By Reason of Insanity

by Randy Singer

  What surprised Quinn about the document was the date: June 3. Tomorrow. Somehow Billy had gotten his hands on a summons from the commonwealth's attorney's office that wasn't even scheduled to be filed until the next day.

  This charge would compound the difficulty of Catherine's defense. If nothing else, it would give the media one more nail as they constructed Catherine's coffin, even before she went to trial. Plus, if Gates could get this assault case to trial first and obtain a conviction, he might be able to use it on cross-examination if Catherine took the stand in her murder trial.

  Included with the summons were several oversize photographs showing Holly Stephenson's bloody scalp as she lay unconscious on the floor of her cell. There were photos of the rinse basin, photos of the bloody concrete floor, and close-ups of Holly's stitches. They would undoubtedly be plastered all over the television tomorrow.

  At least now Quinn knew it was coming. He called the number on Billy Long's card.

  "We didn't talk rates yet," Billy said when he answered.

  Quinn smiled to himself. Long was exactly the kind of man he needed.

  53

  Quinn and Dr. Mancini met Marc Boland at 3:45 in his eighteenth-floor office suite at the Armada Hoffler Tower in Virginia Beach's Town Center. Quinn couldn't help but notice that the premier conference room for Boland and Associates looked like a janitor's closet compared to the luxuries of his own firm. Sure, Boland's conference room had plush burgundy leather chairs, rich mahogany trim, and ornate wood molding, but those were considered the bare minimum in Vegas, your ante just to get in the game. Boland had no original masterpieces hanging on the wall, no teakwood imported from Thailand for the conference table, no authentic Persian rugs.

  It wasn't that Quinn was snobbish about furnishings; he saw it more as symbolic of the sophistication of Vegas criminal defense lawyers versus their Virginia Beach counterparts. It was like a member of the Yankees visiting the clubhouse of the Toledo Mud Hens. It wasn't the clubhouse; it was just a different level of ball.

  Boland burst into the conference room a few minutes after Quinn and Rosemarie had settled in. Quinn told Boland about the new charges that would be filed against Catherine, but Boland shrugged it off. "Have you guys made dinner plans?" he asked.

  Not even 4:00, and the man is talking dinner?

  Quinn and Rosemarie looked at each other. "Not really."

  "Good, then pack up your stuff. We've got some major decisions to make and we've got to be at our creative best," Boland declared. "Stuffy conference rooms don't do it for me."

  Quinn was skeptical. It was a muggy day in early June, and it seemed to Quinn like Boland was suggesting something outside, like an elementary class sitting in a circle on the schoolhouse lawn. But Boland's enthusiasm carried the day, and a few minutes later Quinn and Rosemarie were following Boland down the interstate in Quinn's rental car. They headed straight for the oceanfront until they took the Birdneck Road exit, wound their way through an established neighborhood, and parked in the lower parking lot of a place called the Cavalier Golf and Yacht Club.

  Boland alighted from his car with his tie gone and his sleeves rolled up. Quinn had dressed casual, though Rosemarie Mancini, ever proper, had on a professional blue dress and matching pumps. Boland waved to the boat hands milling about as he led Quinn and Rosemarie down a long pier lined with expensive yachts. They reached the end of the docks and the boat that dwarfed all others--Boland's boat, Class Action according to the moniker on the front.

  Class Action was a sixty-eight-foot custom-designed yacht, Boland explained, complete with all the gimmicks and toys. The boat looked sleek, Quinn had to admit, with its polished white shell and its dark tinted windows reflecting the sunlight. He and Rosemarie followed Boland aboard, passing through the sliding glass doors on the back of the boat and into a room Boland called the salon.

  The room had a soft leather couch and easy chair along one set of windows and a pop-up large-screen television on the other side. A full bar lined the far wall. Apparently this yacht was the Virginia Beach equivalent of the Signature Towers.

  They followed Boland up a set of steps into the covered pilothouse and galley area, which gave Quinn's kitchen a run for the money. The bank of controls to the side of the pilot's seat looked like it would be sufficient to pilot a 747.

