By Reason of Insanity (24 page)

"No thanks."

Three hands later, completely out of chips, Quinn rose from his seat and headed home. The dreams of starting his own firm were now piled in front of the ponytailed player from California, poker chips waiting for the next big pot.

48

Cat sat straight up on her mattress when the deputy ran a metal flashlight across the outer bars of the cells, setting off a chorus of complaints from the inmates. For a moment Cat felt disoriented. She had slept hard last night, her body finally shutting down after getting so little sleep since her arrest on Sunday.

She waited a second for her head to clear and realized that Holly was sitting on her own bed, staring at her. Cat reached up to brush some loose hair out of her eyes and felt it. Something gooey sticking to her hair. Alarmed, she pulled the strands of hair in front of her face, her fingers sticking to the gooey substance. Gum!

"Ugh!" she moaned.

Holly laughed.

Panicked, Cat stood and felt the rest of her hair. Gum everywhere! Soft, sticky, matting her hair together. Wherever she touched, her hair felt like a rat's nest, tangled together by wads of chewing gum.

"Good morning, Barbie."

Furious, Cat walked toward the bunk beds.

Holly jumped to her feet, grinning, her flabby muscles tightening. She must have bought the gum from the jail store, saved it for a few days, chewed a couple packs, and placed it strategically throughout Cat's hair last night while she slept. Why would Holly do such a thing?

All Cat could think about was the gnarled mess in her hair. She would need to cut it short, ridiculously short, just before her court appearance for her preliminary hearing. She would look like a nutcase! This wasn't just Cat's hair Holly had messed with, it was her life.

Rage boiled within her, clouding her vision. She had been patient. Tolerant. And now this! Cat wanted to smack this woman in front of her, grinning at her, daring her to take action. Holly was a bully. And bullies only responded to force.

"You're an idiot," Cat said, trying to pry some of the gum out of her hair. She felt like exploding, the tears stinging her eyes. "What did I ever do to deserve this? Why do you hate me so much?"

Unexpectedly, Holly popped Cat in the shoulders with the heels of her hands, rocking Cat back. "Don't call me names, Barbie. You're lucky I didn't mess with your face."

Cat retreated a step and Holly moved forward. "You think you're all that. Too good for us jailhouse women . . . for ugly girls like me. Girls you picked on your whole life!" Holly's face was dark red, her eyes popping in their sockets. "Who's picking on who now?" She lifted her chin, sneering at Cat.

Holly's intensity startled Cat, causing her to retreat another step, wrestling with her emotions. Her cellmate had serious issues. Cat didn't want to respond in anger, harsh words for harsh words. But if she didn't do something, where would it stop?

Cat stood there for a long second, staring at Holly.

Holly lifted her eyebrows and tilted her head, daring Cat to make a move.
It was just my hair last night,
Cat thought.
But what's next?

Cat turned to walk away. She took a half step, still simmering at the humiliation of it all, the abuse of her privacy, the threats of worse to come. She thought about how stark she would look for her court appearance, the whole world laughing at her, the judge and jury thinking she must be a homicidal lunatic. To make it worse, Holly had tried to throw the guilt trip on Cat, holding Cat responsible for a childhood of pain.

Cat hated herself for being the victim again, for letting the bully humiliate her without a fight.

In Catherine's mind, Holly became Kenny--leering, triumphant, arrogant.
You jerk!

Something snapped inside, and Cat spun with all her fury, backhanding Holly across the face. The blow stunned Holly, sending her reeling to the side.

Finish it!
The anger and fear demanded action--violent and adrenaline fueled. Cat couldn't back down now. Quickly, before Holly could recover, Cat grabbed Holly's hair with one hand and the collar of her jumpsuit with the other. Cat twisted hard, using her body weight like a discus thrower to send Holly pummeling toward the opposite wall and floor. Holly screamed as her head cracked against the edge of the metal rinse basin. Cat heard the crunching sound of bone on metal as a gash opened and spurted blood.

