By Reason of Insanity

78
"My name is Boyd Gates, and I have the privilege of representing the Commonwealth of Virginia."
The prosecutor stood ramrod straight in front of the jury box, holding a legal pad in his right hand, his left hanging at his side. He wore a conservative blue suit and red tie. His bald pate seemed to attract and reflect every ray of artificial light in the courtroom, except for those drawn to the ultra-shiny black wingtip shoes, buffed and polished as if Gates's former navy commander might stop by the courtroom for a quick inspection.
"'This is insane. What kind of warped person would commit a crime like this? She must be crazy to think she could get away with it. She must be sick.'" Gates stopped and surveyed the jury. "These are common expressions we use when we hear about a horrendous crime like the one in question. But these sayings do not reflect the legal definition of insanity. If they did, no criminal audacious enough to commit a truly horrible crime would ever go to jail."
The last statement was hyperbole, but Quinn knew better than to object. He tried to look disinterested, scribbling a few notes on his legal pad, chin in hand. "Don't look so mesmerized," he whispered to Catherine.
"The test of insanity under Virginia law is twofold." Gates consulted his legal pad, though Quinn knew he had the test memorized. "The first part is this: was the defendant, Catherine O'Rourke, at the time of the murder of Paul Donaldson, suffering from a mental disorder that kept her from knowing the nature and quality of the act she committed or, if she did know it, that prevented her from appreciating that the act was wrong? Or second, if she understood the nature of right and wrong, was she unable to control her actions, the so-called 'irresistible impulse' rule?"
Gates stopped reading and looked back at the jurors. "That's a lot of lawyer talk, but it all boils down to this: the insanity plea cannot be used by a defendant to excuse coldblooded and premeditated murder. And one of the ways to determine whether the defendant knew her conduct was wrong is to ask yourself this question: did she try to cover up the crime afterward? In this case, the answer is a resounding yes.
"The defense will rely upon a well-traveled psychiatrist named Dr. Rosemarie Mancini, the same psychiatrist who testified that Mr. Newberg's sister was insane when she killed her husband--"
Quinn jumped to his feet. "Objection, Judge. That's improper argument, not an opening statement."
Gates turned to face the judge, adopting a posture of indignity. "It's a fact I'll prove at trial, Your Honor. It's a preview of the evidence, and it happens to be true."
"Of course it's true," responded Quinn. "But so what?"
Rosencrance gave him a stern look. "You can make your so-what argument during closing statements, Mr. Newberg. I'm going to allow mention of your expert's opinions in other cases to be admitted for whatever relevance the jury chooses to grant them."
"Thank you, Your Honor," Quinn said grudgingly. He took his seat.
"As I was saying," Gates continued, "Dr. Mancini will suggest that this defendant has dissociative identity disorder, something that used to be called multiple personality disorder. Dr. Mancini will claim that, because of an alleged rape that occurred eight years ago, Ms. O'Rourke developed a second personality, one that has the ability to completely take over her body, one that the Catherine O'Rourke sitting here today didn't even know existed.
"But Dr. Mancini's opinion raises a slew of questions and ignores a mountain of evidence. First, the questions."
Quinn noticed that the jury seemed to be paying rapt attention to Gates. The prosecutor had chosen to forgo the normal chronological recitation of events and jump right into the core issues. To Quinn's chagrin, the tactic seemed to be working.
"If Ms. O'Rourke was indeed raped in college, could that rape have caused this entirely different personality, this so-called Avenger of Blood, to spring out of nowhere eight years later? Our expert witnesses will tell you that dissociative identity disorder is extremely rare and is almost always the result of persistent childhood abuse. If Ms. O'Rourke does have this psychosis and it developed from one instance of rape, then we are witnessing a first-of-its-kind occurrence, medical history in the making.
"And a second question: why did it take eight years, with no new trauma in the meantime, for the alleged psychosis to develop? Could it be that there is no psychosis here at all but just a calculating serial killer who believes that all rapists and their lawyers should be punished and that revenge is a dish best served cold?"
Quinn noted the way Gates just stood in front of the jury box, his feet rooted firmly in one place, as if unwilling to surrender even an inch of turf. Quinn was more of a pacer. The more intense Quinn became, the more he moved. He felt himself getting antsy even now. But Boyd Gates was a rock.
"There is also a mountain of evidence that proves this DID diagnosis is nothing but a smokescreen. DNA evidence links the defendant to the murder. Undisputed evidence, since the defendant admits she committed the crime. But you will also be shown extensive evidence of planning and cover-up. Ms. O'Rourke stalked the victim, luring him to a meeting by sending him pictures of his girlfriend being hugged by an unidentified man, a man whose identity O'Rourke promised to reveal at the meeting. Those photos, and the accompanying message from O'Rourke, were found under the seat of Paul Donaldson's car.
"And that's not all. The head medical examiner for the Hampton Roads area will testify that Mr. Donaldson died from electrocution. The defendant shaved two spots on Donaldson's scalp and one on his leg and then passed high-voltage electrical current through him for several minutes, frying both his skin and his internal organs. The medical examiner will tell you that Ms. O'Rourke continued to electrocute Mr. Donaldson for nearly five minutes after he had passed away, after he had quit moving or showed any other signs of life."
Quinn felt Catherine reach under the table and grab his hand. She squeezed, tension powering her grip. She stared at Boyd Gates's back, as if somehow her stare alone might stop him.
"And that's still not all. After the execution, the Avenger wrote a note taking credit for Donaldson's death. A strand of Ms. O'Rourke's hair was found on the adhesive part of the envelope. She also engaged in an elaborate attempt to conceal evidence, including throwing out her computer just before the police executed a search warrant at her house. She dumped some methohexital, a powerful anesthetic drug Ms. O'Rourke used to sedate her victim, together with bloody paper towels that contained both Donaldson's blood and O'Rourke's saliva, in a neighbor's trash can. Police never did find the clothes that Ms. O'Rourke wore that night, clothes that would presumably be spotted with blood from a gash in Donaldson's scalp. Does an insane person who doesn't know that she's done something wrong dispose of the clothes she was wearing and hide things in her neighbor's trash?"
Gates turned and cast an accusatory glare at Catherine. He motioned to her with a sweep of his hand. "This defendant is clever. She knows that the best place for the fox to hide is in the henhouse and--even better--right in the middle of those who guard the henhouse. So she pretended to have visions about the killings and nurtured a confidential police informant for her newspaper articles about the killings, all in an effort to become part of the inner circle of the investigation."
