn's pitiful stack of chips, down to eight thousand dollars. "Stick around afterward and I'll buy you a drink," Hollywood said.