  "Something to drink?" Boland asked, opening the door to a well-stocked refrigerator. Quinn and Boland each grabbed a Corona; Dr. Mancini stuck with bottled water. Boland picked up some hamburgers, hot dogs, buns, and condiments, tossed a bag of tortilla chips and a jar of salsa to Quinn, and assembled his grilling tools. He took his guests up another set of steps to the flybridge area on top of the boat, a semicovered sitting area with plush white leather swivel chairs, another hardwood bar, and an outdoor grill. Boland put on an old baseball hat he pulled out of a compartment and fired up his grill.

  "Now can we start arguing about strategy?" Quinn asked. He had to admit he was enjoying the view and the nice little breeze coming from the river. It was a branch of the Lynnhaven, Boland had explained, that eventually led out to the Chesapeake Bay. Quinn opened the bag of chips and the salsa. The smells of the gas grill made him hungry, though it was only 5:00.

  "We've got a preliminary hearing next week," Boland began, "and we're getting slaughtered in the press. Quinn and I need to start hitting the airwaves immediately, countering this new charge and getting Catherine's case out there." He plopped some burgers on the grill and pointed toward the river. "Look at that! Egrets!"

  Quinn twisted in his chair to watch the beautiful white birds in flight.

  "We can't be seen as flip-flopping on this," Boland continued. "If we go out there right now and claim innocence, we'll look like shysters later on if we claim insanity. On the other hand, if we claim insanity now, we're admitting Catherine killed this guy, so we'd better be certain that's where we want to go." He looked at Rosemarie. "Would you even be willing to support such a claim?"

  "It's too early to tell. An insanity plea would depend on a diagnosis of dissociative identity disorder, and that's a very tricky diagnosis. I would need several sessions with the patient before I could make a definitive recommendation."

  "I thought the whole idea of split personality disorder was pretty much discredited these days," Boland said, poking at the meat on the grill. "I thought most psychiatrists believed it was simply the result of suggested scenarios from therapists."

  Rosemarie shot Quinn the briefest sideways glance before she gave Boland a condescending smile. He'll learn not to challenge the woman, thought Quinn, kicking back and tilting his face to the sun.

  "There is some controversy about the diagnosis, to be sure," Rosemarie said, with just a tinge of snootiness. "But it's still in the DSM-IV-TR, and dissociation is recognized by most experts as a symptomatic presentation in response to trauma or extreme emotional distress and in association with emotional dysregulation and borderline personality disorder. Documented cases of full-blown DID, where the patient's ego actually fractures into distinct personalities to deal with different situations, are rare, but they do exist."

  Quinn smiled to himself. This was why he used her as his big-case expert.

  "You said trauma or extreme emotional distress," Boland countered. "Mostly childhood abuse, right?"

  "Impressive," Dr. Mancini said. "You've done some homework."

  Boland shrugged and flipped the burgers. "Wikipedia. Not exactly admissible in court."

  "Clinical studies show that most patients with diagnosed DID report early childhood abuse," Rosemarie said. "However, researchers were only able to document such abuse in about 85 percent of the cases. Still, one of the things that bothers me about Ms. O'Rourke's case is that she denies any such abuse. Rape is a severely traumatizing event that can trigger a lot of psychological issues. But it was not repetitive and it did not happen during her childhood."

  "And what's the significance of that?" Boland asked. "And, more importantly, how do you like your
burgers?"

  "Medium rare," Quinn said.

  "Extremely well done," Rosemarie said. She switched back into lecture mode. "It's during childhood that we learn to integrate different types of experiences into a complex and integrated view of ourselves. Our multifaceted personality develops. When certain traumatic experiences or situations of abuse overwhelm us, it's possible to segregate them into a separate personality, one that our default personality does not even know exists."

  "So that's one of the problems with claiming DID," Boland responded. "She doesn't fit the pattern. That's why I like going with a straight not-guilty plea." He wiped his brow with a shirtsleeve and turned to Quinn. "You're being awful quiet, Vegas."

  Quinn raised his palms, as if he didn't care. He didn't want to make his agenda too obvious. "How do you explain the DNA and methohexital?"