Gates turned back to the jury. "Catherine O'Rourke wanted to know every step the police were taking so she could stay one step ahead. But she made some fatal mistakes. Fortunately, those mistakes led to her arrest and quite possibly saved the lives of other victims, including the man whom the defendant says raped her in college."
Quinn stifled another objection. He wasn't sure about Virginia, but in Las Vegas lawyers couldn't make these types of boldfaced arguments during opening statements; they were supposed to just preview the evidence. But Marc Boland didn't seem to be bothered by Gates's monologue, and Quinn didn't want to call more attention to the prosecutor's arguments by objecting, so he decided to ride it out.
"This is not some kind of spur-of-the-moment, heat-of-passion crime where a demonic personality took control of the defendant's body. The Catherine O'Rourke sitting in this courtroom is the same Catherine O'Rourke who stalked Paul Donaldson, and took the pictures of Donaldson's girlfriend, and set up a meeting with Donaldson, and electrocuted him, and faked visions to ingratiate herself to the police, and later tried to cover it all up. Do you really think that some other personality magically took over the defendant's body at every stage of this crime, floating in and out of her body to do all these things? Do you really believe the defendant wasn't even aware that the crimes had happened? Do you really think she just happened to throw her computer away a few days before the police arrested her?"
Gates blew out a breath. "She's clever. She fooled a lot of friends and coworkers. She fooled the police for a while. Even now, she is fooling the defense psychiatrist, Dr. Rosemarie Mancini. And starting today, she wants to fool you."
Gates took a half step back and tilted his head. "She's clever all right. But crazy?"
He paused just long enough to gain everyone's attention. "Crazy like a fox."


79
For Catherine, the first day of the trial was surreal. As a reporter, she had covered major trials for years, wondering what went through a defendant's mind at times like this, trying to imagine what it felt like to have your fate in the hands of twelve fellow human beings in the jury box.
Now she knew.
It felt nauseating.
In the momentary silence that filled the courtroom after Boyd Gates's opening, Catherine sensed the eyes of a packed gallery boring into the back of her neck. She could almost hear the accusatory whispers accompanied by the sad shaking of dozens of heads. The presumption of innocence was a myth. She hadn't reserved her own judgment when she watched defendants squirm during the prosecutor's opening statement. And she knew others weren't reserving theirs now.
She thought about the impact this trial must already be having on her mom and her sister, sitting just a row behind Catherine. What about her remaining friends--the ones who had promised to stick with her no matter what--trying to reconcile this damning evidence with the Catherine they thought they knew?
Quinn introduced himself and reminded the jurors about their obligation to keep an open mind until they heard all the evidence. "The presumption of innocence is more than just a nice-sounding phrase," he said, his voice calm and reasonable. "It actually means something. Right now, my client, Catherine O'Rourke, is clothed in the presumption of innocence." He turned to look at Cat. "She is every bit as innocent at this moment as you and me." Quinn turned back to the jury but Catherine's eyes never left his back; she couldn't bear to look at the jurors.
"And she will remain innocent unless the prosecution removes that cloak by proving her guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. In this case, no such proof exists."
Catherine wished she could feel as confident as Quinn. In her mind, the cloak had already been removed, her naked guilt exposed for the world to see.
Habits die hard. And in this moment of ultra-stress, Cat resorted to her reporter persona, jotting down words that captured her emotions.
Vulnerable. Transparent. Frightened. Listening to Quinn, she still couldn't believe this was happening. Who am I really? she wondered. And then she jotted down another word.
Confused.
The jurors definitely had their game faces on; that much was clear to Quinn. But it felt good to finally be in front of them, even though he could have used a few more days of prep time. This might be Virginia, but this was still a courtroom, his stomping grounds, and this was what he did best. Plain talk to folks just like this.
Quinn had always been the legal magician, pulling surprise verdicts out of a hat, because he truly believed in juries. He wasn't like some lawyers who gave the jury system lip service but in their hearts feared the unpredictability of ordinary citizens. Quinn knew deep in his bones that the jury would understand his case. The rest of the world might not get it, but that didn't matter. Catherine's fate rested with these twelve and nobody else. Quinn trusted them.
It didn't hurt that most of them were women. Despite Quinn's belief that men would naturally jump to Catherine's defense, he also knew that he would develop a better bond with the women on the panel. Even now, he favored them with the majority of his eye contact.
"When Catherine's family and friends and coworkers heard about her arrest, their reaction was almost always the same," Quinn said. "Disbelief. 'The Catherine I know would never do such a thing,' they said. Or, 'I can't believe the cops have the right person--Catherine wouldn't do something like that.'
"Her friends and family were right. The Catherine they knew would never have committed such a heinous crime."
Quinn began pacing now, working his way slowly from side to side in front of the jury. He was onstage, his left hand accentuating his words, his right hand holding a legal pad that he checked occasionally, the subtle inflections of his voice as perfect as those of a trained Broadway singer.
"Even Catherine herself could not believe it. For days, even weeks, she protested her complete innocence. 'Somebody must have framed me,' she said. She pled not guilty at the start of the case, as opposed to not guilty by reason of insanity. This is to be expected because the Catherine O'Rourke you see sitting in this courtroom today was not even aware that this other side of her personality existed. The Avenger of Blood and Catherine O'Rourke share the same body, but they are not the same person. They are entirely different personalities."
Quinn paused for a moment, mindful that he was straying close to the line that divided argument from opening statement. He could sense Boyd Gates on the edge of his seat, trying to decide whether to object. Good, thought Quinn. Turnabout is fair play.
But the objection came from an unexpected direction.
"Mr. Newberg," snapped Judge Rosencrance, "I don't know how it works in Vegas--" the judge drew out the word as if it were a curse, emphasizing Quinn's outsider status in the courtroom--"but here in Virginia, lawyers use their opening statements to provide a roadmap for the evidence and their closing arguments to lay out their arguments about the evidence."
She said it condescendingly, as if Quinn were trying his first case. He couldn't let it pass, not with his friends on the jury watching so expectantly.
"Thank you, Your Honor," he said. "In Vegas, it's also traditional for the prosecutor to make the objections, freeing the judge to rule on those objections."
"Mr. Newberg. Your sarcastic comments have no place in this courtroom. Is that understood?"
Quinn waited, silent.
"Is that understood?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
"Thank you. You may proceed."
