By Reason of Insanity

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.
"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?"
"Yes," said Cat. "To the suicide question, I mean." She paused, embarrassed to admit such a thing. "I was thinking about what this person did, this serial killer, and, well, I know it's not me, but I was thinking that if I was wrong and it somehow really was me . . ." Cat's voice trailed off and she felt herself trembling a little. It all sounded so bizarre, actually voicing the possibility out loud, like somehow it made the prospects more real.
Dr. Glissen slid forward a little. "What would you do, Catherine, if you found out that you really were this serial killer?"
"I'm not sure," Catherine admitted. "But I think I'd find a way to take my own life."
There. She had said it. Strangely, there was something therapeutic about just saying it out loud.
The two women talked for a long time about Catherine's feelings, the stresses of being in jail, and the pressure of being accused of such horrible crimes. Cat felt safe opening up with this woman. It seemed like the doctor actually cared about what was going on inside Cat's head. At the end of the visit, Dr. Glissen said she would prescribe some antidepressants. She gave Cat a lecture about how important it would be for her to take her meds faithfully.
"A lot of patients quit taking their medication prematurely," Glissen said. "They don't like the way it makes them feel, or they don't like the stigma associated with it, or they just pronounce themselves cured. You've got a lot on your shoulders right now. There's nothing wrong with getting help."
Cat thanked the doctor and returned to solitary confinement, where she spent her time second-guessing herself. She had lost control in a way that scared her. For a brief moment, she had wanted to kill Holly. And she nearly had. A part of? Cat that she never even knew existed had virtually taken control of her body. It was like the adrenaline and rage had fueled a different Catherine O'Rourke, one blind to consequences, intent on exacting vengeance and inflicting harm. During the fight, these emotions seemed to disembody Cat, as if she had merely been watching in horror while this other person attacked Holly, using Cat's body as the weapon.
This other Catherine had bought into the prison's moral code--survival of the fittest, kill or be killed--completely. Sure, Holly had done everything within her power to instigate the fight. And Catherine had a right to stand up for herself, especially in prison, where women like Holly picked mercilessly on women like Catherine, hoping to find an inmate they could intimidate and ultimately "own." But what scared Cat was the blind intensity of her rage. For an instant, her entire focus had been on hurting Holly badly enough so that she couldn't fight back. In that single dark moment, Cat knew, she had been capable of murder.
Was this the first time?
Perhaps the answer lurked somewhere deep inside her own head, waiting for her to dig out the hard truth of past wounds and her own festering rage. On the other hand, perhaps this morning was just a courageous response to a relentless bully, Cat's way of screaming that she'd had enough.
Maybe she was overanalyzing this entire incident. Who wouldn't have attacked Holly after what she had done? And besides, Cat remembered every second of the fight. In that respect, this was totally different from having another, unknown personality actually take control of her body.
These questions, and dozens more like them, were driving Cat mad. She had plenty of time to think about them, her paranoia growing by the minute. She needed the medication as soon as possible. And she needed some noise. For the first time since her arrest on Sunday, Cat longed for the chaos created by the other inmates.
Even the little things could drive you nuts in prison. Like never seeing the sun. Cat desperately needed some sunshine.
But there were no windows in her cell, only muted artificial light and an eerie silence. The only sounds were the voices of doubt echoing in her head. Wondering. Questioning. Convicting.
Was this the first time? Or had she done it before?
She folded her hands, put her elbows on her knees, and looked down at her flip-flops. She looked around and noticed there were no sheets on this bed, just the bare mattress, grubby and stained, and an old pillow. She had been given no spare clothes in this cell. Cat immediately understood why. They couldn't trust her with anything that could be ripped apart and fashioned into a rope.
She was not just in isolation.
Catherine O'Rourke was on suicide watch.


51
Three days later
The screening process at the Virginia Beach city jail made Quinn think he had stepped back in time and ended up at Alcatraz. Perhaps this was the way they always treated out-of-state lawyers, or perhaps he should have stopped to change out of the jeans, boat shoes, and polo shirt he had been wearing on the plane. Whatever the reason, Quinn endured two pat downs, a metal detector, and a hand search of his briefcase before he found himself waiting in a cinder block-walled cubicle for Catherine O'Rourke.
