The Insanity Plea (11 page)

Sarah stormed to her feet. “Well, I’m
sorry, too. Both of you know that Dan didn’t do it. He couldn’t have. Well,
Duke, you don’t know him, but Wayne and I know he couldn’t kill anyone. He was
the kindest, most loving kid in three counties.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Wayne said.

“Hush, Wayne. You know I think the
same about you, only you’re not the one in trouble. You guys are big time trial
lawyers. Duke, Wayne tells me you’re about to become a superstar in criminal
defense. Surely you two can find a way to get him off, can’t you?”

“Sarah, from what I can see, there’s
not a hole in their case. They haven’t found the murder weapon, but they’ve got
the victim’s bracelet in Dan’s possession and her blood on his shoe. They’ve
even got a confession. Plus, their investigation shows that Dan was in that
very spot nearly every morning. I’d be recommending a plea bargain, but Harry
can’t do it.”

“What do you mean he can’t do it? I
know his mother. I’ll get her on the phone and…”

“Mom, you can’t go calling his
mother. It’s not like Dan got in trouble at school.”

The three rocked and sipped tea on
the veranda for the next several minutes without a word. A couple of neighbors
walked by and waved at Sarah. One commented on how pretty her roses were
looking this year. It was Duke who finally broke the silence.

“There’s one thing we may do. We’re
considering pleading insanity and trying to get him sent to the state
hospital.”

Sarah immediately jumped at the idea.
“That probably should have been done years ago. Dan never should have been
allowed to wander the streets. You just told me that Dr. Adashek will testify. Let’s
just go down there, get him and march him up to Harry Klein’s office. When he
tells Harry how sick Dan is, he’ll be willing to do what you say. Harry’s a
nice man, comes from a good family, even born on the island.”

“Mom, Harry may be a nice man, but
he’s got other pressures.” Wayne outlined the rest of the conversation with
Harry, the prominence of Debbie’s family and the certainty that Dan was going
to be tried with Capital Kate as the prosecutor.

“Well, if that’s the case,” Sarah
exclaimed, “you two boys can surely convince twelve jurors that Dan was insane.
I could probably do it myself, Capital Kate or no Capital Kate.”

Duke rose from his chair and sat on
the rail, facing Sarah. “Look, Sarah, I’m not going to bore you with all of the
details, just take my word for it. The insanity defense is always tough. This
case won’t be any different, particularly since the victim was an innocent,
attractive nurse.”

“He’s right, Mom. Still, I don’t see
that we have any choice. I know Harry well enough to know that he’s probably shooting
straight with us about the evidence. Maybe the fact that Dan was an island hero
at one time will carry a little weight. We’ll give it our best shot. We already
have Dr. Adashek on our side. We’ll also challenge the insanity defense as it’s
currently written. We’ll take it to the United States Supreme Court if we have
to…” Wayne’s voice disappeared into thought.

“Well, you boys just plan to make
this your home and office for however long the trial will take,” Sarah said. “I’ve
got plenty of bedrooms. Bring along your staff. We’ll make the living room your
office.” Sarah paused. “Oh, now I remember.
 
I’ve got wireless internet, and I’ll make sure
you’re all well fed.”

“Thanks, Mom. If it can be done,
we’ll do it. You heard Duke. Please don’t get your hopes up.”

“Wayne, I lost my oldest boy twenty
years ago. I’ll take any chance of getting him back, even a small one. I’m
going to have a positive attitude and I expect you boys to do the same.”

Rita and Wayne entered Damian’s
Italian Restaurant on the edge of Midtown not far from where they lived. Damian’s
had been a Houston landmark for two decades, serving some of the finest Italian
food in Houston long before the rejuvenation of the area. With the development
of Midtown, it had only become more popular. As they talked to the maitre’d,
the smells of fresh baked Italian bread and spicy pasta sauces filled their senses.

 
Duke and Claudia were already at a table,
sipping Merlot when they spotted their friends. “See, Claudia. What’d I tell
you? Here they come, holding hands, with Rita dressed like she’s about to
receive an Oscar. Won’t be long before Wayne will be jumping her bones. You and
I probably ought to go ahead and get married. Otherwise they may beat us to it,
right, baby?”