"The prosecution's expert, Dr. Edward Chow, will testify that the rape of Ms. O'Rourke could not possibly be the trigger for dissociative identity disorder." Quinn raised his voice. "'The alleged rape,' Chow noted in his pretrial report, 'was an isolated, nonrecurring episode,' as if rape is such an ordinary occurrence that every woman should have to suffer at least two or three rapes--"
"Objection!" Gates shouted, springing to his feet.
"--before she can avail herself of a defense based on psychological--"
"Objection! Judge!"
Crack! Crack! Rosencrance silenced the room with her gavel and glared at Quinn. "That's argument, Counsel. And this is your last warning."
Red-faced, she turned to the jury. "Please disregard those last remarks by Mr. Newberg. They were improper arguments, and they have no place in an opening statement."
"Yes, Your Honor," Quinn said, though it felt to him like a double standard. Virginia lawyers can argue during opening statements but Vegas lawyers can't?
"During this case, you will learn about two Catherine O'Rourkes. The one who sits in this courtroom is a dedicated professional, kind to her coworkers and friends, the type of person who would never dream of hurting anyone. She loves her job working at the paper, and she's good at it. She is loyal to a fault--willing to go to jail rather than betray a confidential source.
"She is not some kind of religious fanatic who would use Old Testament Bible verses to justify revenge killings."
He studied the jury panel and lowered his voice. "But there is a second person who sometimes inhabits that body, a person who calls herself the Avenger of Blood, a killer so cold and remorseless that she not only killed an alleged rapist, she allowed the body to cook for a full five minutes after the rapist died. A rapist, by the way, whom Catherine O'Rourke had never met before in her life."
Quinn stopped, paused, and filled his lungs. "Your job in this case, simply put, is to determine whether there really are two personalities sharing that body, as we suggest, or only one, as the prosecution suggests. One woman so calculating and devious that she can fool a seasoned professional like Dr. Mancini yet dumb enough to fake visions about related crimes, visions that made her a prime suspect. So clever she can dispose of bloody clothes and her computer in places where the police can never find them but so dumb that she throws methohexital and bloody paper towels in her neighbor's trash where they could be easily found. So consumed with rage from a college rape that she would plot the murders of other accused rapists, but not obsessed enough to go after the man who raped her.
"These dichotomies, these inconsistencies, make no sense if there's only one Catherine O'Rourke. The evidence in this case only makes sense when we realize that two different women occupy the same body at different points in time."
Quinn searched the jurors' faces for traces of an ally. Seeing none, he realized that his earlier misgivings had been correct. The legal magician wasn't ready today. This was not his normal opening statement. He would usually have them eating out of his hand by now.
"The criminal laws in our country depend on a concept called mens rea," Quinn said, plowing forward despite his misgivings. "That's a Latin phrase that basically means evil intent. Do any of you have kids?"
From jury selection, Quinn knew there were six moms on the jury. A few of them gave Quinn subtle nods, and he zeroed in on that group.
"Let's say your daughter is three years old and is playing in the backyard. And let's say, God forbid, that she finds a loaded gun and shoots her playmate. You would be outraged if Mr. Gates decided to charge your child with murder. Why? Because that little girl doesn't have the mental capacity to form an intent to murder. She didn't understand that what she did was wrong, that it would result in the loss of life.
"In some ways, Catherine O'Rourke is like that little girl. She needs treatment and counseling from an expert like Dr. Mancini. Sure, she needs confinement until we can bring that other personality to the surface and deal with the issues that created it. But the defendant doesn't deserve the death penalty. Two wrongs do not make a right. Killing Catherine O'Rourke will not bring back Paul Donaldson."
Quinn surveyed the jury one last time. They were all careful not to telegraph their allegiance but, for the most part, they didn't look hostile either. An open-minded jury. For now, that would have to do.


80
After a brief recess, Boyd Gates called Dr. Herbert Saunders, the Hampton Roads medical examiner, to the stand. With the precision of a drill sergeant, Gates rattled off questions about the autopsy and cause of death, establishing in painful detail the sadistic manner by which Paul Donaldson had died. He showed the jury grotesque photos of Donaldson's body after it had been recovered from the Dismal Swamp Canal, including close-ups of the head gash and the burn marks where the electrodes had been connected, then circled back around with some final questions about the method of execution.
"In your duties as chief medical examiner for the Hampton Roads area, have you been called upon to certify the death of capital murder defendants who were sentenced to the electric chair?" asked Gates.
"Yes, on several occasions."
"Tell the jury how that manner of death occurs."
The ME shifted in his seat to face the jury. He had the wrinkled face of a grandfather and a gentle manner that conveyed sadness rather than outrage at this whole inexplicable affair. "When someone is executed by the state through use of the electric chair--a method that can still be chosen by death-row inmates in Virginia--every effort is made to minimize the suffering. Standard protocols are put in place to make certain no malfunctions occur. Two thousand four hundred volts are administered for seven seconds, followed by eight hundred volts for seventeen seconds, then twenty-four hundred volts for five seconds. Most convicts choose the needle, but we've never had a botched electric-chair execution in the history of the Commonwealth of Virginia."
"From your review of Mr. Donaldson's body and your past experience with electrocution as a form of execution, how would Mr. Donaldson have suffered in this case?"
Marc Boland stood to his full height. "Objection, Your Honor. Calls for speculation."
"He's an expert witness," Gates countered. "He's entitled to give his opinion based on the medical facts."
"Overruled," said Rosencrance.
A few jurors leaned forward as Saunders continued. "Unfortunately, the executioner in this case was not very skilled. From the damage to the internal organs, the burn marks on Mr. Donaldson's skin, and the deep contusions on his neck and waist from the straps that apparently held him, as well as marks on his wrists and ankles, which were probably secured with handcuffs, it is apparent that Mr. Donaldson struggled violently for quite some time."
Saunders paused, as if the images he would be forced to describe were too horrible for him to continue. "Although I wasn't there, my opinions are based on the evidence I reviewed. Mr. Donaldson would have been straining against the straps with almost superhuman strength. There would have been the awful stench of burning flesh and probably smoke, maybe even sparks emanating from the spots where the electrodes were attached. Mr. Donaldson would have been convulsing with pain, probably screaming for mercy. He had no stomach contents at the time of the autopsy, meaning that at some point during the execution he probably vomited. His skin would have turned bright red, his eyes bugging out."
Saunders lowered his eyes, signifying that he had subjected the jury to enough gruesome details. "It would have been awful."
"That's all I have," Boyd Gates said. His wingtips clicked on the floor as he returned to his seat.
Before Gates could sit, Marc Boland was up and asking a question.