He was separated from the prisoner's side of the cubicle by a block wall and a window of heavy glass. There was a slit at the bottom of the window for passing notes or pleadings--anything else and a lawyer could lose his visitation rights.
They brought Catherine in ten minutes later, her wrists cuffed together. She slumped forward as she took her place on the opposite side of the glass, watching Quinn with a certain wariness.
"Thanks for coming," she said.
"No problem."
Quinn stared at her for a moment, surprised by the transformation. He had watched the video of her arrest a dozen times, till the image had been burned in his brain. Plus, the networks had been running stories about Catherine all weekend, once they learned about the altercation at the jail. They used stock footage with photos that showed a captivating young woman with a sly half smile and mysterious dark eyes.
But the woman sitting before Quinn had short, unkempt hair, dark circles under those eyes, and the beginnings of a red rash on the side of her neck.
She managed a wan smile. "That bad?"
Quinn felt himself blush. "I've seen worse," he said. "A lot worse." He jotted the date on his legal pad. "Jail's no picnic."
"So I've learned."
Quinn launched into his standard spiel about the need for honesty and full disclosure. He learned Catherine was taking some antidepressants, 20 mg per day of Lexapro, which she said she intended to stop taking once she left solitary confinement. He asked questions about her alibi and the methohexital and the DNA evidence against her. He had her describe in detail the rape by Kenneth Towns and possibly others, as well as the cover-up by Towns's frat brothers. As she did, Quinn put down his pen and studied her carefully, struck by the way she narrated the episode in an even voice, looking mostly at the slit in the glass, as if the entire event had happened to another person.
"How did that make you feel?" he asked.
Catherine looked at him, the almond eyes turning hard as they came into focus. "Violated. Ashamed because I didn't report it. Angry." Her tone underscored the lingering effects. "I've had nightmares for years."
"Tell me about them."
In a subdued voice, Catherine described the recurring scenes of Kenny and his frat brothers. Occasionally she would stop to collect her thoughts or scratch the side of her neck. Quinn probed for specifics, asking follow-up questions that clearly made her uncomfortable.
Next he turned to the matter of Catherine's visions--what she had seen, how she had felt, the differences between her visions and her nightmares. When he felt his client wearing down, he packed up his briefcase and emphasized the importance of Catherine's being absolutely forthcoming with Dr. Mancini. He asked Catherine if she had any questions.
"Aren't you going to ask me if I did it?"
Quinn furrowed his brow and studied his client. "I normally have the psych eval done first."
Catherine returned his gaze. "I'm innocent, Quinn. I need you to know that." She paused, glancing down for just a moment. When she returned her gaze, tears rimmed her eyes. "With God as my witness, I didn't even know those people."
Quinn wanted to reach out and touch her, a hand on her arm, anything to show his support. But three inches of bulletproof glass separated them. "I believe you," he said.
He wondered if she could sense his doubt.
Catherine shuffled back to her solitary-confinement cell, a place that had become hell on earth. Her spirits had sunk lower each day, her isolation interrupted only by an occasional visit from the jail psychiatrist and one brief visit from Marc Boland. The rest of the time, Catherine wrote in her journal and obsessed over the mounting evidence against her, demoralized by her inability to do anything about it.
But Quinn, like Marc Boland, seemed to believe in her case. She liked Quinn's style--thorough, confident, realistic. She could understand why the man did so well with juries. He didn't seem as outgoing as Marc Boland, but Quinn had a quiet intensity that he expressed through his eyes, the smoldering look of a man who knew more than he was saying. You wanted Marc Boland to be your friend. You wanted to make sure Quinn Newberg was not your enemy.
She took a few deep breaths in the quietness of her cell. Day by day, the place seemed to be closing in on her. But for once, it seemed like she could actually fill her lungs, the vicelike pressure on her chest relaxing just a little. She stood and headed for the rinse basin. For the first time since going into solitary confinement, she felt like washing her face and what little hair she had left. It wasn't a nice warm shower at her beach duplex, but the feel of water trickling down her face and dripping from her chin made her feel close to human again.
