By Reason of Insanity

71
The next day, Quinn received Dr. Mancini's written psychiatric evaluation of Catherine O'Rourke. They would, of course, only use it if Catherine could be convinced to plead insanity. The first part of the report was loaded with qualifiers--"This report assumes, without independent investigation, the integrity and credibility of the forensic evidence linking Ms. O'Rourke to the various crimes attributed to the Avenger of Blood." But the main part of the report was vintage Mancini, providing insights that had never occurred to Quinn--or anyone else for that matter.
Later that day, Melanie set up a conference call for Quinn, Rosemarie, and Marc Boland so that the expert could explain her findings.
"There are three factors that allow me to support a diagnosis of dissociative identity disorder," she said confidently. "First is the type of rape that Catherine experienced at William and Mary. It was a former boyfriend, compounding the emotional devastation of rape with the betrayal of trust. Also, it occurred while she was drugged, meaning that she endured this humiliation primarily at a subconscious level, wounding her psyche in a way that her conscious mind never totally comprehended.
"Second, as I detail in the report, the identity for the Avenger of Blood seems to come from an undergrad comparative religions course Catherine was taking at the time of the rape. Alter personalities often exhibit traits consistent with the environment that existed when the personality was first created, even if the alter personality does not manifest itself until years later. It's almost like a snapshot frozen in time. This is one of the ways we distinguish between patients who fake an alter personality and patients who are genuinely psychotic. Catherine, of course, would have no way of knowing this."
Rosemarie paused for a moment. "Are you guys still there?" she asked.
"Just taking notes, professor," Quinn said.
"Good stuff," Marc Boland echoed.
"The third thing," said Rosemarie, "is that I think I've discovered the triggering event. I spent a couple of days digesting reams of newspaper articles written by Catherine. She's an excellent reporter. Her writing is clear, fair, objective, sometimes even detached. But the tone of her writing on Annie's case was very different.
"From the beginning, she seemed more of a cheerleader than a reporter. Plus, it seemed to me that she almost obsessed over it. Her writing was much more emotional than the other articles. Quinn, I think this alter personality saw what Annie did and absorbed your strong defense of your sister, even before that case went to trial. In some ways, I think it gave this personality permission to seek its own revenge, mirroring what Annie did. Perhaps coincidentally, perhaps not, the blood avengers that Catherine learned about in college were the three female furies of Greek mythology, acting as bloodthirsty prosecutors for crimes against innocent victims. In a way, Catherine felt a sense of bonding with Annie--they're both female furies for the twenty-first century."
It made sense, Quinn thought, scribbling furiously. He was already thinking about ways to dramatically illustrate this at trial. The jury would eat it up--Greek mythology, handwriting on the wall, a tortured subconscious. Freud couldn't have written a better script.
"Once I started putting this together, I was curious about how Quinn came to be involved in the case," Rosemarie said. "Marc explained that it was Catherine's idea to hire him and that Catherine had been pretty adamant about it. This fits my theory, Quinn. Subconsciously, Catherine's alter ego wanted Annie's defender to take her case too."
Rosemarie paused again. "There's more, but most of it is in my report. Do you two gentlemen have any questions?"
Quinn loved the report and remained quiet. Not surprisingly, Marc Boland jumped in.
"I do have one question," he said. "How do we convince Catherine that pleading insanity is her best hope?"
"I think that job is best left to her white knight," said Rosemarie.
Quinn didn't argue. In fact, he rather liked the analogy.


72
Airplane flights had long ago lost any novelty for Quinn, but as he and Sierra left Vegas for Virginia Beach, his niece had her face plastered against the window. She had a perfect view of the Vegas skyline, the El Dorado range, and Lake Mead as the plane climbed to cruising altitude. The flight was not crowded, so Quinn took an aisle seat, leaving the seat between him and Sierra empty.
When the Fasten Seatbelt light went off, Sierra broke out her iPod and moved into the center seat, closer to Quinn. Before long, the gangly teenager had curled into an awkward sleeping position, propping her pillow against Quinn's shoulder. Though it hurt the injured shoulder, he didn't move until Sierra fell asleep. Then he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. It was amazing how much his niece had already changed him.
