by Randy Singer
As Boland took his seat, all eyes turned toward Quinn. Though Quinn hadn't wanted to be here in the first place, this smooth-talking Southerner had just thrown down the gauntlet. Sure, this was a law-and-order state. But these folks had hearts, didn't they?
Quinn stood behind the podium, just in case.
"In 1986, the Supreme Court barred execution of the mentally insane. But that ruling only protects those without the capacity to understand they are about to be put to death. Or why."
Quinn surveyed the skeptics in the room, mostly lawyers and law students parsing each word, along with the Reverend Harold Pryor and a few members of his church who had slithered into the auditorium and were lined up along the back wall. Quinn liked juries better, especially Vegas juries--average folks who appreciated a little showmanship and common sense. But he did notice some sympathetic looks from a few of the female law students. Something about his sister's trial had made Quinn a hero for many women who suffered abuse or shuddered at the prospect of it. He had received several unsolicited e-mails from women telling their stories and thanking him for what he had done at trial.
"What about a man like Scott Louis Panetti, who claims he was drowned and electrocuted as a child and recently stabbed in the eye in his death row cell by the devil? He has wounds that he swears were inflicted by demons and healed by JFK. And in case you're worried that he's making this up just to avoid the death penalty, you should know that he was hospitalized fourteen separate times and diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia on eight different occasions before he shot his in-laws in 1991.
"He defended himself at trial, flipped a coin to determine whether or not to strike jurors during jury selection, and wore a purple cowboy outfit, complete with a cowboy hat dangling around his neck. Even though it was Texas, this probably wasn't a good idea. It would be like a lawyer lecturing at tonight's debate without a tie."
Quinn's quip fell flat, except for a courtesy chuckle from a few of the women.
"He was judged competent to stand trial," Quinn continued, "competent to defend himself, and not insane at the time of the murders. Because he understands what it means to be put to death, he doesn't fit within the narrow category of insane inmates protected from the death penalty."
Quinn paused. He thought about the dozen or so cases he had accepted since his sister's trial. Mental incapacity was not a choice these people made. He couldn't help but get a little passionate defending them. "Is this really the kind of person we want to put to death?"
Quinn could read body language with the best of them, and most of the audience was saying heck yes.
"Mr. Boland worries that allowing mentally impaired defendants to escape the needle might gut the death penalty," Quinn continued, more animated now. "Good. A study published in the Stanford Law Review documents more than 350 capital convictions in this century in which it was later proven, by DNA evidence or otherwise, that the convict did not commit the crime. In Georgia, a study showed that when African-Americans killed whites, they were four times more likely to be sentenced to death than were convicted killers of nonwhites."
Quinn gave them a chance to digest this information and took a deep breath. The more skeptical the audience, the more Quinn would usually pour on the passion. Weak point, talk louder. He was already out on the limb. Might as well saw away. "Capital punishment is a barbaric remnant of an uncivilized society. Why do you think they use a three-drug cocktail for lethal injection? The sodium thiopental, administered first, is an anesthetic. Then they give the condemned person pancuronium bromide, a paralyzing agent, to put them in a chemical straitjacket. That way they can't squirm around and cry out in pain as the heart is squeezed to a stop from the injection of the potassium chloride. How could any court, much less the Supreme Court, say this is not cruel and unusual punishment?
"As for me, I share the sentiments of former Supreme Court justice Harry Blackmun, a man who grew weary quibbling about the proper guidelines for the death penalty. In a 1994 case, he concluded that the death penalty experiment had failed and stated that he would no longer tinker with the machinery of death. In my view, the death penalty is immoral, unfair, and discriminatory. It ought to be abolished in total or at least prohibited when it comes to the mentally impaired."
A few people clapped and a handful of others joined them in order to be polite. But the real indication of how well his talk was received could be measured by the numerous hands shooting up to ask Quinn a question. Judging by the disapproving looks on their faces, it was going to be a long night.
13
Halfway through the question-and-answer session, Catherine's reporter instincts kicked in. During the first half of the debate, she had been consumed with tomorrow's hearing. Plus, she was only mildly interested in the subject matter--capital punishment had been written to death, so to speak, especially since the Supreme Court had weighed in on the constitutionality of lethal injection. But these two lawyers gave it new life. Quinn, a passionate advocate for the mentally ill, and Bo, the defense attorney with a unique sense of frontier justice. Catherine pulled out her laptop and started typing a few notes.
She stopped midsentence when Quinn responded to a question by describing an execution he had witnessed. And then others he had not. Jesse Tafero in Florida, who, according to eyewitnesses, remained alive for four minutes after the juice was turned on in the electric chair, smoke rising from his bobbing head while ashes fell out from under the iron cap. Or a man in Texas, whose name Catherine didn't catch, who stayed alive for twenty-four minutes after a supposedly lethal dosage of chemicals was injected into his arm. The problem, according to Quinn, was that the tube attached to the needle had leaked, spraying noxious chemicals toward the witnesses.