“Take it easy, lover-boy. I’ll get
there in due time. You don’t see me cruising the bars looking for anyone else.”
She patted his hand and waved with the other one.

Rita spotted them and led Wayne over
to the table. Hugs were exchanged and Duke poured two more glasses of Merlot.

“I was out of the office all day
today, Wayne,” Claudia said. “You holding up okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. Tod’s given me a
paid leave of absence until we get through this. He’s also loaned me Grace for
whenever I need her. And, Claudia, he’s told me he wants you to do any briefing
that we need. Can’t ask for much more.”

The waiter came with menus and daily
specials. After the usual banter about what they were having, each placed an order.
Duke purposely led the conversation into politics, sports and any other subject
that might get Wayne’s mind off his brother. Salads and another round of drinks
were followed by the main course. As they were winding up, Duke went back to
the matter at hand.

“Damn, Wayne, I almost forgot one of
the most important things. Who’s our judge?” Duke asked.

“We drew Felix Fernandez,” Wayne
smiled.

“Hell, that’s good. He’s a little
erratic for damn sure but he won’t give the D. A. any slack. I’ve been in his
court a couple of times, just to cop a plea. You know him very well?”

“Yeah, I was actually a young prosecutor
in his court when I joined Harry. He’s got a license to carry and even has that
gun with him under his robes on the bench. I’ve seen him pull it out and pound
the handle of the damn thing on the bench to demand order in his court. That
usually calms things down real quick.”

Duke laughed. “I heard about the time
he had a snootful and pulled that pistola on some bartender who asked him to
quiet down.”

“He’s been known to drink a little
too much,” Wayne said. “It never hits the paper because the cops all know him
and one will just drive him home while the other follows in the squad car.”

“Doesn’t sound like he’s giving us
Latinos a very good name,” Rita commented.

“No, Rita, don’t get me wrong,” Wayne
replied. “He has a few human faults, but I’ll take him over any other judge in
Galveston. Duke, tomorrow, I’m substituting you and me as counsel of record for
Dan. I’m also notifying the D. A. of our insanity defense.”

Walter Robinson leaned back in his
chair, took a drag on a Cuban cigar, and gazed out the fiftieth story window as
the sun was sinking below the horizon. Someone was calling on his back line. He
pushed the speaker feature on his phone and said, “Robinson.”

“Mr. Robinson, this is Katherine
Rasmussen.”

“Good evening, Katherine, do you have
some good news for me?”

“Not good or bad, Mr. Robinson. Dan
is no longer represented by the public defender. Wayne Little and Duke Romack
have taken over the defense.”

Noting the setting sun, Robinson
walked over to the bar in his penthouse office, put a few ice cubes in a glass
and poured three fingers of scotch as he spoke. “Don’t know them. What can you
tell me?”

“Wayne Little is a young partner in
the Duncan Law Firm, also the brother of Dan Little.”

Sipping the scotch, he walked over to
the window and looked to the west.

“Well, that’s interesting. I’m
looking out my window and I can see Duncan’s fire station a few blocks out
Washington from downtown. I don’t know Little, but nearly every businessman in
Houston knows Tod Duncan. If one of my companies got sued today, I’d be calling
him. If he’s with Duncan, then I’d say that is more bad than good. Duncan
doesn’t hire weaklings. Who’s this Duke Romack?”

“He’s a criminal lawyer. Big guy. Used
to play for the Rockets.”

“Sure, now I remember him. Damn fine
basketball player until his knee blew out. So, he’s become a criminal lawyer. He
any good?”

“I don’t run across him much. Only
been practicing for eight years. Building a damn good rep. Gotten some criminals
off I hear never should’ve had a prayer. All the jurors remember his days as a
Rocket and that usually gives him a bit of a head start, particularly since he
has a championship ring that gets to be a topic of conversation in the jury
room.”

“Okay, so we’ve got some real lawyers
on the other side. That give you any concern?”

“No, sir. I’ll handle them. There is
one more thing. They filed notice that they are pleading ‘Not Guilty by Reason
of Insanity’.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. Dan Little was
crazy as a bedbug. That still doesn’t give him a right to kill my Debbie.”