Quinn's thoughts turned to Annie and her stoic good-bye with Sierra last night. Though being separated from Sierra tore at Annie's heart, she had put on a brave face and tried valiantly not to show her emotions.
Overall, Annie seemed to be weathering jail pretty well. She was a survivor. Plus, Quinn had called in some favors to get Annie her own cell in a minimum-security wing of the Vegas jail, with work responsibilities as a jail trustee. Doing time was never easy, but Annie's situation was certainly better than Catherine's.
Quinn and Sierra landed at the Norfolk airport, dropped their stuff at the Hilton Garden Inn in the Virginia Beach Town Center, and headed straight for the jail. On the way, they stopped at a Borders so Sierra would have something to read while Quinn met with Catherine.
Quinn's goal for today's meeting was not an easy one--convince Catherine to plead insanity. Marc Boland had broached the subject initially, and Catherine had resisted. If Quinn couldn't convince her, the attorneys had agreed they would petition the court to allow them to plead insanity over the objections of the client. It would be much easier if Catherine just agreed.
Quinn left Sierra reading in the visitors' area near the front desk of the jail and proceeded through the metal detector and two thick, remote-controlled doors that separated the jail proper from the lobby area. Going through the doors always gave Quinn a sinking feeling; the claustrophobic block walls of the narrow hallways had a way of sucking hope out of a person. Jail was no place for someone like Catherine O'Rourke. She needed help, not punishment.
Quinn took his seat in the phone-booth-size cubicle that served as the attorney interview room. Within minutes, Catherine arrived on the other side of the thick glass.
It had been only two weeks since Quinn had seen her, but the change was unmistakable. She still had the haunting beauty that had seared itself into Quinn's memory--the dark eyes and sculpted face--and her spiked hair actually looked stylish, the sort of look a movie star might sport a few weeks after shaving her head for an important role. But Catherine's eyes seemed less full of life than Quinn remembered, and her entire face had the contour of unshakable sadness--a downward sloping of the mouth and eyes that made no secret of her depression. Quinn expected her to look hardened. Instead, he saw melancholy.
She thanked him for coming, and he asked her a few questions about life behind bars. She answered politely and then had a question of her own. "How's Sierra?"
The question reminded Quinn that his family drama had played itself out on the world television stage and that inmates watch a lot of television.
"Doing better," Quinn said. "I actually brought her with me."
"Here?" Catherine asked. "To the jail?"
"Yeah. She's out in the visitors' area."
A small spark flickered briefly in Catherine's eyes. "You think I could talk with her tonight during visiting hours? I know a little about what she's going through. Maybe I could encourage her."
Quinn and Sierra had no specific plans that night. "I don't see why not," Quinn said, though the request took him a little off guard. Before receiving Rosemarie's report, Quinn had worked hard to separate these two cases--Annie's and Catherine's--filing them away in different emotional compartments. For some reason, it seemed a little dangerous to blur the lines.
"Thanks," said Catherine. "Visiting hours start at seven."
Quinn nodded. "For now, I want to talk about a possible insanity plea," he said. "I know that Marc has already broached this with you."
Catherine nodded and Quinn noticed her stiffen a little, reminding him that his client had a mind of her own.
He leaned forward. "I know you don't like the implications of an insanity plea, but my job is not to make you like me." Quinn paused, realizing that he cared very much whether this particular client liked him. He might even care a little too much. "My job is to keep you alive and get you out of here. My job is to keep a needle out of your arm."
"Do you believe I did these things?" Catherine asked. Her voice was flat but still conveyed resolve. "Do you think I kidnapped and killed those babies? Do you think I electrocuted Paul Donaldson--fried him to death and dumped his body into the Dismal Swamp Canal? Do you think that's me?"
"It doesn't matter what I think--"
"It matters to me," Catherine said.
Quinn swallowed and stayed fixed on her gaze. "I don't know whether you did or not." It was gut-level honest, and he knew Catherine could sense his sincerity. "I only know that right now, we don't stand a chance of convincing a jury that you're flat-out innocent."