"It's hard to imagine any sane person inflicting that kind of torture, isn't it, Dr. Saunders?"
"Objection," Gates said, swiveling toward the judge. "Dr. Saunders is not proffered as a psychiatrist."
"Sustained."
"Nothing further," Boland said.


81
"The commonwealth calls Detective Jamarcus Webb," Gates announced.
Rosencrance checked her watch. "I'm assuming you will be keeping Detective Webb on the stand for quite some time, counsel?"
"That's correct," Gates said.
"Then let's resume after lunch when everybody is fresh." The judge banged her gavel, and the bailiff called the court into recess.
Over lunch, Marc Boland reiterated his strategy for Webb. "We've got to give the jury a reason to go with our insanity defense," he told Quinn. "For us to succeed, they have to want us to win. The insanity plea just gives them a means to make it happen."
Quinn didn't really disagree, so he just shoved another bite of sandwich in his mouth.
"Paul Donaldson was no Boy Scout," Boland continued. "He raped and killed Sherri McNamara. The jury needs to believe he got what he had coming.
"Plus, we've got to suggest other potential villains. Even though Catherine pled insanity, it doesn't hurt to plant some subtle seeds of doubt about whether she even committed the crimes. Jamarcus Webb will be a good place to start."
An hour later, Webb settled his large frame into the witness chair after affirming his oath with a look of grim determination. He cast a quick glance at Catherine before he shifted to face Boyd Gates and the jury.
For most of the afternoon, Jamarcus Webb presented a painfully detailed overview of the investigation linking Catherine to the death of Paul Donaldson--the hair on the envelope sent to the Richmond Times, the DNA evidence on the paper towels, the methohexital, the visions Catherine had shared with Webb, the gash on Donaldson's scalp found when his body was recovered and Catherine's question about whether Donaldson had been bleeding from the scalp. Jamarcus also discussed various issues related to chain of custody for the evidence and the standard police procedures involved in crime scene investigations.
"Is the death of Paul Donaldson the only crime you have investigated by this so-called Avenger of Blood?" Gates asked.
Marc Boland rose immediately to object. The subject matter of other crimes had been the basis of a lengthy pretrial motion to exclude, which the judge had already ruled against. In a written opinion, Rosencrance had held that the prosecution could refer to the other crimes, even though for strategic reasons O'Rourke had not yet been charged with them, because that evidence was critical on the issue of O'Rourke's state of mind and because the other crimes showed a pattern of conduct. For example, both the Carver and Milburn kidnappings tied the methohexital to the modus operandi of the Avenger of Blood.
"We renew our earlier motion to exclude this evidence," Boland said. "It's highly prejudicial and not relevant to the sole crime Ms. O'Rourke is being charged with in this proceeding."
"And for the reasons I stated earlier, I'm allowing the testimony," Rosencrance ruled. "It might be relevant to show an alleged pattern or MO, and it goes to the defendant's state of mind at the time of this crime."
Marc Boland gave the obligatory "Thank you, Your Honor" and sat down.
The jury, whose collective interest had been waning a little, now looked riveted to the witness, and Boyd Gates took maximum advantage. He had Jamarcus detail the evidence regarding the Avenger's use of methohexital on Marcia Carver and Sherita Johnson, and he asked Jamarcus to describe the notes sent by the Avenger after those kidnappings. Next, Gates asked the witness to discuss any evidence that suggested a pattern of premeditation for the Avenger's crimes.
In response, Jamarcus calmly took the jury through a litany of devastating facts. The defendant had apparently stalked Paul Donaldson and his girlfriend, taking pictures of Donaldson's girlfriend with another man in order to lure Donaldson into a meeting. The photos, heavily damaged by the brackish water of the Dismal Swamp Canal, had been found under the front seat of Donaldson's vehicle.
The Avenger of Blood had used an even more elaborate scheme to ensnare attorney Rex Archibald. First, the Avenger had sent several different e-mails from a variety of publicly accessible computers, posing as Reverend Harold Pryor and pretending that Pryor wanted to hire Archibald. To pay the retainer, the Avenger had procured five two-thousand-dollar money orders at five different convenience stores over the course of several days and had sent that money to Archibald.
The Avenger had then lured Archibald to a meeting at the North Williamsburg Baptist Church, Jamarcus told the jury. Before Archibald arrived, the Avenger had changed the marquee in front of the church to reflect a Bible verse--Ezekiel 18:20--conveying the Avenger's message about justice and punishment.
Gates asked Webb to read the verse, and the jury hung on every word:
"'The soul who sins is the one who will die. The son will not share the guilt of the father, nor will the father share the guilt of the son. The righteousness of the righteous man will be credited to him, and the wickedness of the wicked will be charged against him.'"
"What happened to Mr. Archibald after he met the Avenger at this church?"
Jamarcus hesitated and swallowed. "He hasn't been seen or heard from again."
Boyd Gates pretended to check some notes so the answer could hang in the air and poison the atmosphere. "This sounds like an impressive level of advanced planning for these crimes, Detective Webb. Would you agree?"
Marc Boland jumped up. "Objection. Leading."
"Sustained."
Gates shook his head, as if reprimanding himself. "Does this level of planning--and this level of cover-up, to the extent that virtually no scientific evidence is left behind at these crime scenes--seem consistent with someone who goes temporarily insane and does things she doesn't even remember?"
Boland stood and just spread his palms. "Judge . . ."
"Sustained," said Rosencrance. But the point had been made.
Boyd Gates collected his notes from the lectern and headed back to his counsel table. Webb's testimony had caused a type of somber hush to settle over the courtroom. This was the trial of a serial killer, after all, someone who had probably kidnapped babies even though she was "only" being charged in this trial with the murder of a single adult.
Before Boyd Gates sat down, he turned back to his witness, who was now taking a sip of water. "When the evidence first started piling up against Ms. O'Rourke, did you want to believe the evidence or did you want to believe that she was innocent?" Gates asked.
Boland objected again, but Quinn marveled at the brilliance of the question. One of Webb's vulnerable points would be his betrayal of Catherine's confidence. But Boyd Gates had just turned it into a strength.
"It goes to his lack of bias against the defendant," Gates explained to the judge. "Certainly that's relevant."
"Objection overruled," said Rosencrance.
Webb put down his water glass and looked directly at Catherine. "The defendant and I were friends," he said. "As a newspaper reporter, I trusted her with confidential information I thought the public needed to know. She guarded that information with her life. One time she went to jail rather than reveal me as her source."