“It does bring up one problem. With
Wayne Little and Duke Romack involved, we’re going to need a first class
forensic psychiatrist, one who’ll be willing to spin the case the way we want
it. They’re expensive. Right now the county is strapped for money.”

“Listen, Katherine,” Robinson
commanded as he pounded his fist on the desk, “I don’t give a shit about money.
I want a conviction. Who do you want and what’s he going to cost?”

“I’ve already been in contact with
Frederick Parke. He works both sides of this insanity issue. Just depends on
who’s paying him. I expect he’ll cost about two hundred thousand.”

“I’ll pay it,” Robinson replied as he
gulped the last of the scotch and walked to the bar. He sat the empty glass on
the bar and walked over to an interior wall filled with pictures. There was
silence as he studied photos of Debbie on the wall. Tears filled his eyes when
he saw Debbie as a baby in her mother’s arms, Debbie astride her first bike
beside a giant Christmas tree, Debbie in a soccer uniform with her eight year
old championship team, Debbie standing beside her dad, holding the trophy for
winning the district tennis championship, Debbie in her high school prom gown
with her first real boyfriend looking awkward in a tuxedo beside her, and
Debbie in her cap and gown at graduation from the University of Texas in
Austin. There were more, many more, but he was brought back to the present by
Kate’s voice.

“Mr. Robinson, are you still there?”

Robinson choked back a sigh and wiped
one eye as he turned back to the speaker phone. “Yeah, Katherine. Sorry. I was
looking at photos of my Debbie and forgot you were there. Please understand
that Debbie was my life. Her mother died many years ago. All my money and
companies don’t mean a damn thing any more.” Robinson stared out to the setting
sun. “I used to talk to her every day, just about this time.” His voice
softened. “She’d been accepted at Baylor College of Medicine. Would have
started this coming July. Wanted to be a heart surgeon, like Denton Cooley. My
apologies, Katherine. Just tell me where to send the check.”

“Just one thing you should know about
Parke. He lost a big case in Seattle a few years ago. The psychiatrist on the
other side wrote up the experience in a journal article. Didn’t make Parke look
very good.”

Robinson pondered what Rasmussen told
him. “Lost one case, huh? You know how many dry holes I’ve drilled in my
lifetime? You still recommend him?”

“Yes, sir. I think he’s still at the
top of his game.”

“Then, get him on our team.”

“He’s supposed to be objective. It
would look really bad, maybe cause a mistrial, if it came out that you were paying
him. Can you pay him in a way that can’t be traced?”

“No problem. You get his bank account
information and I’ll arrange a wire transfer. Just make damn sure he knows
where the money is coming from.”

Nashville on a Saturday night. Twangy
voices, guitars, singers who knew three or four chords, songs about drinking
and lost love and money troubles. Parke hated country music but still wanted to
diversify his killing as he continued his clinical trials. His goal was to get
off the jogging trails with every third or fourth victim.
 
He had checked the internet and knew there
were over a hundred honkey tonks in the Broadway area. They featured country,
hillbilly, bluegrass and a couple with blues. Maybe he would at least find one with
blues. He decided to start at a place called Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge, across
the alley from the Ryman Theater, original home of the Grand Old Opry. He was
dressed in jeans and a faded blue T-shirt he found in the back of his drawer in
Vail. Not owning a pair of cowboy boots, he settled on some old running shoes. When
he entered Tootsie’s, he was greeted with a band playing something about hunting
dogs and pickup trucks. He was surprised that the place was only half full,
concluding that he must be early. He found a seat at the bar along the wall. As
he sized up the room, he saw a few tables toward the back and a stairway to
another bar area.

The bartender was a young woman with
an ample bosom, almost bursting out of her Tootsie’s T-shirt. When she
approached, he said, “Ma’am, can I have a Miller Lite?”

“Sure thing, darlin’. You want a
bucket of three. Same price as two separate.”

“No, thanks,” he smiled.

When she brought the beer, he gave
her a ten dollar bill and told her to keep the change. Then he twirled around
as if to better hear the band when his real purpose was to survey the crowd and
watch new arrivals. He saw only one potential victim at one of the tables in
the back, a big, curvaceous woman in her early thirties. The problem was that
she was with two guys that looked like they could be steer wrestlers on the
rodeo circuit.

