By Reason of Insanity (4 page)

As soon as the man stopped for a breath, the reporters shouted their questions. He ignored them all, holding his wife's hand and pushing his way past the microphones, down the steps, and toward the black sedan waiting at the curb. Cat played the angles right and managed to intercept him just before he arrived at his car.

"What did you mean by your statement that the 'victims have no choice but to fend for themselves'?" she asked, thrusting her microphone at him.

To her surprise, Hofstetter stopped, assessing her with the steely gaze of a man not used to being crossed. Something about the look made her blood curdle.

"I'm not taking questions," he growled. Then he brushed away the mike and helped his wife into the car. After one more disturbing look at Cat, he climbed in the backseat and closed the door.

Catherine and her crew scrambled back up the broad steps to catch the next performance, this time featuring Carla Duncan. The subdued prosecutor expressed her disappointment in the mistrial but vowed to retry the defendant "as soon as humanly possible." The fact that eleven out of twelve jurors were ready to convict was a testament to the strength of the prosecutor's case, she said.
Class act,
Catherine jotted down.

Quinn and Anne Newberg emerged next, and Cat thought they might get crushed by the mob of reporters. Quinn issued a brief statement thanking Julia Richards for her honesty and courage. He called on Carla Duncan to drop the case and spend her time and resources chasing real criminals. He asked the press to give his sister a little private space in the days ahead. "All of the intimate details of her life have just been paraded in front of the entire world," he said. "Is it too much to ask for a little privacy for my sister and niece now that the trial's over?"

From the way the press hordes followed Quinn and Anne down the steps and across the street to the parking garage, shouting questions and capturing their every move on film, Catherine assumed that the answer was
yes, it is too much to ask.
Catherine and her own cameraman stayed back, preparing for a stand-up report from the steps of the Justice Center.

Bubbling with adrenaline, Cat tried to control her emotions and focus on her report. She would do three separate stand-ups for three different television stations, each one cutting live to the courthouse in rapid sequence. And it was almost as if central casting had constructed the Regional Justice Center for these special television pieces. The broad concrete steps angled up to a plaza in front of the eighteen-story glass building. Decorative palm trees provided shade for the afternoon camera shots. Cat found an open spot on the steps a few feet from one of the palms, put in her earpiece, and watched for the small red light on the top of the camera. A few seconds later, the anchor desk kicked it to her.

"Well, Richard, the last few hours have been filled with controversy and chaos here in the eighth judicial circuit in the city of Las Vegas," she began, looking earnestly at the camera. "Some might say that insanity carried the day. . . ."

7

After a celebration dinner with his sister and a dozen others who had helped on the case, Quinn hailed a cab and rode in the backseat with Rosemarie Mancini to her hotel. Rosemarie didn't really need an escort--she could handle herself--but this was Quinn's subtle way of thanking her. The dynamic little psychiatrist had served as both expert witness and unofficial counselor to the Newberg family, not to mention the thankless role of trying to serve as Quinn's conscience. As they rode, Quinn felt giddy and exhausted at the same time, the euphoria of avoiding defeat slowly succumbing to the reality that they still had a long road in front of them.

Quinn had watched Rosemarie at work during dinner and afterward, while others joked and swapped stories in the small, private room at the MGM Grand that Quinn's assistant had quickly reserved. Rosemarie had pulled aside Sierra, Quinn's thirteen-year-old niece, and spent most of the time with her. Out of the corner of his eye, Quinn noticed his niece smile for the first time in weeks. Rosemarie had been counseling Sierra for the past few months, and the two had somehow bonded, despite the generational differences between the fifty-five-year-old psychiatrist and her teenage client.

"How long before the retrial?" Rosemarie asked as they approached the Embassy Suites where she liked to stay--away from the strip. "I need to block some dates on my calendar."

"If I'm any kind of lawyer," Quinn said, "it won't be until after August thirty-first. Which, coincidentally, happens to be the day that Strackman retires."

"Why is he out to get you?" Rosemarie asked.