Webb pursed his lips and shook his head a little. To Quinn, the angst did not seem manufactured. "I trusted her and believed in her until the evidence became overwhelming. She lied to me. And she used me to get inside information about the police investigation so she could govern her conduct accordingly."
Webb looked down to deliver his most devastating statement, one that Quinn realized would swing any remaining undecided jurors to Webb's side. "I failed in my duties as a detective," he confessed. "I let a personal friendship get in the way."
As if the testimony hadn't been harmful enough, Judge Rosencrance decided to increase its impact by letting the jurors think about it overnight. "It's nearly 5:00," she said. "Mr. Boland, we'll start with your cross-examination first thing tomorrow morning."
The judge warned the jurors not to discuss the case with anyone and not to listen to, watch, or read any media coverage of the trial. They all nodded solemnly, and the bailiff recessed the court. For a few seconds after the judge left, Catherine and her lawyers just stood there, the enormity of their task sinking in.
"We've got some work to do," Marc finally offered. "But tomorrow will be a new day. And I've got a few questions of my own for Detective Webb."



82
A deputy sheriff led Catherine into the small chamber adjacent to the courtroom and locked her in the cramped holding cell where she would change back into her jumpsuit. A few moments later, as he had done on other days, the deputy came back into the courtroom and let Quinn know he could go talk with his client.
Quinn walked into the small enclosed chamber that separated the men's holding cell from the women's and connected both to the courtroom. Catherine was in the women's cell, on the other side of a locked metal door with a six-inch opening about waist high so prisoners could slide their arms through to be cuffed or uncuffed.
Quinn heard Cat rustling around as she changed her clothes and thought he heard her quietly crying as well. "Are you okay?" he asked.
She didn't answer.
"Cat? Are you okay?"
The movement inside the cell stopped, and Quinn imagined Catherine sitting on the metal bench attached to the far wall.
When she spoke, her voice seemed small. Frail. "Whoever did those things deserves to die, Quinn. Whoever did those things is an animal."
"Cat, now's not the time--"
"We're talking about babies, Quinn," she said sharply. "Somebody is killing babies. If I did that . . . I deserve to die."
The comment left Quinn struggling for a response. In the past few weeks, Cat had seemed to accept her illness, even embrace it. The testimony of Saunders and Webb had apparently shattered that. "Even if you did those things, Cat, that doesn't mean it's who you are. It's a sickness. A disease. It's not something you could help anymore than you can keep yourself from getting cancer."
"Stop," Catherine said. "I know you're trying to make me feel better about all this, but it's just not working. Those babies are dead. Those men are dead. And Jamarcus is right--whoever killed them planned the whole thing with premeditated malice and a cold heart that would make Hitler proud." Cat paused and sniffled back a tear. "Even if we win, I'm still the one responsible in everybody's mind. The insanity defense doesn't change that."
Quinn leaned against the wall. He ached to be with her. "I told you we would have to be strong," he said softly. "I told you we would have moments like this."
"Do you think I did those things?" Catherine asked. Before he could answer, she added, "And I don't want your usual lines about the Catherine you know couldn't have done it. I need to know: do you think I did it--any part of me, any personality?"
Quinn thought about it for a long time. "I don't know," he said at last. "I honestly don't know." He almost left it at that--probably should have. But Catherine wasn't the only one emotionally drained, and Quinn let his emotions run ahead of him. "I only know that I care about you, Catherine. If you did these crimes, I just want you to get help. If you didn't, I want you to forgive me for doubting you. Either way, my only goal right now is to save your life, and the only way I know to do that is through the insanity defense."
This generated another silence that made Quinn realize again how much he hated the steel door separating them. He couldn't see Catherine's face or place a hand reassuringly on her shoulder. He had no idea what was going through her mind at this critical moment.
"Thanks, Quinn," she said. "Thanks for being honest."
On impulse, Quinn walked a few steps to the door and knelt down, reaching his forearms through the slit as far as he could. "Are you dressed?" he asked.
"If you call an orange jumpsuit dressed."
Quinn looked through the slit just in time to see Catherine kneel on the other side and take his hands. He winced as the pain in his shoulder stabbed at him, but he didn't say a word. She leaned closer so her face was nearly touching his hands. Instinctively, he brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. Her face was raw from crying, her eyes red. He wiped the tears away from her cheeks.
"We'll get through this," Quinn said.
He heard the door start to open behind him, and he jerked his hands back, scrambling to his feet. Pain pierced his shoulder a second time.
"You about done in here?" the deputy asked.
"One more minute," Quinn said.
The deputy obligingly shut the door, and Quinn knelt again. This time, he slid his left hand through the slot, and Catherine grabbed it with both of hers.
"Promise me you won't do anything drastic," Quinn said.
"I appreciate everything you're doing for me," Catherine said haltingly. "Everything." She paused, her voice catching. "But honestly, Quinn, I couldn't live with myself if this is who I am."
The door opened again, and the deputy came through without seeking permission.
"You can talk with her in the jail, Counselor," he said.
"I know," Quinn answered. He squeezed Catherine's hand one last time and rose to his feet.
Five minutes later, Quinn had talked his way into an audience with Judge Rosencrance in her chambers. Boyd Gates was there for the commonwealth. Marc Boland was already gone, probably on the courthouse steps answering questions from the press.
"I'm requesting that the court put my client on suicide watch until further notice," Quinn said. "I can't divulge attorney-client confidences, but I'm very concerned about her well-being."
Gates snorted. "That's page three of the defendant's standard playbook, Your Honor. Request suicide watch and then leak it to the press. It helps the defendant seem more insane."
"Everything's a game to Mr. Gates," Quinn countered. "Everything's a strategy. I'm talking about a woman's life, Your Honor. And if we're worried about appearances, think about how it will look if we don't put her on suicide watch and something happens."
"Mr. Newburg's right," Rosencrance said to Gates. "I don't think I can take the risk of not doing this. The jury will not be told about it, so it won't prejudice your case." She turned to Quinn. "News about this had better not leak out."
"Thank you, Your Honor," said Quinn. He left as quickly as possible before the judge could change her mind.
Catherine waited in the holding tank for the deputy to return and take her back to jail.
He showed up about ten minutes later, put the cuffs on her, and opened the door. "You're going in solitary confinement," he said. "Judge's orders."
He escorted Catherine through the long underground tunnel that connected the courthouse to the jail, through the double solid-metal doors that sealed off the jail facility and through another set of double doors to the isolation cells.
"You missed dinner, but I'll see if I can get something brought in," he said.