  "A setup," Boland said quickly, "by the real Avenger of Blood."

  "How did he get her DNA?" Quinn asked.

  "It's not that hard," Boland pronounced. "Maybe he broke into her house. Went through her trash. Followed her into a restaurant."

  "If it were only the DNA and methohexital, I might agree with you," Quinn said, trying to sound pensive. "But I can't get past these visions. How would an innocent person know so much about the crimes?"

  "She's got a gift," Boland responded. "Even the cops use people like Catherine to help them solve crimes."

  "A gift," Quinn repeated. He let the sarcasm drip from his lips. "What other crimes has our gifted client solved? What calamity did she predict? Does she also read palms for a small fee?"

  Boland climbed onto a white leather bar stool, one eye on the grill. "I don't like it any better than you do, Vegas. But we're stuck with the visions in this case. Some people just know things. Supernaturally. Most jurors will buy that."

  "Maybe Virginia Beach juries are more gullible than they are in Vegas," Quinn said, his frustration starting to show. He took a final swallow of beer. "But it would never fly out there. Magicians and illusionists have 'gifts' too, and so do card sharks. But at the end of the day, it's all smoke and mirrors. If we can't find a logical explanation for these visions, one grounded in reality, I think we're better off arguing insanity."

  Quinn sat up, his elbows on the arm rests. "If we plead insanity, we can talk at length about the effect of the rape on Catherine's psyche. We turn her visions into a cornerstone of our defense. Would anybody who actually realized they had committed these horrible crimes ever share detailed visions about them with a police officer? It may not get her acquitted, but it ought to be enough to save her life."

  "They've got no corpse," Boland protested. "No murder weapon. No real motive. We can't just roll over and admit she did this. What if she's really innocent?"

  "Then we'd better have a good explanation for these visions," Quinn responded. "Something that makes sense to the 99 percent of us who don't believe in ghosts."

  "Let me give that a shot," said Rosemarie Mancini. "And if you two gentlemen could hold your questions until my little presentation is done, I would very much appreciate it."

  Marc Boland shrugged and Quinn stood from his seat. "I'll be right back," he said. "I think this calls for another beer."

  54

  "Both of you are probably familiar with a story from the Old Testament book of Daniel, from which we get our expression 'the handwriting on the wall.'" Rosemarie glanced at Quinn. "Well, at least one of you probably is."

  Very funny. Quinn raised his beer toward her.

  "A Persian king named Belshazzar was at the height of his glory," Rosemarie continued, "hosting a great feast in his banquet hall and guzzling down the wine. Probably had a few too many."

  At this, Quinn thought he detected a reproving glance.

  "On a whim, he gives an order for his servants to bring in the gold and silver vessels that his predecessor, Nebuchadnezzar, had taken from the Jewish temple in Jerusalem when he made the Jews his slaves. This guy Belshazzar and his wives and concubines drank wine out of these vessels and praised their Babylonian gods."

  Rosemarie spoke with her hands, her face animated.

  This is why juries love her so much, Quinn thought.

  She turned suddenly toward Quinn, a finger extended. "This hand comes out of nowhere and writes a message on the wall." She lowered her voice into a James Earl Jones impersonation. "'Mene, Mene, Tekel, Parsin.' The king is so scared he turns pale, his hip joints shake like jelly, and his knees knock together. You know what the words mean?"

  "Pretty Lady to show in the fourth?" Quinn asked.

  "Not quite," Rosemarie said, her face scrunched in disapproval. "The king brought in all his mediums and astrologers, but only Daniel could figure it out."

  "And?"

  "Honestly, I don't remember, but that's actually beside the point. . . ."

  "Are you serious?" Quinn asked. "How can you remember the words and not remember what they mean?"

  "You're right--I'm kidding," Rosemarie said. "Mene meant the king's days were numbered. Tekel meant he had been weighed on the scales and found deficient. Parsin meant the kingdom would be divided and given to the Medes and Persians--parceled out, so to speak. And sure enough, that night the king died."

  "Sad story," said Quinn. "But what's that got to do with the handwriting on Catherine's cell wall?"