Despite what Quinn considered to be Strackman's obvious bias, Rosemarie had never asked this question before. Maybe she didn't want to know prior to taking the stand and testifying. Maybe she did better if she could just assume the system was fair. "Vegas is a juice town," Quinn said, watching the casinos pass by. "And our firm has no juice with Strackman."

"A juice town?"

"A few years ago, the
L.A. Times
wrote an article about the way we elect our judges in Nevada--the fact that 90 percent of the donations for the judges' campaigns come from lawyers and casinos. The article named names and gave examples of judges who had ruled in favor of lawyers who had been some of their main fund-raisers. The money quote in the article was from a friend of mine who said what all Vegas lawyers know but never state publicly: 'Vegas is a juice town, not a justice town. Financial contributions get you "juice" with a judge--not a guaranteed win, but at least the benefit of the doubt.'"

"And your firm didn't back Strackman?"

"Let's just say we would have had serious juice with his opponent."

"How can you operate like this?" Rosemarie asked, disgust evident in her voice. "What if we had lost and Strackman had been the one to sentence Annie?"

"That was my fear," Quinn said. "But we learned our lesson. Now we have some lawyers in our firm hosting fund-raisers for both candidates in any contested race. Guaranteed juice no matter who wins."

The cab pulled in front of the Embassy Suites, and Rosemarie handed a twenty to the driver. Quinn had lost enough battles trying to pay for Rosemarie's dinners and cab rides that he didn't even reach for his wallet.

Rosemarie opened the door and waited for her change.

"Thanks," Quinn said. "For everything."

Rosemarie looked at her friend and, as she seemed to do so often, must have read his mind. "They're going to be okay, Quinn. Annie and Sierra are going to be okay." She took her change and handed a five back to the cabbie. "It's you I'm worried about."

She climbed out of the cab but leaned back in before closing the door. "If I paid you an extra twenty, would you promise to take this man straight home to the Signature Towers?" she asked the cabdriver. "He's got a round of national television interviews tomorrow morning that start at about 4 a.m."

"Sure thing," said the driver. "Unless he pays me an extra forty after you're gone."

"That's what I was afraid of," said Rosemarie, closing the door.

Quinn smiled. He loved this town! Even the cabbies understood the concept of juice. "To the Venetian," he ordered. No sense wasting a lucky day.

8

Two months later

The Avenger of Blood waited patiently for Marcia Carver, a woman who was perhaps the proudest grandmother in all of Hampton Roads, Virginia, to return from the Princess Anne Country Club, where she had just finished showing off the twins. Her husband, of course, would still be at the office, figuring out some new trick for springing the rapists and murderers and drug dealers who paid for his three-million-dollar mansion at the north end of Virginia Beach.

The Avenger crouched in the shrubs, checking the handheld device that used GPS signals to track the small transponder attached to the frame of Marcia Carver's Lexus. She was less than ten minutes away. Her husband's car, according to a similar device the Avenger had appended there, had yet to move from the office parking lot.

Two weeks ago, Marcia's son Bobby and her daughter-in-law, Sheri Ann, had returned from China with the heirs to the Carver family legacy. Twins! According to the young couple's Web site, they had told the adoption agency they would be open to twins but hadn't found out until they arrived in China that they would indeed be the proud parents of two thirteen-month-old twins--a chubby little round-faced girl named Cail Ying and her brother, Chi. The American names were predictably presumptuous--Callie Ann Carver (a takeoff on her new mother's name) and Robert Carver III.

The Avenger assumed that the Carvers had paid somebody off and bought the twins with a hefty bribe. Adoptions of twins were rare in China, especially when one of the twins was a boy. The Avenger wasn't fooled by the sweet little adoption journal Sheri Ann Carver had put online for the world to read. Or the blow-by-blow description of their tour around China so the Carvers could better appreciate their babies' homeland. Or the hundreds of photos of the twins, showing Callie Ann constantly smiling, toothless, and bright-eyed, her brother wearing a perpetual look of confusion, his little mouth forming an O as he clutched a tattered blanket.