The man locked Catherine in her cell and had her slide her wrists through the bars so he could release the handcuffs. She thanked him and collapsed onto her cot, emotionally exhausted.
That night, she slept fitfully, awakened by nightmares of hooded executioners coming to her cell and calling her name.
She woke at 4 a.m. and couldn't go back to sleep.
She had survived three months in jail by telling herself that the trial would set things straight. She had two of the best lawyers in the business helping her. She was being tried by a jury of her Virginia Beach peers. But now, after the first day of testimony, it seemed things could only get worse.
If convicted, she would spend years on death row exhausting one appeal after another. And even if she won, the press and public would demonize her. She should know. How many criminals had she demonized in the past?
She could see the headlines now: Confessed Killer Found Not Guilty. She might survive the trial, but the real test of strength would be surviving the public scorn.
All she could do was take it one day at a time. Today, Marc Boland would get a chance to cross-examine Jamarcus Webb. In a few days, Catherine would take the stand and tell her story. She thought about the way Boyd Gates would tear into her on cross-examination. She envisioned the news stories that would follow, even the ones that would be printed by her own paper. She tormented herself with these thoughts for another half hour before the deputies came around clanging their flashlights against the prison bars.
Another cruel day had begun.


83
After a long night of research and trial prep, Quinn slept through his alarm and awoke in a panic thirty minutes later. He fought Virginia Beach traffic, searched in vain for a parking spot within a half mile of the courthouse, elbowed past Reverend Harold Pryor and his brood, and arrived in Virginia Beach Circuit Court 7 just a few minutes before 9:00.
He walked past Jamarcus Webb, seated in the front row, without so much as acknowledging the man. Quinn felt bad that he wouldn't get to spend a few minutes with Catherine before court started. He hoped she wouldn't read anything into it.
Marc Boland had dressed down for the occasion, trading in the suits he had worn the first three days for a sports coat and khaki pants, apparently trying to pull off the common-man look. Quinn had taken the opposite approach today, dressing like the big-shot Vegas lawyer the jury expected him to be--a thousand-dollar suit, cuff links, and a monogrammed shirt. If only he'd found time for a haircut, he might actually look presentable.
Quinn took his seat at counsel table and reviewed some notes while Marc Boland chatted with Jamarcus Webb as if they were fraternity brothers rather than enemy combatants in a court of law. They talked baseball and swapped stories about their kids. Quinn would never talk to a witness before he cross-examined him on the stand. It was hard to intimidate somebody who knew your favorite baseball team.
"All rise," the bailiff called out. Judge Rosencrance took the bench, and a deputy escorted Catherine into the courtroom. "Sorry I got here late," Quinn whispered.
"No problem," Catherine whispered back. "Can you come by after court today?"
"Sure."
A few minutes later, Detective Webb took his place on the witness stand, and Marc Boland changed from the nice guy next door into a legal pit bull.
"You mentioned in your direct testimony that you were a confidential informant for Ms. O'Rourke, who at the time was a reporter for the Tidewater Times. True?"
"Yes."
"And in that capacity, you would pass along information about certain investigations, right?"
"Information that I thought the public might need to know. I never compromised the integrity of any investigations."
Marc Boland looked surprised. "Oh, then I take it you must have cleared this information with your superiors to make sure they didn't believe it would compromise the investigations."
"No. I used my own judgment."
"And lied to your superiors about it, correct?"
Jamarcus Webb hesitated, looking indignant. "I didn't lie. I just didn't discuss it with them."
"Is that so?" Boland reached down to his counsel table and grabbed some notes. "Isn't it true that you leaked to the press the fact that the Carver kidnappings and the Milburn kidnapping were related?"
"I thought the public had a right to know."
"And when Catherine O'Rourke's article containing that information ran in the paper, she was subpoenaed before a grand jury and asked who her source was. Is that correct?"
"I wasn't in the grand jury hearing," Webb countered. "But I believe that's true."
"You weren't in the grand jury hearing, but you were present in court when Catherine was cited with contempt for refusing to identify her source. And rather than come clean and put yourself in jeopardy, you just let Catherine go to jail."
Webb took a drink of water, his discomfort showing. "We both knew that was the deal from the start. We would even joke about it. I would ask Catherine about various forms of interrogation and whether--"
"Maybe you didn't understand the question," Boland interrupted, taking a step toward Webb. "Rather than voluntarily coming forward and putting yourself at risk, you let Catherine go to jail. Isn't that correct?"
Webb cast a glance at Gates, perhaps hoping for an objection. "Yes, that's correct."
Boland let the answer hang for a minute. "And this is the lady you called--" he checked his notes--"a 'personal friend' yesterday. Is this the way you treat all your friends?"
"Objection!"
"I'll withdraw it, Your Honor," Boland said calmly. He turned a condescending tone on Webb. "Are you really asking this jury to believe that, at the same time Mr. Gates was prosecuting Catherine O'Rourke and sending her to jail for not revealing her source, you and others in the department were never even asked if you might be that source?"
"No, that's not what I'm saying. We were all asked."
"Then let me repeat my earlier question," said Marc Boland firmly. "Isn't it true that you lied to your superiors about being a source for the newspaper?"
Jamarcus hesitated. "Yes. I told them I was not the source."
"Now we're making progress," said Boland.
Gates leaped to his feet but the judge spoke first. "That comment will be struck from the record. Mr. Boland, you know better."
"Sorry, Judge."
As Boland launched into another line of questioning, Quinn's thoughts turned to Catherine. She seemed better today. Even her posture was more confident--sitting forward in the chair, erect and attentive, taking notes like the reporter she was.
"You doing okay?" Quinn whispered.
"I hate this for Jamarcus," Catherine replied. "But I'm fine."
"Your friend," Quinn reminded her, "is trying to get you the needle."
"He's doing his job," Catherine replied, keeping her eyes on the witness.
Meanwhile, Marc Boland kept hammering away. "Did your extensive investigation reveal any connection between Ms. O'Rourke and Mr. Donaldson?"
"Other than the fact that she stalked him and his girlfriend and murdered him?"
"You know what I mean," insisted Boland. "Was there any prior relationship between Mr. Donaldson and Ms. O'Rourke?"
"We didn't find any."
"Did you find any prior relationship between Ms. O'Rourke and Mr. Milburn?"
"No."
"Between Ms. O'Rourke and any of the Carvers?"
"No."
"Between Ms. O'Rourke and Rex Archibald?"
"No."
"So these victims are just arbitrary victims, as far as you could tell from your investigation?"