She had opened up about some painful moments to Quinn, though she had tried to do it on autopilot, keeping her feelings at bay. It felt therapeutic. Yet there were still a lot of things he didn't know. Like her guttural revulsion when a recent boyfriend had tried to get intimate, releasing a flood of horrific memories.
She was smart enough to know that some thoughts are so painful, some memories so intense, you need to hide them even from your own lawyer.


52
Quinn decided to conduct his interviews of potential investigators in a corner of the Westin lobby bar, munching on peanuts and drinking iced tea. The first two candidates were unimpressive.
When Quinn saw the third and final candidate meandering toward him, he knew he would have to ask Melanie to go back to the drawing board. Billy Long was a thick bowling ball of a man, about five-ten, with rounded shoulders, a stubble of dark, receding hair, a five-o'clock shadow, and seriously hairy arms and chest. He was dressed in khakis and a Hawaiian shirt.
"Billy Long," he said, squeezing Quinn's hand in a bearlike grip. "I understand you need a private investigator."
"I'm interviewing a number of folks," Quinn said, as Billy took his seat. "I just have a few questions."
Unfortunately, Billy called for a waitress. "I'll take a Bud," he said.
"I'm good," Quinn said. "I need to be leaving soon."
Quinn fired off a list of perfunctory questions and was somewhat impressed with Billy's responses. He struck Quinn as being one of those "dumb like a fox" guys who puts you at ease and then steals you blind. Billy told some fascinating war stories about his prior life as a detective. His wife's job had caused the couple to move around Virginia a little--Hampton, Williamsburg, Richmond--before they got a divorce and Billy moved to Virginia Beach to start work as a private investigator. He had been in Virginia Beach for six years now and seemed to know all the major personalities. Still, Quinn had pretty much decided not to hire the guy; he needed someone more professional.
And then Billy pulled out his ace.
He swallowed the last of his beer and slid a manila folder across the table to Quinn. "This one'll be on the house," he said. "It's gonna be a long day for you boys tomorrow."
Quinn assessed Billy with a sideways look. Billy stood and Quinn did likewise, taking Billy's card before he shook the PI's hand. After Billy left, Quinn opened the manila folder.
It was a summons for Virginia Beach General District Court, Criminal Division, on charges of assault and battery. The named defendant was Catherine O'Rourke, and from the description, the charges were obviously the result of Catherine's attack on her cellmate, a woman named Holly Stephenson.
What surprised Quinn about the document was the date: June 3. Tomorrow. Somehow Billy had gotten his hands on a summons from the commonwealth's attorney's office that wasn't even scheduled to be filed until the next day.
This charge would compound the difficulty of Catherine's defense. If nothing else, it would give the media one more nail as they constructed Catherine's coffin, even before she went to trial. Plus, if Gates could get this assault case to trial first and obtain a conviction, he might be able to use it on cross-examination if Catherine took the stand in her murder trial.
Included with the summons were several oversize photographs showing Holly Stephenson's bloody scalp as she lay unconscious on the floor of her cell. There were photos of the rinse basin, photos of the bloody concrete floor, and close-ups of Holly's stitches. They would undoubtedly be plastered all over the television tomorrow.
At least now Quinn knew it was coming. He called the number on Billy Long's card.
"We didn't talk rates yet," Billy said when he answered.
Quinn smiled to himself. Long was exactly the kind of man he needed.


53
Quinn and Dr. Mancini met Marc Boland at 3:45 in his eighteenth-floor office suite at the Armada Hoffler Tower in Virginia Beach's Town Center. Quinn couldn't help but notice that the premier conference room for Boland and Associates looked like a janitor's closet compared to the luxuries of his own firm. Sure, Boland's conference room had plush burgundy leather chairs, rich mahogany trim, and ornate wood molding, but those were considered the bare minimum in Vegas, your ante just to get in the game. Boland had no original masterpieces hanging on the wall, no teakwood imported from Thailand for the conference table, no authentic Persian rugs.
It wasn't that Quinn was snobbish about furnishings; he saw it more as symbolic of the sophistication of Vegas criminal defense lawyers versus their Virginia Beach counterparts. It was like a member of the Yankees visiting the clubhouse of the Toledo Mud Hens. It wasn't the clubhouse; it was just a different level of ball.