Sheri Ann was a spoiled Southern belle, not the kind of woman who could tolerate mommy duties for long. As a result, the Avenger could have taken the kids when they were in the care of their nanny much of the past ten days, during Sheri Ann's many absences for her tennis matches or gym workouts or pedicures. But that wouldn't drive home the point the way this plan would. Grandma and Grandpa needed to share the pain. Blood money had bought them all this happiness. Justice demanded that it also bring them pain.

Breathless, the Avenger hunkered low behind the shrubs as the Lexus approached. The automatic driveway lights, normally triggered by the headlights from the car, did not illuminate. The Avenger wondered if Marcia would notice.

Marcia parked the car and climbed out the driver's side. She opened the rear door and started cooing over her grandkids. It was almost too easy. Staying low, the Avenger came up behind her, put a gloved hand over her mouth, and twisted her neck, at the same time driving a needle into the small of her back. From behind, the Avenger held Marcia in a chokehold until she went limp, then lowered her to the pavement.

The Avenger glanced in the backseat of the sedan at the twins and worked hard to stay unemotional. The little girl smiled at the Avenger, extending her arms as if the Avenger might free her from the car seat. The little boy looked confused, clutching his blanket and contorting his frightened little face as he began to cry. The Avenger shut the car door, drowning out the noise at least temporarily.

Quickly, efficiently, the Avenger dragged Marcia into the bushes and raked over the footprints. Popping the trunk, the Avenger threw the rake inside. Then the Avenger fired up the Lexus and climbed in, trying to ignore the little boy's loud crying as the car backed down the driveway.

Later that night, the Avenger watched the Carvers' televised pleas for the return of their babies. The Avenger shrugged off the million-dollar reward the Carvers immediately offered for anyone who had information that might lead to a safe rescue of the twins. This wasn't about money.
Justice
demanded this.

A package arrived at Robert Carver Sr.'s office two days after the kidnapping. It contained a note from the kidnapper and a piece of Chi Ying's tattered blanket. DNA tests would confirm that the bloodstains on the blanket belonged to both Cail and Chi.

For strategic reasons, the police insisted, and the Carvers agreed, that information about the blanket and accompanying note should not be released to the public. They continued the manhunt as if the babies might still be alive, though the Carvers had already begun the grieving process.

The note was generated by an HP inkjet printer and contained a quote from the Bible, complete with a reference:

For I, the Lord thy God, am a jealous God, visiting the iniquities of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me. Exodus 20:5.

At the bottom of the note, the kidnapper had typed a signature--a biblical allusion that ripped at the heart of the parents and grandparents.
The Avenger of Blood.

9

Catherine O'Rourke stared at her computer screen. The day after the Carver kidnapping, her article had appeared on the front page of the afternoon edition. The next day, in both the morning and afternoon editions, her story about the history of the twins' adoption had again been front page, above the fold. Now Catherine's editor was breathing down her neck for yet another story on day three, something worthy of another front-page placement, and Catherine was drawing blanks.

The investigation had stalled. A press conference held by Virginia Beach Police Chief Arthur Compton just a few hours earlier had been a waste of time. The police were following all leads. There had been no ransom demand. They had not been able to find any footprints, fingerprints, or DNA evidence.

Cat stared at the photos of cute little Chi Ying and Cail Ying, photos she had tacked up on her cubicle wall. The twins had round, pudgy faces and bright little eyes. She couldn't believe that anyone would harm them. Money had to be the motive. But why no ransom note? Would the babies be sold on the black market instead?

Cat put the final touches on her sidebar story about the Carver family. The Carvers' law firm, of course, was prominently featured. Three generations of Carver men had made their mark as criminal defense lawyers.
There was no case too controversial for the Carvers,
Catherine had written. To beef up the story, she had quoted a few respected defense attorneys whom she had called earlier that day. A young lawyer named Marc Boland had given her the best sound bite:
"The Carvers believe in the Constitution. They believe they are doing the dirty work that our founders envisioned when they set up our legal system. Their primary operating principle is that somebody has to represent those who can't speak for themselves."