"But I am innocent," Catherine said. "I need you to believe that. I know it doesn't seem that way. Sometimes I doubt it myself. But, Quinn, I could never hurt those kids. Not this Catherine. And not some other side of me either."
Quinn nodded. "I believe that," he said softly. In truth, he didn't know what to believe. Emotionally, Catherine made a compelling case. If he could just let her talk to the jury like this, the way she was talking to him right now, as if she wanted to reach out and grab his shoulders and make him look straight into her soul, a jury might believe her. But court didn't work that way. The path to justice was littered with the land mines of cross-examination. Emotion would yield to evidence and logic. And logic would always dictate the same unwanted result.
"That doesn't change my advice," said Quinn. "As a friend, I believe you. But as a lawyer, I've got to give you my best professional advice. That advice is to plead not guilty by reason of insanity."
"I didn't do it," Catherine insisted. "How can I say that I did?"
An idea hit Quinn. "State your name for the record," he said.
"What?"
"I'm going to show you. We can't possibly win this case on a straight-up not guilty plea if we don't put you on the stand. So you're on the stand, and I'm Boyd Gates. State your name for the record."
A look of determination hardened Catherine's face. "Catherine O'Rourke," she said, squaring her jaw.


73
"Do you consider yourself a medium, Ms. O'Rourke?"
"No. Not really."
"And yet you just happened to know information about the crimes committed by the Avenger of Blood--information that the police had not released to anyone?"
"I had visions," Catherine said. "I saw the crimes happen in my visions."
"Visions," Quinn repeated, just like a skeptical prosecutor would.
Catherine frowned, as if she hadn't expected him to play the part so enthusiastically.
"Did you happen to see the face of the Avenger in these visions?"
"No. His face was obscured."
"His face. So you could tell the Avenger was a male?"
"Actually, no. I couldn't see the face at all."
"How tall was the Avenger?"
"I don't know--average height?"
"What distinguishing features did the Avenger have?"
"I don't know, Mr. Newberg. These were visions, not police sketches."
"But they provided enough detail for you to know, for example, that Paul Donaldson had a gash on his head?"
"Yes, but that was different."
"You saw him bleeding from that gash on his head; isn't that correct?"
"Yes," Catherine admitted reluctantly, "but I didn't know it was Paul Donaldson. I'd never even met the man."
"Yet somehow," Quinn said, leaning forward, "Donaldson's blood and your saliva ended up on the same paper towel in a trash can at your neighbor's house?"
"I never met the man," Catherine insisted.
"How do you explain the paper towels that the police found in the neighbor's trash containing his blood and your saliva?"
"Somebody set me up," Catherine said, sounding defensive.
"How do you explain the methohexital found in your neighbor's trash--another setup?"
"Yes."
"But if somebody decided to frame you, why would they plant incriminating evidence in a neighbor's trash can, where the police might not even find it, as opposed to your own trash can?"
Catherine didn't blink. "Maybe someone on the investigative team did it."
"And planted a strand of your hair on the seal of an envelope sent by the Avenger as well?"
"I don't know."
"Accusing the police of framing you for murder is a very serious thing, Ms. O'Rourke." Quinn sharpened his tone. "Do you have one shred of evidence to suggest that anybody on the Virginia Beach police force holds a grudge against you and would want to cover up the crimes of a serial murderer by framing you?"
"No."
"Then what could possibly be the motive for setting you up?"
"I don't know."
"Speaking of motive, Ms. O'Rourke, are you aware that Mr. Donaldson was accused of rape but was found innocent?"
"Yes."
"And the other victims of the Avenger were either accused rapists, attorneys who represented accused rapists, or the children of such persons?"
"I'm sorry," Catherine said, her tone weary. "I don't understand the question."
"Fair enough. I'll withdraw it. But let me ask you this--have you ever been raped?"
The question seemed to shrink Catherine, her self-esteem wilting before Quinn's eyes. "Yes," she said softly.
"What was the man's name?"
"Kenny Towns. I knew him in college."
"Was he a former boyfriend?"
"Yes."
"Were there others involved as well?"
"Possibly."
Quinn lowered his voice to match Catherine's tone. "What exactly did he do to you? How did it happen?"