Boland burst into the conference room a few minutes after Quinn and Rosemarie had settled in. Quinn told Boland about the new charges that would be filed against Catherine, but Boland shrugged it off. "Have you guys made dinner plans?" he asked.
Not even 4:00, and the man is talking dinner?
Quinn and Rosemarie looked at each other. "Not really."
"Good, then pack up your stuff. We've got some major decisions to make and we've got to be at our creative best," Boland declared. "Stuffy conference rooms don't do it for me."
Quinn was skeptical. It was a muggy day in early June, and it seemed to Quinn like Boland was suggesting something outside, like an elementary class sitting in a circle on the schoolhouse lawn. But Boland's enthusiasm carried the day, and a few minutes later Quinn and Rosemarie were following Boland down the interstate in Quinn's rental car. They headed straight for the oceanfront until they took the Birdneck Road exit, wound their way through an established neighborhood, and parked in the lower parking lot of a place called the Cavalier Golf and Yacht Club.
Boland alighted from his car with his tie gone and his sleeves rolled up. Quinn had dressed casual, though Rosemarie Mancini, ever proper, had on a professional blue dress and matching pumps. Boland waved to the boat hands milling about as he led Quinn and Rosemarie down a long pier lined with expensive yachts. They reached the end of the docks and the boat that dwarfed all others--Boland's boat, Class Action according to the moniker on the front.
Class Action was a sixty-eight-foot custom-designed yacht, Boland explained, complete with all the gimmicks and toys. The boat looked sleek, Quinn had to admit, with its polished white shell and its dark tinted windows reflecting the sunlight. He and Rosemarie followed Boland aboard, passing through the sliding glass doors on the back of the boat and into a room Boland called the salon.
The room had a soft leather couch and easy chair along one set of windows and a pop-up large-screen television on the other side. A full bar lined the far wall. Apparently this yacht was the Virginia Beach equivalent of the Signature Towers.
They followed Boland up a set of steps into the covered pilothouse and galley area, which gave Quinn's kitchen a run for the money. The bank of controls to the side of the pilot's seat looked like it would be sufficient to pilot a 747.
"Something to drink?" Boland asked, opening the door to a well-stocked refrigerator. Quinn and Boland each grabbed a Corona; Dr. Mancini stuck with bottled water. Boland picked up some hamburgers, hot dogs, buns, and condiments, tossed a bag of tortilla chips and a jar of salsa to Quinn, and assembled his grilling tools. He took his guests up another set of steps to the flybridge area on top of the boat, a semicovered sitting area with plush white leather swivel chairs, another hardwood bar, and an outdoor grill. Boland put on an old baseball hat he pulled out of a compartment and fired up his grill.
"Now can we start arguing about strategy?" Quinn asked. He had to admit he was enjoying the view and the nice little breeze coming from the river. It was a branch of the Lynnhaven, Boland had explained, that eventually led out to the Chesapeake Bay. Quinn opened the bag of chips and the salsa. The smells of the gas grill made him hungry, though it was only 5:00.
"We've got a preliminary hearing next week," Boland began, "and we're getting slaughtered in the press. Quinn and I need to start hitting the airwaves immediately, countering this new charge and getting Catherine's case out there." He plopped some burgers on the grill and pointed toward the river. "Look at that! Egrets!"
Quinn twisted in his chair to watch the beautiful white birds in flight.
"We can't be seen as flip-flopping on this," Boland continued. "If we go out there right now and claim innocence, we'll look like shysters later on if we claim insanity. On the other hand, if we claim insanity now, we're admitting Catherine killed this guy, so we'd better be certain that's where we want to go." He looked at Rosemarie. "Would you even be willing to support such a claim?"
"It's too early to tell. An insanity plea would depend on a diagnosis of dissociative identity disorder, and that's a very tricky diagnosis. I would need several sessions with the patient before I could make a definitive recommendation."
"I thought the whole idea of split personality disorder was pretty much discredited these days," Boland said, poking at the meat on the grill. "I thought most psychiatrists believed it was simply the result of suggested scenarios from therapists."
