By Reason of Insanity Page 11

  Cat stopped and looked at Marc Boland, tears rimming her eyes. "You don't need the details," she said. "I was raped. Maybe more than once. I started asking questions of some of Kenny's fraternity brothers and some of the girls at the party. I got a bunch of vague answers. One girl said that Kenny took me back into the bedroom and that later some of the other guys came in too. The next day, I did some research on date rape drugs and found out a bunch of stuff about GHB. The problem is that it only shows up in a urine test and you generally have to take that test within twelve hours.

  "One of Kenny's friends was the son of the prosecuting attorney for that county," Catherine said softly, the emotions of the rape making her voice raw. "Some of the other guys said they would testify against me if I claimed I was raped. Some of them said I was really drunk that night and came on to them, which I didn't. It made me realize that maybe they had raped me too and were worried about whether I had preserved the evidence against them. A few promised to testify I had had sex with them at other times, which wasn't true either."

  She stared out the window, her eyes clouding with tears. "I decided to just let it go. A few weeks later, the depression settled in. I went to a few counseling sessions. Got a prescription. But mostly, I just avoided that part of campus and tried to pretend it never happened."

  Catherine wiped away a few tears with the back of her hand. Bo stood up, walked over to his desk, and brought a box of tissues to the table.

  "I still have nightmares sometimes," Catherine said, pulling out a tissue and drying her eyes. "But it was a one-time event. Eight years ago." She smiled gamely. "I don't think it turned me into a serial killer."

  "You're a victim, not a psychopath." Bo said it with real conviction, just the words Catherine needed. "I used to be a prosecutor. Guys like Kenny deserve to be locked up for life."

  He paused, and Catherine looked into the boyish eyes. She saw an intensity there she hadn't seen before.

  "Everybody deserves a defense under our system of justice. But I personally don't represent sex offenders."

  "I heard that about you," Catherine responded. "I guess it's one of the things that drew me to you as a lawyer."

  Bo asked a few more questions and then suggested a break. When they reconvened, he went into lawyer mode and gave her the don't-talk-to-anybody-about-anything-related-to-this-case spiel. He straightened his legal pad and put his pen down. "There's something else you ought to consider. I would never advise a client to destroy potential evidence, Catherine, and in your case, there is no evidence to destroy." He paused, as if to make sure Catherine caught his next point. "But if the authorities do try to pin this on you, they will swoop into your home with a search warrant and confiscate everything in sight. Computers, journals, shoes, gloves . . . everything. I've seen even innocent clients burned by random statements in an e-mail or instant message or on an Internet site they accessed. And with you actually covering the various exploits of the Avenger, and possibly doing research to supplement your reporting, there's no telling what's on your hard drive."

  Bo shifted and took another sip of water. "Right now, there's no outstanding warrant or subpoena that would keep you from disposing of any personal property, and I'm not saying you should. But I think you might be interested to know about one client who thought he had deleted all kinds of incriminating documents from his hard drive. He even took a hammer to his computer and shattered it into a dozen pieces. Darned if the feds didn't reconstruct every keystroke this genius had made over the prior thirty days." Bo smiled to himself. "We pled him out on that one."

  "I understand," Catherine said.

  "And one last thing."

  "Okay."

  "I need to know the name of your confidential source."

  "Why?"

  "For your own protection," Bo answered. No blinking; no hesitation; all business. "I need to call your source and tell him or her to make this go away. Your source needs to know that we want to protect him or her but that I'll burn the source if I have to. Your source needs to have every motivation to help us out."

  "I can't reveal my sources, Bo."

  Bo set his jaw and stared back at Catherine. He apparently wasn't used to clients with their own opinions. "You've been noble, Catherine, but don't be stubborn. This isn't contempt of court we're talking about here, a few days in the slammer. This is child abduction and possibly murder."

  Catherine sat speechless for a moment, trying to sort out her conflicting duties and emotions.

  "I'm trying to help you," Bo said. "Freedom of the press is a nice concept. But you're my client, not the press." He leaned toward her. "Let me do my job."

  "I'll call you tomorrow," Catherine said, her tone indicating the issue wasn't open for further debate.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, Catherine began the process of backing up all the documents and e-mails she wanted to keep. It would take her a day or two, and then she would drive over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel, stopping to dump her computer into the vast expanses of the bay.

  For the first time in her life, Catherine felt like a common criminal.

  28

  The Avenger of Blood arrived early at the Hooters parking lot and drove around the building twice, checking for any signs that Paul Donaldson had acted out of character and involved the police. He apparently had not. Human beings, especially no-class felons like Paul Donaldson, were so predictable.

  The Avenger parked in the far back corner of the lot and faced the car toward the building so that the Avenger's face was obscured by shadows. The Avenger pulled on a ski mask, hunkered down, and waited--jittery and anxious--blowing warming breaths into fists that had grown cold with anticipation. At 11:10, the Avenger nearly left but decided to give Donaldson five more minutes. A few minutes later, Donaldson's beat-up Volvo pulled into the spot next to the Avenger.