Quinn explained that doctors couldn't participate in the procedures because helping to kill somebody violated their Hippocratic oath. And the prison officials weren't exactly experts at it. "No sensible person who has actually witnessed an execution can still support the death penalty," Quinn stated.
Marc Boland, seated at the other end of the table, pulled his mike closer. "Not exactly true," he said. "I've witnessed three. One as a prosecutor and two as a defense attorney. In each case, I came to the same conclusion: the murderer died more humanely than his victims did."
And so it went, back and forth, until Catherine had almost forgotten about her appointment with an irate judge the next day. Almost. She checked her watch. It was nearly 9 p.m. That sinking feeling returned to the pit of her stomach.
The moderator called on a student in the second row, and the young man rose to address the attorneys. Interesting, thought Catherine. Other audience members had asked their questions sitting down.
"How can you lecture us about morality," the young man asked, "when you represent clients you know are guilty?"
Newberg gave the man a condescending smile, as if he'd heard the question a million times and expected better from a law school student. "You may like to judge people before they're tried by a jury," Quinn said, "but others of us like to follow the law and presume they're innocent. It's not my job to be judge and jury. My job is to stand up for people who can't stand up for themselves, and I'm not ashamed of it."
This brought a smattering of applause as the student took his seat. But the Reverend Pryor apparently had a different take. "You're a hypocrite!" Pryor bellowed from the back wall. "You say everybody's entitled to a defense, but you pick and choose based on whether they can pay and what type of crime they commit. What if I took out a few baby-killin' abortion doctors--you gonna represent me?"
Quinn shook his head in disgust. "That's not even worthy of a response."
Cat turned in her seat and noticed a few men in suits and earpieces moving toward the reverend.
"What about you?" Pryor shouted toward Bo. "You gonna take my case?"
A security guard grabbed an elbow, and Pryor tried to shake him off.
"I'd refer you to Quinn," Bo shot back. "He's the insanity specialist."
; The audience laughed nervously while the men escorted Pryor toward the door.
"Woe unto you, lawyers and hypocrites! You are like whitewashed tombs, which are full of dead men's bones on the inside and everything unclean. When the foundations are being destroyed, what can the righteous do?"
Though the security guards couldn't silence Pryor, they did unceremoniously drag him out the door. Catherine could hear his muffled shouts in the hallway.
There was a moment of stunned silence before the moderator spoke up. He turned first to Marc Boland. "It's a little off the subject," the moderator said, "but maybe we should answer the reverend's question. Would you take his case?"
"As a practical matter, probably not. There are some types of cases I don't generally handle, like, for example, sex crimes. The killing of abortion doctors would probably be among them." Bo paused, continuing in a more solemn tone. "But under our system, Reverend Pryor is entitled to a defense. And, if nobody else would do it, or if the court appointed me, I would take the case. I wouldn't like it, but, for the sake of the rule of law, I'd give him the best defense I could provide."
Bo's remarks brought spontaneous applause from the appreciative audience. When the clapping died down, he turned to Quinn Newberg. "We've disagreed on a lot of things tonight, but I suspect you would concur on that point."
"Actually," Quinn said, "I wouldn't. Pryor might be entitled to a defense. But he's not entitled to a defense from me."
Quinn's bluntness caused a momentary silence as the moderator searched for an appropriate follow-up. Quinn beat him to it. "Not unless he could pay my retainer," he said.
The moderator smiled nervously, apparently unsure whether Quinn was joking.
* * *
After the session ended, Quinn Newberg made a relatively quick getaway while Marc Boland lingered for a few moments, shaking hands and chatting people up like a seasoned politician. His eyes eventually landed on Catherine, waiting anxiously at the edge of the crowd. "Excuse me," he said to a few of the folks in front of him.
He pulled Catherine aside. "There's a Shoney's right across Indian River Road. Can you meet me there in five minutes?"
"Gladly," said Catherine, trying hard not to sound too hopeful.
14
Catherine tossed and turned throughout the night, glancing occasionally at the red glow from the digital readout on her alarm. Each time, she calculated her remaining hours of freedom.
She had not even asked Jamarcus if she could reveal his name. She would rather go to jail than burn a source. Marc Boland had agreed to represent her but had not been encouraging. He saw little chance of getting Rosencrance to change her mind. He did think, however, that they had an excellent chance on appeal. He promised to work all night to have an emergency petition ready to file with the Virginia Supreme Court. But even in the best case, Catherine should be prepared to spend a day or two in jail.
She tried not to be melodramatic--if Paris Hilton could survive jail time, Catherine definitely could--but she still felt like a woman on death row. One more night in a comfortable bed. One more morning with a private shower. One more chance to start her day with a cup of coffee from Starbucks and the morning paper.
Exhausted, she rolled out of bed at 6:30 and started getting ready. She lingered in the shower, letting the steamy water soak into her skin as if she could build up a layer of protection against prison grime. She put on a pair of comfortable khaki pants and a pullover cotton T-shirt. She blow-dried her dark hair and pulled it back with a clip, dreading how greasy it would become after a few nights in the slammer. She went light on the makeup, putting on just enough to hide the dark circles under her eyes. She looked in the mirror and practiced her best I'm innocent smile for her mug shot.