Holly lay on the floor unmoving, and Cat thought maybe she had killed her. Horrified, she backed a few steps away and started screaming for the guards, yelling at the top of her lungs for help. She wanted to bend over and check for a pulse, move Holly's neck from the grotesque position it had landed in, do something to stop the bleeding. Instead, Cat backed into a corner, her hands covering her mouth. Emitting a silent scream, she slouched to the floor.

Oh, God, what have I done?

49

Quinn arrived late for work on Thursday, and Melanie followed him into his office. "You're fifteen minutes late for a conference call," she said. "I'll dial you in and get some coffee."

Quinn grunted his approval. His head felt like it was ready to explode from the night before. He had lost $150,000 and along with it his dream of starting his own firm, all on one lousy hand of Texas hold 'em when the odds were in his favor. It had taken two hours of hard drinking to erase the pain. This morning, the pain came rocketing back, pulling in its wake a pounding headache and a case of cotton mouth.

"A couple of other things," said Melanie, who seemed terribly perky for first thing in the morning. "The case-acceptance committee has scheduled a meeting at eleven to discuss the O'Rourke case. I've prepared a memo outlining the facts and put together a folder."

"Okay." Quinn plopped down in his chair.
Did she always speak this loud?

"In the meantime, assuming they give you the green light, I've scheduled your Norfolk trip," Melanie continued, placing a manila travel folder on Quinn's desk. "You meet with O'Rourke Monday afternoon, just before she is evaluated by Rosemarie Mancini. You interview investigators Tuesday and then meet with Mancini and Marc Boland. On Wednesday morning you can spend some time with the investigator you hire and then fly back out Wednesday night for Annie's plea agreement first thing Thursday morning."

Quinn normally appreciated Melanie's compulsive organization, but this morning it only served to make him more tired. He slouched a little lower in his seat. "Anything else?" he asked. Even raising his eyes to look at her seemed to require a monumental effort.

"Excedrin for the headache," Melanie said. "And substitute Gatorade for coffee."

"What?"

"Yeah. When your body breaks down alcohol, it pumps out lactic acid and other byproducts that impede the production of sugar and electrolytes. That's what gives you that woozy feeling in your stomach. Gatorade helps replenish electrolytes and sugar."

Quinn smiled awkwardly--his assistant knew him too well. Why did he do this to himself?

Two hours later, after three Excedrins and a bottle of Gatorade, Quinn was ready for his meeting with the case-acceptance committee. He entered the ornately decorated conference room and greeted Espinoza and the three other committee members--two frowning business lawyers and one of the firm's few female partners, also scowling.

"Thanks for coming, Quinn," Espinoza began, as if Quinn had a choice in the matter. "We've all been watching the news, so we're somewhat familiar with the case." He leaned back and started spitting out facts. "You've got a serial killer running around Virginia terrorizing rapists and their defense attorneys. Two kidnappings and at least two presumed murders. Two of the victims--Paul Donaldson and Rex Archibald--are connected, right?"

Quinn nodded as Espinoza continued. "Archibald represented Donaldson in a rape case. The kidnapping victims include the children of a criminal defense lawyer and an alleged rapist who beat the rap."

"Right," said Quinn, his headache returning with a vengeance. "At this point our client has only been charged with the murder of Paul Donaldson."

"Fair enough," Espinoza said. "So far, the authorities haven't found the babies or the bodies of either Donaldson or Archibald. But our client apparently had some visions about the murders, and these visions contain confidential information known only to police. Right? And then they search her place and find all sorts of DNA evidence and a drug used to subdue the victims."

Quinn glanced around at the committee, his own patience wearing thin. Espinoza had painted the case in the worst possible light. "I must have been out when we passed the rule about only representing innocent clients," Quinn said.

"I didn't say she had to be innocent," Espinoza said quickly. "I'm just trying to figure out what the defense is going to be."