The examination was staged, but the pain on Catherine's face was real. She looked down, her voice growing even quieter. "I don't want to say, Quinn. I get your point."
Quinn thought for a moment about stopping, but there would be no calling time-out on the witness stand. Catherine had to understand how hard a prosecutor would push. "Is it fair to say the pain is still very real, Ms. O'Rourke?"
Catherine sighed, then apparently decided to keep playing along. "Rape never goes away, Mr. Newberg."
"Was Mr. Towns ever convicted? Was he ever even prosecuted?"
"No. I never reported it to the police."
"Do you hate him, Ms. O'Rourke? Do you hate Kenny Towns?"
Catherine lifted her eyes and drilled them into Quinn. "Yes, I despise him."
"You hate him because he's a rapist. Because he violated you and because nobody ever held him to account--isn't that true, Ms. O'Rourke?"
Catherine answered with a stare. The pretend world of cross-examination had burned away in the smoldering anger of unresolved hurt. "I said I don't want to do this anymore."
"This is not a game, Ms. O'Rourke," Quinn responded. "Answer the question."
"It's not a game for me either, Quinn," Catherine said. She stood, nearly knocking her chair over backward. "Rape is not a game." Catherine's face was flushed in anger, her eyes piercing Quinn through the glass. "He violated me, Quinn. He drugged me and forced himself on me and then probably went out and rounded up his friends so they could have a turn. He bragged about it. He made me the laughingstock of the fraternity."
Her body sagged. "I know you're just trying to make a point, but I'm sick of this whole thing. Sick of sitting behind bars while Kenny Towns is out there living as if nothing happened."
She turned away from Quinn and retreated to the door behind her chair. She knocked on the door and waited for the guard.
"Catherine, sit down," Quinn said. "I'm sorry. I just wanted you to see what you're up against."
"You made your point," Catherine said. "I've got to think about it."
The guard came and ushered Catherine out, leaving Quinn alone in the small booth, staring at the empty chair of his troubled client.
"That went well," Quinn said.


74
Quinn and Sierra were less than ten minutes away from the jail when a collect call came on his cell phone. The jail number. Catherine O'Rourke was going to be a high-maintenance client.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I know you're just trying to help."
She sounded better, so Quinn decided to keep it light. "I'm used to it. I represent crazy people, remember?"
"I should fit right in."
Quinn let the comment pass.
"Are you still going to bring Sierra back tonight?" Catherine asked. "I promise not to flip out on her."
At this point, Quinn wasn't so sure that tonight's visit would be a good idea. But he also felt a little guilty for what he had just put Catherine through. Maybe Sierra could help mend that rapport.
"We'll be there," he said.
That evening, Quinn registered Sierra at the front desk of the jail and took her into the visitors' room. The room looked like a dingy call center for an infomercial company--it had dozens of small kiosks in three long rows. Each kiosk had a phone and a computer screen, and tonight most of the spaces were full.
Sierra sat down at the designated kiosk and picked up the phone. Quinn stood behind her. They stared at the image of a small booth in the bowels of the jail for a few minutes until Catherine entered the booth and picked up the phone.
Catherine introduced herself and asked Sierra a few polite questions. Catherine still looked haggard to Quinn with blotchy skin and red eyes, but she was more upbeat than she had been earlier that day. She was trying hard to win Sierra's confidence.
She leaned toward the screen and kept her eyes locked on Quinn's niece. "I was at your mom's trial, Sierra. A lot of us who watched think your mom's a hero. What she did wasn't wrong. She was trying to protect you, and that's a mother's most important job."
Sierra nodded, and Quinn inched a little closer; it was difficult to hear because Sierra had the phone pressed against her ear. Quinn felt a growing queasiness from this conversation. How much of this was Catherine just trying to encourage a confused young teenager, and how much of it was the Avenger? Did Catherine's alter ego envision herself and Annie as fellow blood avengers--the furies of Greek mythology exacting vengeance on modern-day America?
"Some of the jurors voted against your mom because they felt like they had no choice--they had to follow the law. But there's a difference between law and justice. Do you understand that?"
Again, Sierra gave Catherine a small nod of the head. She seemed intensely interested in Catherine's take on the matter.