"That's not correct," said Webb. "The victims are all either alleged rapists who were found innocent or defense attorneys who represented rapists."
Boland pretended to think about this for a moment. "Then I guess you're suggesting that Ms. O'Rourke's motivation for these crimes was the fact that she was raped eight years ago, during college?"
"Possibly."
"Doesn't that seem a little strange to you, Detective Webb--perhaps even a little insane--that Ms. O'Rourke would choose to victimize four people she didn't even know instead of going after the one person who actually raped her eight years ago?"
"Objection," Gates called out. "Calls for speculation. Detective Webb is not proffered as a psychiatrist."
"Sustained."
Marc Boland did not look the least bit disappointed. He had made his point. And Quinn began to relax a little. Marc Boland could handle himself just fine.


84
For the next hour, it felt to Quinn like he was sitting in on Paul Donaldson's rape trial. Detective Webb admitted he had studied that case as part of his investigation into Donaldson's death. So Marc Boland, who had been working in the Richmond Commonwealth's Attorney's office at the time on other matters, walked the witness through the troubling details of that case step by painful step.
Sherri McNamara had met Paul Donaldson at a bar. According to her testimony, Donaldson followed her into the parking lot, forced her into his car, and raped her on an isolated stretch of road outside the city of Richmond. Donaldson had admitted to having sex but said it was consensual. Rex Archibald, Donaldson's attorney, had emphasized the absence of any evidence of struggle other than torn clothing. That could have been done by McNamara herself, Archibald had claimed. There was no skin under her fingernails, no scratches on Donaldson or bruises on McNamara.
"As an officer of the law, it must be frustrating to hear about a jury that falls for that kind of argument," Marc Boland suggested.
"It is."
"Does it ever make you want to take the law into your own hands--just once, Detective Webb, just to make sure that a guy like Paul Donaldson gets what's coming to him?"
"No," Jamarcus said firmly. "I believe in the system. It's not perfect, but vigilante justice is not the answer."
"Really. You believe in 'the system.'" Marc Boland took a few steps, thinking. "But the system needed a little help, and therefore you broke department guidelines by conveying confidential information to Ms. O'Rourke."
"That's different," Webb insisted. "Helping Ms. O'Rourke was just passing on important information to the public. That's not taking justice into my own hands."
"Fair enough," Boland said. "Then let me ask you this: did your investigation of the Avenger of Blood initially focus on law-enforcement types and religious fanatics?"
"Yes, of course."
"Can you tell the jury why?"
Grudgingly, Jamarcus looked at the jury. "Because two of the victims were accused rapists who were never convicted and because the messages from the Avenger contained references to Bible verses."
"Law-enforcement officers, men and women like yourself, Detective Webb, are the ones who tested the DNA evidence and searched the neighbor's trash cans for bloody paper towels and drugs and had access to all of the so-called scientific evidence; isn't that right?"
Predictably, this brought Boyd Gates to his feet. "I object, Your Honor. Detective Webb is not on trial here. The defendant has already admitted killing Paul Donaldson."
"I agree," said Judge Rosencrance. "Mr. Boland, am I missing something?"
"I apologize, Your Honor, and I'll withdraw that question. I do, however, have one final question. Detective Webb, can you enlighten us as to the significance of the Bible verses left by the Avenger?"
"Not really. I left that to the psychiatrists."
"Thank you, Detective Webb, that's all I have." With a satisfied look, Marc Boland turned, glanced at Boyd Gates, and took his seat.


85
After a recess, Dr. Edward Chow took the stand, and Catherine's emotional roller coaster took another plunge. The small man was precise, professional, and well credentialed. Catherine remembered trying hard to dislike him during her two sessions with the psychiatrist. His disarming manner did not make it easy. As he testified now, she could sense the jury bonding with him while they learned about the intricacies of dissociative identity disorder.
It was, Chow testified, hotly debated whether DID even existed as a psychological disorder. A substantial school of thought held that DID patients either faked their alternate personalities or simply responded to suggestive counseling from their psychiatrists. For the purposes of this case, the psychiatrist said, it didn't really matter. Because even if there was such a thing as DID, Catherine O'Rourke was clearly not suffering from it.
Chow repeated much of the theme of the prosecution's case--that the crime was too well planned and too carefully covered up for it to be the spontaneous work of an alternate personality--but he buttressed the theory by lending his own considerable authority to the argument and cloaking it in official-sounding words.
"Catherine O'Rourke evinced consciousness of guilt," Chow testified, "by throwing out her computer before the authorities could execute their search warrant. In addition, a schizoaffective disorder almost always has a precipitate cause that triggers the psychotic break or, in the case of DID, the manifestation of another personality. After meeting with the defendant for several hours and after reviewing all the known facts of this case, I can point to no precipitate cause that might have occurred just before the killing of Paul Donaldson or any of the other victims."
The only thing that stopped Chow from completely dismantling the defense's case on Thursday afternoon was the clock. When the judge banged her gavel to call it a day, Chow seemed genuinely disappointed. He was the only one in the courtroom still looking fresh, his charcoal gray suit hardly wrinkled. To Catherine it seemed like he had so much more to say, more nails he wanted to drive into the coffin.
The next morning, Chow wasted no time continuing the assault. He shifted gears to what he termed "the underlying cause of the alleged dissociative identities." In Chow's opinion, the "alleged rape" during college was insufficient to create a psychotic break that could lead to multiple personalities, especially personalities that didn't manifest themselves until eight years later. DID was almost always caused by chronic abuse during childhood, a time in life when personality integration was occurring and could be stunted. DID caused by a single rape during someone's early adult years, or even multiple episodes of rape in a single night, would be unprecedented.
Not surprisingly, Chow had a few opinions about Catherine's jailhouse behavior as well. Catherine had shown the aggressive side of her core personality when she bludgeoned her cellmate, an event that Chow accentuated with some show-and-tell pictures of Holly's face. Plus, Catherine had pretty much gone berserk when she saw Kenny Towns on television. "The defendant claims to remember both of those incidents," Chow testified. "So they certainly can't be blamed on this mythical 'Avenger of Blood.'"
Gates paused and made a big show of checking his notes. "One final question: based on your assessment of Ms. O'Rourke, your review of the evidence, and your training and background, do you have an opinion as to why she would kill a man she didn't even know?"
Catherine expected Quinn to object but her defender just nonchalantly scribbled some notes.
"I do. It's my opinion that this whole Avenger of Blood persona and the preying on alleged rapists and their attorneys was an elaborate attempt by Ms. O'Rourke to deflect blame so that she wouldn't be a suspect when she committed her ultimate crime."