"She got framed," said Alfred Pennington, an old codger who made no secret of his disdain for Quinn's hotshot antics. "Mark Fuhrman placed the bloody paper towels in the neighbor's trash. It was really Kato Kaelin's hair on the envelope flap. Quinn can figure out some Alice-in-Wonderland defense. I'm more concerned with how we get paid. What's the retainer? What's the collateral for our fees as the case moves forward? What hourly rate are you charging?"

"I'm taking the case pro bono," Quinn said. "Our pay will be the millions of dollars in free publicity."

Pennington looked shocked, as if Quinn had just suggested assassinating the president.

For the next thirty minutes, the lawyers vigorously debated the merits of Quinn's proposal. Fortunately for Quinn, Melanie had armed him with a profitability analysis for several national law firms, correlated with the amount of publicity each firm had generated on its high-profile cases the preceding year. The conclusion: It didn't matter if you won or lost. Getting your name in the paper was all that counted. Profits followed publicity.

Just when Quinn thought his head might split open on the spot, Espinoza dismissed him so the committee could deliberate in private. Ten minutes later, Espinoza came to Quinn's office to announce the firm's decision.

"The committee will allow you to stay in the O'Rourke case on two conditions," said Espinoza. "First, you make your billable-hour goal apart from the O'Rourke case. And second, you conclude your sister's plea agreement immediately so you aren't spending all your time on two nonpaying clients."

Quinn didn't know whether to thank the man or tell him off. Quinn was a partner. These conditions sounded like something you would impose on an associate or something a parent might dictate to a rebellious teenager. On the other hand, Quinn was surprised they were letting him take the case at all.

"Okay," Quinn said. Not
thanks
. Not
I'll make this work and you won't be sorry.
Just
okay.

Espinoza stood gazing out one of Quinn's windows, his arms crossed over his chest. "I had to go to bat for you on this one, Quinn. Your partners were not happy that you circumvented the system. They probably would have rejected the case if we hadn't already been knee-deep in it."

Which is exactly why I filed first and asked for permission later.
"I appreciate it," Quinn said. He was already wondering how he could possibly handle this case
and
make his billable-hour requirement. Maybe that requirement was just a setup to run him out of the firm. "Tell my partners I appreciate their dedication to the principle that everyone is entitled to a defense under our system of justice."

Espinoza shook his head and turned to Quinn. "Don't push any harder on this one, Quinn. I can't go to the mat for you again."

As always, Quinn knew that his managing partner would require the last word, and this comment seemed as good a candidate as any. Accordingly, Quinn thanked Espinoza and watched the man head for the door.

Espinoza surprised Quinn by turning around just before he left. "Myself, I prefer Chaser Plus," he said, his lips curling into a half-smile.

"What?"

"For hangovers. You might want to keep some in your medicine cabinet."

50

After her fight with Holly, Catherine O'Rourke was placed in an isolation cell pending a psychiatric evaluation. First she was handcuffed so the jail barber could cut the chunks of gum out of her hair. It was such a mess that the barber eventually resorted to a rock-star spike. It looked terrible, giving Cat a hard, street-savvy look, but she knew it was probably the best the barber could do.

After a few hours in solitary, Cat was led into one of the sterile conference rooms with bolted-down furniture so she could be evaluated by the prison psychiatrist. Cat learned from the psychiatrist that Holly would survive with no long-term disabilities. For a few moments Cat couldn't even talk as a wave of relief flooded her body.

"Are you okay?" the psychiatrist asked. She was an older and soft-spoken woman named Dr. Glissen or something like that. Cat couldn't remember; her thoughts had been totally focused on Holly when the lady introduced herself.

"I'm fine," Cat said.

The woman asked Cat all the usual questions, and Cat answered them honestly. She was tired of pretending to be brave and tough. She needed help.

"Have you ever considered suicide?" Dr. Glissen asked. "Or have you tried to hurt yourself in any way?"