"Just because something's legal doesn't make it right. And just because something's illegal doesn't always make it wrong."
Catherine lowered her voice, making it even harder for Quinn to hear. He studied her lips as she talked, filling in the words he couldn't hear.
"I was raped in college, Sierra. Did your uncle tell you that?"
"No," Sierra murmured.
"To make it worse, the guy who raped me used to be my boyfriend. A guy I trusted."
Catherine hesitated, and Quinn could see the pain on her face.
"For a while, Sierra, I couldn't trust any men. But I eventually learned that not all men are the same. There are some really good men in this world . . . and your uncle's one of them."
"I know," said Sierra.
"I guess what I'm saying is that your stepdad was an awful man, Sierra. And I know he did some awful things. But don't let him keep hurting you now by making you hate other people. I'm not asking you to forgive him, because honestly, I don't think I'll ever forgive the man who raped me. But you can't let your stepfather control your life by making you hate other people. That was my mistake for too many years." Catherine paused, swallowing hard. "Does that make any sense, Sierra?"
"I think so."
"Good," Catherine said, speaking a little louder and more confidently. "Some people think I'm some kind of medium because I have these visions. Well . . . that's pretty ridiculous if you know me. But I am a good judge of character. I see strength in your eyes and a great deal of love for your mom. She needs you to be strong now; do you know that?"
Sierra nodded, keeping her eyes on the screen.
"Your Uncle Quinn's going to win that case, Sierra, and your mom is doing better in jail than I am. She's a lot stronger. A lot more together. But she's counting on you to do your part and be strong too. Can you do that?"
Sierra shrugged. "I guess so."
The response seemed noncommittal, but Quinn sensed a whole lot more going on. He could almost see willpower flowing from Catherine to Sierra, from one victim to another. While listening to Catherine talk so convincingly about forgiveness and strength of character, it was hard to continue thinking of her as a deranged psychotic. At the start of the conversation, she had seemed to fit the mold. But now, she just looked like a wounded victim. Maybe that was the whole point--two personalities in one body.
"I'm sorry I sound so dramatic," Catherine said. "Next time, we can just talk about American Idol or something. I get to watch a lot of TV in here."
"I hope my uncle wins your case," Sierra said.
"I'm sure he will," Catherine said, stealing a quick glance at Quinn. "If he can keep his client under control."



75
In the morning, Quinn and Sierra checked out of the Hilton and drove around for about ten minutes to make sure they weren't being followed. Eventually they headed into downtown Norfolk, parked the car, and walked over to the Waterside complex, a collection of shops and restaurants bordering the Elizabeth River.
They walked through the Waterside, taking in the odor of french fries and Mongolian barbeque and New York style pizza. They continued out the back door of the complex, found a spot on a concrete bench, and watched the seagulls bother a mom and a few toddlers who were trying to eat ice cream. Sierra laughed, and Quinn thought about how much he would miss her.
A few minutes later, Rosemarie Mancini showed up, looking stylish in jeans, a pullover, sandals, and sunglasses.
Quinn bent over to hug Rosemarie, then watched as Sierra and Rosemarie embraced. Rosemarie had developed quite a rapport with Quinn's niece during their counseling sessions after Sierra's suicide attempt. If nothing else, they enjoyed picking on Quinn together.
Quinn had decided he needed to get Sierra out of Vegas, at least temporarily. He needed her someplace far away, someplace Hofstetter's goons wouldn't suspect. It was actually Rosemarie who first suggested that Sierra stay with her. Sierra would be safe with Rosemarie. Plus, the psychiatrist claimed to know a number of middle school girls from her church who could be counted on to befriend Sierra. The fact that Rosemarie could provide some informal counseling was a bonus.
The Quinn Newberg from a few months ago--or even a few weeks ago--would have jumped at the chance to get his apartment back to himself. But something was different now. He was already starting to miss Sierra, just thinking about flying back to Vegas without her.
Sierra would attend summer school under an assumed name while living in D.C. with Rosemarie. Quinn would return to Virginia Beach a few times each month, meet with Catherine, and drive the four hours to D.C. to spend the day with Sierra. One of the hardest things had been convincing Sierra to go the entire summer without visiting her mom in jail. But Annie had insisted, refusing to even cry until after Sierra had left.