Soon others began to drift in. Many
of them were going to the bar at the top of the stairs where he could hear
music that sounded more like rock and roll. Some of the women had potential,
but none moved him to action. Then, things started looking up. He glanced at
the door and saw two young women, debating whether to enter. Parke tried to use
a little mental telepathy to draw them in. They were in standard attire,
T-shirts over big boobs, tight jeans and cowboy boots. One of them had teased
blonde hair and the other had long brown hair that caressed her shoulders. Both
had belts with buckles like they won first place in barrel racing. After
observing the scene, they entered and took two seats at the front of the bar to
be near the band. The bartender approached and returned with two Bud Lights.
They turned to listen to the band. Parke guessed that they were looking for
company, not an older man like him although he certainly could show them a good
time.

It wasn’t long before two young men entered,
stopped in front of the girls and struck up a conversation. They were dressed
in jeans and long sleeved shirts with pearl snaps for buttons. Boots, of
course, completed the outfits. Before long they had beers in their hands. Two
rounds later the men paid the tab. The four of them left and headed down the
street. Parke followed discreetly.

They went a couple of blocks past at
least a dozen bars, all with bands playing, and turned into Jimmy Buffett’s
Margaritaville. Parke could tolerate Jimmy Buffet, but, he wasn’t there. Instead,
it was another country band. The foursome found a table. Parke ordered from the
bar and wandered around, looking at Buffett memorabilia. After another two rounds,
the four were up and gone again. This time they walked almost to the Cumberland
River, turning into Doc Holliday’s Saloon on 2
^nd
Avenue. Now it was
obvious that the four had split into pairs. Soon the blonde and the shorter of
the young men excused themselves and left the bar, holding hands. Parke
followed, realizing that the man was leading the blonde down Broadway to a park
that fronted the Cumberland River. Parke knew what was on their minds. They
were both drunk and wanted to get laid. They wouldn’t even notice him.

They crossed the street and
disappeared into the darkness of the park. When they got to the river, they
momentarily watched the moon reflecting from the water. He turned her to him
and wrapped his arms around her. Their lips and bodies came together. He led
her to a grassy area a few feet from the path. She crossed her arms in front
and pulled her T-shirt over her head, exposing breasts with nipples taut in the
moonlight. He slid his hand down his shirt, unsnapping as he went. He caressed
her breasts, eliciting moans of pleasure. He pulled at her belt while she
unzipped his jeans. They looked at their boots and laughed. He spread his shirt
on the grass for her. She sat to pull off her boots while he did a one legged
hop to rid himself of his. He pulled off his jeans and underwear. Then he
kneeled and removed her jeans, throwing them to the side. She spread her legs
and invited him into her arms. The voyeur in Parke wanted to watch, but he was
fearful that a stranger might happen by. He took his knife from his pocket and
stepped from the shadows. The couple was wrapped up in the moment and did not
even notice his approach. Parke grabbed the man’s hair and jerked back his head
with his left hand and swiped his blade across the man’s neck with the other. The
girl was uncertain about what was happening until her lover collapsed and she
felt blood flowing onto her breasts. Parke pushed the man to the side and found
himself tantalized by the terror in the girl’s eyes. She tried to say
something, to plead for her life, but Parke ignored her and sliced his knife
through her neck. After watching the life ebb from her eyes, he pulled the belt
from her jeans, one memento for two victims. Parke rose and used his cell phone
to capture the event and stepped back into the darkness.

Parke realized that he, too, had an
erection as he left. It alarmed him. He rationalized that it was because he
observed them stripping and copulating before concluding that was not the
reason. No, he was aroused by the deaths, by the act of killing. At that moment
he realized that he had started this as a scientific study and now he was
enjoying the taking of human lives. He wondered if he had crossed over to
become one of them. Had he become a serial killer instead of a scientist?
My God, maybe I’m becoming Dr. Jekyll and
Mr. Hyde
, he thought. As he walked back to the hotel, the one notion that
would not leave was that he desperately wanted to continue the killings. They were
now a part of him. He craved the experience. He wondered if he could stop. Finally,
he decided that he should at least consult his own psychiatrist. Of course, he
couldn’t divulge what he was doing. He would think of something. Maybe it was
already too late to stop, but at least he should talk to someone.