"Her ultimate crime, doctor?"
"I believe that Ms. O'Rourke fully intended to kill Kenneth Towns."


86
Catherine found out why Quinn hadn't objected about two seconds into his cross-examination.
"Wow," he said, buttoning his suit coat. "Isn't that straying a little far from your field of expertise--making predictions about crimes that haven't yet occurred? You're not a fortune-teller, are you?"
"Objection."
"Sustained."
Quinn smiled. "To your knowledge, did the police find any evidence that my client even knew where Mr. Towns lived?"
"No."
"Any evidence that she had contacted him since college?"
"Not that I'm aware of."
"So your theory is that Catherine O'Rourke gets raped in college and then, eight years later, decides to kill her rapist but figures, 'Hey, before I even figure out where he lives I might as well kidnap a few babies and kill a few men I've never met first in order to deflect attention from me?'"
Gates stood, his face red. "Objection, Judge. That totally mischaracterizes the testimony."
"He can answer," Rosencrance ruled.
"When you don't deal with the kind of pain that Ms. O'Rourke suffered eight years ago, Mr. Newberg, it can cause you to do some pretty--" Chow hesitated as if searching for the right word--"desperate things."
"Is the word you were actually looking for more like bizarre or crazy?" Quinn asked.
"Objection."
"Sustained."
"Okay, let's switch gears. Were you aware that Detective Webb, acting as a confidential informant for the newspaper, told my client that Reverend Harold Pryor was a prime suspect and that he had no alibi?"
"I wasn't aware of that, no."
"Assuming that was the case," Quinn said, "does that affect your opinion on whether Ms. O'Rourke was just creating this 'mythical Avenger persona' to divert attention away from what you called her ultimate crime?"
Chow looked pensive, his brow knit. "No. I don't see why that would change anything."
In response, Quinn talked slowly, making sure Dr. Chow understood his point. "If Catherine O'Rourke knew she was the killer and wanted to deflect suspicions by inventing these visions, why didn't she provide a description of Reverend Pryor as the Avenger of Blood when she reported her visions to Detective Webb?"
Chow sat there for a moment, his brain apparently churning through different possibilities. "I'm not sure," he eventually admitted. "Perhaps she believed it would seem too obvious."
"Or perhaps," Quinn countered, "my client is telling the truth."
Quinn chipped away at Chow's opinion for several more hours on Friday, belittling the man's opinion that DID could not possibly have been caused by the rape that occurred during Catherine's college years. Quinn also suggested that the precipitating event Chow was supposedly searching for might have been Catherine's coverage of Anne Newberg's murder trial.
"Did it ever occur to you," Quinn asked, "that Catherine O'Rourke's extensive involvement with and coverage of that murder trial--where another woman took vengeance for years of abuse--might have triggered the manifestation of this alter personality in Catherine's life?"
Chow hesitated, but then answered confidently. "No, I don't believe that's the case."
"But you never even considered that possibility until this very moment, did you?" Quinn pressed.
"That's true," Chow admitted. "But that doesn't change my opinion."
"You've been paid too much to switch at the last minute; is that it?"
"Objection!" barked Gates. Then he mumbled loud enough for the jury to hear, "That's ridiculous."
"Sustained."
As Quinn battled with Chow, Catherine silently battled her own emotions. She still found it hard to believe this was her murder trial, her Vegas lawyer posturing and mocking and drawing objections left and right from the ever-serious Boyd Gates.
The emotion that surprised Catherine most, and the one she had the hardest time dismissing, was a growing attraction to the man who now commanded the courtroom. Catherine had always prided herself in being logical--a skeptical newspaper reporter who knew how to cut through appearances and smoke screens. And Quinn, she reminded herself, was a Las Vegas performer, a showman, a trial lawyer. He seemed to care deeply for her, but it was probably all just an act. Just a lawyer's way of bonding with a client.
Quinn obviously believed that Catherine had killed two men and kidnapped three babies. Bluntly put, he thought Catherine was certifiably crazy. How could he have feelings for her at the same time?
But there was no denying what had happened after court on Wednesday. Sure, Quinn had been comforting a troubled client. But there was more. Catherine had felt the electricity when they touched. She would never forget the way he brushed the hair behind her ear and grazed his fingers along her cheeks. Looking through the slot of the metal door, she had seen something special in Quinn's eyes, a look of pain because he couldn't hold her. Had she just been imagining that? Was this another way her mind was playing games on her, distorting reality by making her believe Quinn was a handsome prince here to deliver Cat from this nightmare, only to be disappointed when he moved on to another client at the conclusion of the case?
"No further questions," Quinn said, staring at the beleaguered witness for a moment before taking a seat. Gates did a quick redirect as the entire courtroom seemed to breathe a little easier, relaxing from the tension that Quinn had summoned for his cross-examination.
"It's nearly 4:00," said a weary Judge Rosencrance when Gates finished. "This may be a good time to adjourn for the weekend."
But Gates apparently did not want to leave the jurors with the words of Chow's cross-examination ringing in their ears. "The commonwealth has one more witness we would like to present today, if possible. Her direct examination won't take more than ten minutes."
Rosencrance sighed and turned to the defense lawyers. Quinn stood. "Your Honor, we'd like to let the jurors get a jump on the Friday afternoon traffic. And we wouldn't mind one ourselves."
The jurors, Catherine noted, looked grateful.
But Gates wasn't through. "As long as Mr. Newberg doesn't drag out this cross-examination, we can do both--hear the witness and get a jump on traffic."
"Okay," said Rosencrance, though her tone said she didn't like it, "call your next witness."
"The commonwealth calls Tasha Moorehouse."
Catherine couldn't believe it. She turned to the door that led to the holding cell. The deputy disappeared through the door and a few seconds later came back, trailed by Tasha. She took the stand, dressed in a nice pair of slacks and a blouse, her face stern and unyielding. She didn't even look in Cat's direction.
Why was Gates calling Tasha to the stand?
Maybe he just wanted her to provide corroborating testimony about Cat's fight with Holly or the day Cat went crazy when Kenny Towns appeared on television. Cat quickly scrolled through her memory of the thousands of conversations she'd had with Tasha, the way she had confided in her cellmate.
Cat couldn't recall a single incriminating statement. And even if she could, she couldn't imagine Tasha turning on her. They were both members of the Widows. Tasha had been on Cat's side since day one.
But Cat's stomach was in utter turmoil.
Why won't she look at me?