Quinn, Rosemarie, and Sierra talked for a few minutes while they watched the Norfolk-Portsmouth ferry land at the wooden dock. Quinn had his left arm on the back of the bench behind Sierra, psychologically protecting his niece for the last time in a couple of weeks. He'd had no idea it would be this hard to let her go.
"We'd better get going," he eventually said. "This isn't getting any easier."
The three stood and Sierra gave him a long hug, squeezing so tight he thought he might have to pry her hands away.
"I love you, Uncle Quinn," she said.
Quinn felt tears coming but managed to choke them back.
"I love you, too," he said. "But this is the best thing for the next few months." Quinn gave her a kiss on top of her head, and Sierra ended the embrace.
Quinn watched with a knot in his stomach as Sierra and Rosemarie walked away. Just before they disappeared into the Waterside complex, Sierra turned and waved, her sad eyes telling Quinn that this hurt her as much as it did him.
After they left, Quinn sat back down and soaked up the loneliness, his heart aching as if a family member had died. It is the right thing to do, he reminded himself. He had to prepare for two major trials. Hofstetter was after him and maybe after Sierra. And Sierra needed a strong female figure in her life.
But none of that chased away the loneliness. Sierra had only been gone a few minutes, and he missed her desperately already. She had only been with him a week, but it was hard to imagine life without her.
The ringing of Quinn's cell phone eventually broke the stupor.
It was Marc Boland.
"The media outlets have found out about Catherine's rape," Marc told Quinn. "Kenny Towns will hit every talk show possible, today and tomorrow, denying that the rape ever occurred. The armchair psychiatrists in the media will say the prosecutors now have a motive for the Avenger's killings."
"Then why didn't she just go after Kenny?" Quinn asked. It was the question that had bothered him about this scenario from the beginning. If Catherine really was the Avenger, even Catherine in a different personality, did it make any sense that she wouldn't avenge the one violent act that had hurt her the most? "Why go through this elaborate Avenger of Blood scenario?"
"Maybe she was saving Towns for last," Marc replied. "Who knows? I'm not saying they're right; I'm just telling you what they're going to say. Which leads to my next question: did you make any headway getting Catherine to change her plea?"
"She's thinking about it."
"If she pleads insanity, the rape will actually work in our favor as a reason for her fractured personality," Marc said, as if Quinn needed to be reminded. "You ready to take half the interviews?"
"Not really," Quinn said. "I'm leaving first thing tomorrow to head back to Vegas."
"Good," Marc said, ignoring Quinn's actual answer. "Why don't you take the cable stations and radio? I'll take the broadcast TV stations."
Quinn sighed as he took out a legal pad and pen. "Give me the phone numbers."


76
Catherine ate lunch quickly and went to her cell to read. The other inmates in her pod congregated at the metal tables, finishing their lunches or playing cards or arguing about anything and everything. Tasha and another woman had pulled a mattress from somebody's cell into the open area and now alternated between sit-ups on the mattress and push-ups with their feet elevated on the benches of the metal tables. All the while, the TV blabbered on as the trustee in charge of the television surfed the channels.
When Catherine heard shouting and catcalls from the pod, she looked out to see most of the inmates glued to the TV. The level of noise had dropped by several decibels.
"Get out here, O'Rourke!" Tasha shouted.
Catherine put down her book and shuffled warily out of the cell. The last thing she needed to see was another "update" about her case. . . .
She stopped in her tracks just outside her cell door. On the screen, big as life, was the face that had haunted her nightmares for years. Kenny Towns was eight years older now but looked exactly the same. Shorter haircut. A more professional bearing. But the same arrogant smirk.
She hated this man.
"He's hot," said one of the inmates. Others joined the commentary, making lewd comments about what they'd like to do with Kenny.
"Shut up!" yelled Tasha.
Kenny's lawyer sat next to him as Kenny answered questions from a former prosecutor now making a living as a CNBC host.
"Sure, we had sex," Kenny was saying. "But it was always consensual."