  Donaldson got out of his car, checked in both directions, and approached the Avenger's vehicle. Donaldson had pulled his long, blond hair into a ponytail, accentuating his receding hairline. He had a thin beard of blond peach fuzz growing on the end of his chin and wore a tight black T-shirt and loose jeans, his impressive biceps bulging as he attempted to swagger.

  The Avenger rolled the driver's-side window down a few inches. "Get in."

  Without speaking, Donaldson walked to the other side of the vehicle and climbed into the passenger's seat. He stared at the Avenger for a moment, concern darkening his face. "What's the deal with the ski mask?" he asked.

  "The pictures are not here," the Avenger said, answering an entirely different question. "We've got to drive a few minutes to get them."

  "Why don't we start with you taking off the mask?" Donaldson asked.

  The Avenger watched Donaldson's right hand slip down toward his boot, probably reaching for a knife. Quickly, smoothly, the Avenger pulled the Taser from the left side of the driver's seat and shot the barbs into Donaldson's stomach. Donaldson cried out and tried to defend himself but succumbed as the current did its work, contorting him with pain.

  Five seconds, ten seconds--a full thirty seconds at high voltage until Donaldson nearly stopped moving, his previously convulsing body now limp. The Avenger then stuck a needle into Donaldson's vein and inserted a dose of methohexital. The fast-acting anesthetic was nearly three times as potent as sodium thiopental, the anesthetic administered to inmates during lethal injection. With Donaldson unconscious, the Avenger put the car into gear, checked every mirror, and pulled out of the parking lot.

  * * *

  The trial of Paul Donaldson lasted an hour. During the proceedings, Donaldson was bound to a large wooden chair with handcuffs and leather straps. The chair itself was anchored to the floor with eight large bolts.

  Donaldson was cross-examined and confronted with the overwhelming evidence against him. For the first half hour, Donaldson tried to defend himself but eventually became abusive and foul-mouthed, spitting threats back at his accuser. Eventually, having heard enough, Donaldson's accuser
donned a black judicial robe and pronounced the verdict: guilty for the rape and murder of Sherri McNamara. The sentence: death by electrocution.

  The Avenger gagged Donaldson and pulled out an electric razor to create two bald spots, one on each side of Donaldson's head. At first, Donaldson jerked his head back and forth, determined not to let the Avenger shave the long, golden locks that he loved so much. But when Donaldson's jerking caused the teeth on the end of the razor to create a gash in the skin, he settled down and let the Avenger finish the task. Next, the Avenger bent over and shaved the back of one of Donaldson's calves.

  While blood dripped down Donaldson's face from the head gash, the Avenger hooked up three copper electrodes--two to the skull and one to the calf. Not certain whether the amount of current from the makeshift electric chair would actually kill Donaldson, the Avenger pulled out a gun as well. The Avenger had read the botched execution stories about burning flesh and convulsing prisoners. Now the Avenger had a front-row seat. The electricity would flow for ten minutes whether Donaldson died or not--the same amount of time that it took him to rape and murder Sherri McNamara.

  "Any final words?"

  Donaldson screamed into the gag, his bloodshot eyes wide with fright.

  Unsmiling, the Avenger flipped the switch.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, using snap-on plastic gloves, the Avenger picked up a lock of Donaldson's hair and placed it in an envelope along with a message. The envelope was addressed to the editor of the Richmond Times-Dispatch, Donaldson's hometown newspaper.

  The message was simple and direct, constructed using words clipped from a variety of magazines. It read:

  In those days they shall

  say no more, the fathers

  have eaten a sour grape,

  and the children's

  teeth are set on edge.

  But every one shall die

  for his own iniquity:

  every man that eateth the

  sour grape, his own teeth

  shall be set on edge.

  Paul Donaldson died for his own sins.

  Sincerely,

  The Avenger of Blood

  29

  Catherine jerked awake, startled by her own scream from the nightmare that would not go away. Kenny Towns had haunted her dreams again, coming after her, freezing her limbs with fear. His frat brothers had been there too, wearing their despicable Greek masks. But tonight, as Kenny had taunted her, laughing fiendishly, he had begun to bleed from a gash in his scalp. When he touched the gash and checked the blood on his fingers, his eyes went wide with fear. The blood flowed faster, covering his face and choking his laugh. He started shaking his head, like a dog, blood flying everywhere. It splattered Catherine, and she screamed.

  It was one of those nightmares so real that Catherine found herself checking for blood on her face, hands, and clothes. Her heart pounded against her chest as she thought about the gruesome images. She forced herself to focus on other things, eventually chasing the images away with a long, hot shower.

  On her way to work that morning, she called Jamarcus.