Rosemarie shot Quinn the briefest sideways glance before she gave Boland a condescending smile. He'll learn not to challenge the woman, thought Quinn, kicking back and tilting his face to the sun.
"There is some controversy about the diagnosis, to be sure," Rosemarie said, with just a tinge of snootiness. "But it's still in the DSM-IV-TR, and dissociation is recognized by most experts as a symptomatic presentation in response to trauma or extreme emotional distress and in association with emotional dysregulation and borderline personality disorder. Documented cases of full-blown DID, where the patient's ego actually fractures into distinct personalities to deal with different situations, are rare, but they do exist."
Quinn smiled to himself. This was why he used her as his big-case expert.
"You said trauma or extreme emotional distress," Boland countered. "Mostly childhood abuse, right?"
"Impressive," Dr. Mancini said. "You've done some homework."
Boland shrugged and flipped the burgers. "Wikipedia. Not exactly admissible in court."
"Clinical studies show that most patients with diagnosed DID report early childhood abuse," Rosemarie said. "However, researchers were only able to document such abuse in about 85 percent of the cases. Still, one of the things that bothers me about Ms. O'Rourke's case is that she denies any such abuse. Rape is a severely traumatizing event that can trigger a lot of psychological issues. But it was not repetitive and it did not happen during her childhood."
"And what's the significance of that?" Boland asked. "And, more importantly, how do you like your burgers?"
"Medium rare," Quinn said.
"Extremely well done," Rosemarie said. She switched back into lecture mode. "It's during childhood that we learn to integrate different types of experiences into a complex and integrated view of ourselves. Our multifaceted personality develops. When certain traumatic experiences or situations of abuse overwhelm us, it's possible to segregate them into a separate personality, one that our default personality does not even know exists."
"So that's one of the problems with claiming DID," Boland responded. "She doesn't fit the pattern. That's why I like going with a straight not-guilty plea." He wiped his brow with a shirtsleeve and turned to Quinn. "You're being awful quiet, Vegas."
Quinn raised his palms, as if he didn't care. He didn't want to make his agenda too obvious. "How do you explain the DNA and methohexital?"
"A setup," Boland said quickly, "by the real Avenger of Blood."
"How did he get her DNA?" Quinn asked.
"It's not that hard," Boland pronounced. "Maybe he broke into her house. Went through her trash. Followed her into a restaurant."
"If it were only the DNA and methohexital, I might agree with you," Quinn said, trying to sound pensive. "But I can't get past these visions. How would an innocent person know so much about the crimes?"
"She's got a gift," Boland responded. "Even the cops use people like Catherine to help them solve crimes."
"A gift," Quinn repeated. He let the sarcasm drip from his lips. "What other crimes has our gifted client solved? What calamity did she predict? Does she also read palms for a small fee?"
Boland climbed onto a white leather bar stool, one eye on the grill. "I don't like it any better than you do, Vegas. But we're stuck with the visions in this case. Some people just know things. Supernaturally. Most jurors will buy that."
"Maybe Virginia Beach juries are more gullible than they are in Vegas," Quinn said, his frustration starting to show. He took a final swallow of beer. "But it would never fly out there. Magicians and illusionists have 'gifts' too, and so do card sharks. But at the end of the day, it's all smoke and mirrors. If we can't find a logical explanation for these visions, one grounded in reality, I think we're better off arguing insanity."
Quinn sat up, his elbows on the arm rests. "If we plead insanity, we can talk at length about the effect of the rape on Catherine's psyche. We turn her visions into a cornerstone of our defense. Would anybody who actually realized they had committed these horrible crimes ever share detailed visions about them with a police officer? It may not get her acquitted, but it ought to be enough to save her life."
"They've got no corpse," Boland protested. "No murder weapon. No real motive. We can't just roll over and admit she did this. What if she's really innocent?"
"Then we'd better have a good explanation for these visions," Quinn responded. "Something that makes sense to the 99 percent of us who don't believe in ghosts."
"Let me give that a shot," said Rosemarie Mancini. "And if you two gentlemen could hold your questions until my little presentation is done, I would very much appreciate it."
Marc Boland shrugged and Quinn stood from his seat. "I'll be right back," he said. "I think this calls for another beer."