Catherine felt the pressure building inside her head and chest. She wanted to turn away, but somehow she couldn't.
"On more than one occasion?" asked the host.
"Yes, more than one occasion." Kenny smirked in a way that said the conquering hero had been intimate with his conquest too many times to count. "We were college students. We had an ongoing relationship."
The catcalls started again, so loud this time that Catherine couldn't hear the next question. But she heard Kenny say that a few other fraternity brothers had called recently to tell him they had been sexually involved with Catherine as well. One of them said that Catherine had threatened to drag Kenny into her murder case.
Cat felt her face flush as the taunting in the cell merged with the roaring in her head. She looked around at the inmates--smiling, mocking her, making all manner of suggestive noises.
"I've got a family," Kenny was saying. "A wife and kids. The last thing I wanted was to be dragged into something like this--a desperate woman's lawyers accusing me of things I didn't do."
"Shut up!" Cat yelled, more to the television than the inmates. "Shut. Up."
"Chill, woman," one of the inmates said.
"I wish he'd accuse me of a few of those things!" said another, and everybody laughed.
"I mean it," Cat said. She turned on the trustee as her anger exploded. "Turn this off!" she demanded.
The woman shrugged. "We already voted. Democracy at work."
Cat stormed toward the woman. "Shut it off!" she yelled. She turned toward a table of inmates right behind her. She grabbed an inmate's plastic tray and flung the half-eaten lunch at the elevated TV screen. She missed, so she grabbed another one and this time hit the mark. She cleared another table with one sweep of her arm, sending trays of food flying to the floor.
The bars of the pod seemed to pulse and billow, keeping time to the anger-laced adrenaline flowing through Cat's body. She was vaguely aware of the inmates staring at her, the doors near the guard post clanging open, Tasha coming toward her to calm her down.
Cat whirled toward the trustee again, stopping just inches away. "Turn it off now!" she demanded. She grabbed the remote and spun back toward the television just as the guards reached her. One knocked her to the floor, facedown. A second put a knee in her back. They cuffed her hands and dragged her to her feet, escorting her out of the pod toward solitary confinement.
As Cat left, she could still hear the TV in the background, the grating voice of Kenny Towns protesting his innocence. "I feel sorry for Catherine O'Rourke," he was saying. "I hope she gets the psychological help she needs. I just wish she had left me out of this."
Cat walked without resistance toward the isolation unit. She had never felt so powerless in her life. The man who had raped her, a man who was never brought to justice, who had never even apologized, was now playing the victim! Her insides roiled in rage. She wanted to rip his heart out, the same thing he had done to her.
Three days later, when Catherine O'Rourke left solitary confinement, she made a series of collect calls to Quinn Newberg. The first two times she called, he didn't answer. She reached him on her third try.
"I'm ready to change my plea," Cat said.


77
Two months later--
Wednesday, August 20
The whole world hates the insanity plea.
Quinn was reminded of this basic truth as he pulled into the courthouse parking lot and prepared to face the protesters and media. Reverend Harold Pryor and his spiteful band of followers stood at their posts in front of the courthouse steps, carrying signs with a blowup of Catherine's face and a simple message: Baby Killer. Yesterday they had shouted in Quinn's face and pronounced damnation on him as he climbed the steps. Quinn had lost his cool and asked the reverend if he didn't have some abortion clinics he could go bomb. Today Quinn was determined to keep his mouth shut.
The lawyers had finished jury selection the prior afternoon, and Quinn would give the opening statement for the defense this morning. He didn't feel close to ready. In the last two months, Quinn's normally hectic pace had increased until life seemed a blur of frenzied activity, an adrenaline-laced roller coaster ride under the white-hot glare of media cameras. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a good night's sleep. He spent every minute preparing witnesses for two major trials, "commuting" from Las Vegas to Virginia Beach, visiting both Annie and Catherine in jail, and sneaking up to Washington, D.C., every few weeks to see Sierra.
He had spent an inordinate amount of time talking with Catherine. It was all a necessary part of trial preparation, he kept telling himself. Yet after hours of talking through the metal vents in the bulletproof glass of the attorney interview booths, Quinn still hadn't solved the mystery of Catherine O'Rourke and her multiple personalities, if indeed she had them.