  "It means there's precedent for this type of thing, Quinn." Dr. Mancini was serious now. "We're in the South, not Vegas. A lot of folks around here believe in a spiritual dimension that transcends what we can touch and see. In both the Old and New Testaments, there are times when God speaks in a dream or a vision, and it's not always through His prophets or apostles. Belshazzar was a Babylonian. The Egyptian pharaohs had dreams that were interpreted by Joseph. Pilate's wife had a dream warning her that her husband should not sentence Jesus to death. Some of the folks on our jury have probably had dreams or premonitions themselves, and many of them think they've heard from God."

  "Maybe so," Marc Boland inserted as he moved some hot dogs onto the top grill to wait for the burgers to finish, "but we can't exactly give them a Bible lesson from the witness stand. I'm actually with Quinn on this one--and I'm a God-fearin', gun-totin' Southern evangelical. Just because that stuff happened in the Old Testament doesn't mean it's still happening. When people start claiming they've heard directly from God, it's usually a one-way ticket to crazy."

  "Some jurors will be like me and gravitate to the faith angle," Rosemarie countered. "Others will want science or real-life examples. We can give them a little of everything--juror's choice. Take Allison DuBois, for example. In the year 2000, this nice-looking young lady was on her way to becoming a career prosecutor in the Maricopa County prosecutor's office. One day she went downstairs in her apartment building to get the laundry, and this man walks right through her. When she explains what happened to her husband and actually describes the man--he loves clam chowder; he's had a heart attack--her husband says, 'Hey! That's my grandfather.'

  "So Allison DuBois is watching Dateline one night and sees a story about a guy named Gary Schwartz, a psychology professor at the University of Arizona who has conducted a bunch of experiments related to the afterlife. Allison goes to this professor so she can prove her 'vision' wasn't real and get on with her life. Instead, Schwartz discovers that this lady really does have a gift for seeing and hearing things the rest of us can't. She walked away from her job as a prosecutor and went on to help police as a medium. The NBC show that's been running for the last few years is loosely based on her life story."

  What's with this sudden rush of great-looking mediums? Quinn wondered. "So our defense is that Catherine O'Rourke is some kind of medium or maybe a recipient of a message sent by God or Satan or some other kind of spiritual being?"

  He looked from Rosemarie to Boland. They actually seemed to be considering it.

  "Personally, I think there's a spiritual dimension to this," Rosemarie said softly. "I asked Catherine a lot of questions about past involvement
in the occult or that type of thing and she denied any. Still . . . I think she could be holding something back."

  Quinn raised an eyebrow. Dreams. Visions. Handwriting on the wall. Ghosts. He'd believe it when he saw it.

  "We don't have to prove any of this," Boland said tentatively, starting to sound like a convert. "We just have to raise reasonable doubt."

  This whole conversation had a feeling of desperation to Quinn. "I'm starting to see my own handwriting on the wall," Quinn said. "And it looks mysteriously like a guilty verdict."

  * * *

  On the way back to the hotel, Quinn and Rosemarie Mancini rode in relative silence. Rosemarie had insisted on driving, and after putting up a token argument, Quinn had given her the keys. He slouched low in the passenger seat.

  "How's Annie?" Rosemarie eventually asked.

  "Good," Quinn said. "Actually, more like just okay. She's worried about what's going to happen to Sierra in the next three years. What this will do to their long-term relationship."

  "Who's going to take care of Sierra?"

  "She's staying with the Schlesingers until she starts boarding school in California this fall," Quinn said, noticing the lack of enthusiasm in his own voice. "After that, she'll spend vacations and some weekends with me."

  "Boarding school." Mancini simply repeated the words, but Quinn knew what she meant.

  "It's not perfect, Rosemarie. But the Schlesingers can't keep her for three years. And there's no way I could do it, given my schedule at work. Besides, I'd be a lousy parent."

  "Boarding school is probably better than the Schlesingers," Mancini confirmed. "But, Quinn, what Sierra needs, more than anything else, is unconditional love. You don't have to be perfect; you just need to be there for her."