Prison. It still didn't seem possible.
Catherine was five-eight with long, athletic legs that had served her well during her high school soccer career. She had added maybe five pounds since then and tried her best to stay in shape despite her desk job. Even so, Catherine knew she would be no match for the career criminals, a thought that caused her stomach to gurgle with apprehension. Solitary confinement she could handle. But she dreaded the thought of sharing a cell with some Amazon who might regard her as a new plaything.
Bo had assured her that the local municipal holding cell wasn't that way. But what did he really know about life behind bars?
Banishing those thoughts, Catherine locked her apartment and climbed into her car for her morning ritual--a strong cup of Arabian Mocha coffee at the oceanfront Starbucks while she reviewed the morning paper. She could have looked at the paper online, but that mentality was killing their circulation. Besides, she liked the feel of something in her hands while she read, the bleeding of ink onto her fingertips.
She bought her coffee and walked a half block to the boardwalk, grabbing a seat on a concrete bench facing the ocean. She basked in the rising sun and the gentle breeze of what promised to be a gorgeous spring day, a great day for a walk, or a sail on the Lynnhaven, or to toss around a Frisbee. It would be a lousy day to spend in jail.
She read with satisfaction the sympathetic article about her case by a fellow reporter. The article was accompanied by an unflattering picture of Gates, who looked like he was in midsnarl, veins bulging from his neck and bald scalp.
Catherine finished her coffee, tossed her paper, and headed home to brush her teeth before going to court. She thought about the last thing Bo had told her the previous night, his lame attempt at gallows humor.
"Don't forget your toothbrush."
* * *
Catherine felt her skin tingle with apprehension as Judge Rosencrance entered the courtroom. There was a solemnity about the proceeding, a kind of heaviness that Catherine had witnessed when she'd attended sentencing hearings for real crooks.
At least the paper wasn't going to make it easy on Rosencrance. Catherine's allies had shown up in force. Marc Boland, standing tall and straight next to Catherine, gave her a measure of confidence. Stephen Burnson, the publisher of the paper, and a number of Cat's fellow reporters sat jammed into the front row of the courtroom. Catherine's former attorney, William Jacobs, was there as well, consigned to the second row.
On the other side of the courtroom, Jamarcus Webb stood beside Deputy Commonwealth's Attorney Boyd Gates and stole a sympathetic glance at Catherine.
The clerk called the court to order, and the participants were seated. "Welcome to the proceedings, Mr. Boland," Judge Rosencrance said. "Has your client obtained permission to divulge her source?"
Bo stood behind his counsel table and buttoned his jacket. "No, Your Honor," he began. He said it with such confidence that it seemed he might actually be proud of his client. "And with respect, I don't see any legal basis for forcing her to do so. It's not as if revealing this source will prevent a crime--"
"That's all I need to know, Mr. Boland." The judge had her hand up. "We argued the merits of the case yesterday. Just because you're new to the proceedings doesn't mean you get a second bite at the apple."
"But, Judge, the cases couldn't be more clear." Bo picked up a stack of papers, presumably duplicates of reported cases he had copied the night before. "The state must have a compelling interest to override the First Amendment, and here--"
"I'm not interested in your arguments, Mr. Boland."
"My client doesn't have any new information that the police don't already know--"
"Mr. Boland!" Rosencrance cracked her gavel. "Do you want to join your client in jail?"
"With respect, Your Honor, neither one of us should be going."
"That's for me to decide," snapped Rosencrance, her face turning dark. "Stand up, Ms. O'Rourke."
Catherine stood, surprised that she felt a little light-headed.
"This court takes no pleasure in what it must do this morning. There is no bigger fan of our First Amendment than me." The judge paused, and Catherine could see the frustration clouding Rosencrance's face. "But I am also aware that the commonwealth'
s attorney is faced with an extremely urgent kidnapping investigation. Time is of the essence. According to Mr. Webb's testimony yesterday, sensitive information was leaked to the press, information that could jeopardize the investigation. Mr. Gates and Mr. Webb are entitled to know which investigative officers or law enforcement personnel cannot be trusted with such information. Accordingly, I am holding you in contempt of court for refusing to divulge your source, and I am ordering you confined to the Virginia Beach city jail until such time as you choose to reveal the source or until such time as a suspect is apprehended, whichever occurs first."
"We request that the court's ruling be stayed for forty-eight hours while we perfect our appeal," Bo said.
"We object," Boyd Gates responded, jumping to his feet. "We have a compromised investigation at a critical stage in the process. In forty-eight hours, it will be too late."
"I agree," said Judge Rosencrance. "Request denied."
Before the deputies led Catherine away, Bo argued for solitary confinement on the basis that Catherine had written unflattering articles about some of the inmates.
"That makes sense," Rosencrance said.
Catherine held out her wrists as a deputy approached and slapped on the cuffs.
"This way, please."
Catherine shot an accusatory look at Rosencrance as the deputies led her from the courtroom. She kept her head high, but she felt as though she were dying on the inside. Being a hero wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
15