Since the day of Catherine's outburst during Kenny Towns's television interview, she had been nothing but a class act, answering every one of Quinn's questions with quiet grace and seemingly endless patience. She had endured numerous sessions with Dr. Mancini and two separate sessions with the commonwealth's forensic psychiatrist, a precise Asian-American man named Dr. Edward Chow.
Quinn climbed out of his car and pulled his suit coat from a hanger in the back. He pulled it over his limp right arm first, struggling to slip into the jacket without lifting that arm up and away from his body, a movement that still sent stabbing pain through the unrepaired rotator cuff. After he wriggled into the suit coat, he grabbed his briefcase and headed across the black asphalt parking lot, the heat already radiating from the surface even though it was only 8:30 in the morning.
Quinn picked up the pace as the reverend and a few others jogged over to him and started walking beside him, shouting in his face as he approached the courthouse.
"Not today," Quinn grumbled.
"The blood of the kidnapped babies is on your hands!" shouted the reverend.
"Your client is a baby killer!" echoed a younger woman.
"Baby killer! Baby killer!" The protesters and cameramen formed a moving mob around Quinn as he reached the courthouse steps. Red camera lights blinked while shutters clicked and whirred. Quinn kept his gaze straight ahead, tuning out the protesters as he entered the doors of the courthouse.
The door closed, and the welcome sound of relative silence flooded the hallways. The protesters seemed very far away.
"Good morning, Mr. Newberg," said one of the guards at the metal detector.
"Good morning, Deputy Aaronson."
Quinn plunked his loose change and keys inside a small plastic container to pass through the screener. "Quiet day, huh?" Aaronson asked.
Quinn smiled. "If this is your idea of a quiet day, I'd hate to see a riot."
This brought a big grin from the deputy. "If you win this case, you might just get your chance."
Quinn walked into the courtroom, placed his briefcase at the defense counsel table, said a few words to Marc Boland, and slipped through a side door into a small, gray hallway with no outside windows. Just off the hallway were two even smaller rooms hidden behind heavy metal doors with a single narrow slit about a third of the way up. On a typical court day, male inmates would be herded into one room and females into the other. For the past three days, Catherine had been the only occupant of the female cell. Her friends and sister had brought her a fresh change of clothes each day, and the deputy allowed her to put them on before entering the courtroom.
"Good morning," Cat said after the door to the courtroom closed behind Quinn. "Did you get any sleep last night?"
Quinn stood outside the cell, leaning against the wall. He cherished these few moments before court even though he couldn't see his client's face.
"Sleep is overrated."
"I know what you mean," Cat said.
Today, even more so than the last few days, Quinn could sense the tension in Cat's voice. Today the trial began in earnest.
"Did your friends find some clothes that fit?" Quinn asked, trying to lighten the mood. On Monday, Cat had discovered how much weight she had lost during her months of confinement; her dress had practically swallowed her slender body.
She started to say something, but the words apparently caught in her throat. Whenever she spoke about things that really mattered to her, Cat's voice had a deeper tone and a softness that Quinn had grown to recognize, a softness that he intended to showcase for the jury when Cat took the stand. "My friends went out and bought me three new outfits," Cat said. "It made me cry."
"That's the good thing about murder trials," Quinn said dryly. "You find out who your true friends are."
"And who they aren't."
Quinn checked his watch. In a few minutes, the bailiff would call court into session. Quinn needed to take one last look at his notes.
"Things are going to get a little heated today. Boyd Gates is a first-class jerk, and there's no telling what he'll do to get a reaction from you. If you lose your cool even one time, the trial is over. Our whole case is premised on the theory that the Catherine O'Rourke on display in the courtroom did not and would not commit these crimes. A different personality altogether is responsible. Having that alter ego suddenly appear at trial would look staged and manipulative."
"I know that, Quinn," Cat said. "And I promise not to bull-charge the prosecutor or the judge."
"That would be nice."
"No promises on Jamarcus Webb, though."
"Maybe I can hold you back if you go after him."
"Maybe," said Cat. "But then again, you've never seen me mad."