  "Just a minute," he said. A few seconds later, the background noise had disappeared. Jamarcus whispered into the phone. "Why are you using your cell phone to call me?"

  "My attorney wants your name," Catherine replied. "He says that Gates might try to pin these kidnappings on me if I don't give up my source."

  "That's ridiculous," Jamarcus whispered. There was real urgency in his voice, close to panic. "I told you--they believe you. But you aren't helping matters by hiring an attorney and refusing to work with us."

  Catherine sighed. Was she being paranoid? "I'm not going to give you up," she promised.

  "I knew you wouldn't," Jamarcus replied. Yet Catherine heard the relief in his voice--the man hadn't been certain. "There's no reason to."

  "I agree," said Catherine. "At least not yet."

  Jamarcus hesitated, apparently absorbing the implications of Catherine's carefully selected words. "Any more visions?" he asked.

  "No," said Catherine decisively. "No more visions."

  * * *

  Though he had been trying cases against Carla Duncan for the last eight years, Quinn had never set foot in her office before. The austere decor did not surprise him. She had hung a diploma and bar certificate on the wall and propped some pictures of children and grandchildren on her credenza. That was it. Carla Duncan was not a showy woman.

  She sat behind her desk, looking grave and somewhat sympathetic. "Thanks for coming in," she said. "I thought it would be better to discuss this in person."

  Quinn crossed his legs. "No problem."

  "I'm ready to deal," Carla said, skipping the preliminaries. The words ignited a small flicker of hope. Driving over, Quinn had speculated this might be the reason Carla wanted to meet. And Carla knew by now the deal would have to be good or Quinn would reject it out of hand.

  She placed her forearms on her desk and leaned toward Quinn. "I know you might find this hard to believe, but I do sympathize with your client . . . your sister. It's been no fun prosecuting this case, Quinn. I'm doing my job, but I can't help despising the victim."

  It was almost like a confession. What did she want--forgiveness? She wasn't forced to pursue this prosecution; they both knew that. And in Quinn's opinion, she had pursued the case with the zeal of a true believer. He intentionally let the silence grow uncomfortable.

  "In my opinion," Carla continued, "it's time to put this case behind us. You know I can't just slap your sister on the wrist and make her promise not to shoot her next husband. But I do realize she's got a daughter to take care of. Justice in this case is a murky concept. Your sister doesn't need to spend most of her adult life behind bars."

  "What are you suggesting?"

  "Manslaughter. I'll recommend six to ten." Carla waited a beat, her intense green eyes conveying the fact that this offer was nonnegotiable. "If she behaves and gets counseling, you can apply for parole after three years, and I won't oppose it."

  The offer was better than Quinn expected, though he didn't let on. If Carla had suggested a slap on the wrist, Quinn would have argued for a love tap.

  "Sierra is thirteen," Quinn said. "That's an age when she really needs her mom. By the time she's sixteen, she'll be a different girl. I can't ask Annie to just walk away from her chance to be a mother during these critical teenage years."

  "Perhaps she should have thought about that before she pulled the trigger," Carla countered. "Look, Quinn, I've got my own kids. Grandkids. I'm putting a very generous offer on the table and one for which I'll probably receive a lot of criticism." She sighed and leaned back in her chair. "If you force the issue, I'll try this case again. Next time, I'll get a conviction. What will that do for Sierra?"

  "Guilty but mentally ill," Quinn countered. "She gets four years with all but twelve months suspended. Three years of probation and psychiatric counseling."

  Carla snorted. "This isn't a DUI, Quinn. In good conscience, I've just given you my best offer. I'm not looking for a counter. Think of it as Deal or No Deal."

  Quinn nodded. "Had to ask." He stood, thanked Carla, and shook her hand. "I'll get back to you."

  "The end of the week," Carla said. "I'll give you until 5 p.m. Friday."

  30

  Managing partner Robert Espinoza plopped down in the client chair in front of Quinn's desk. Quinn quit typing and turned around, regarding the man with idle curiosity.

  Melanie stood in the doorway. "Can I get you anything?" she asked. What she really meant, from the look on her face, was I couldn't stop him and didn't have time to warn you--he barged right in.

  "We're fine," Quinn said. "Don't worry about it."

  Melanie left, and Quinn turned to Espinoza. "Twice in one week," Quinn said. "Pretty soon you won't have to ask for directions."

  "You're a funny guy," Espinoza replied, unsmiling. "You might want to save it for someone with a sense of humor."

  "Good
point." Quinn leaned back in his chair.

  "It's a good offer, Quinn. You ought to take it."

  Quinn gave his managing partner a sideways look and picked up a pen to keep his hands occupied. Not many people unnerved him like Espinoza. "How'd you find out?"

  The question brought a thin smile. "We all have our sources, Quinn. Manslaughter. Six to ten. She's out in three. I would have bumped off a few ex-wives myself if I could have been assured of that deal. Cheaper than divorce."

  "She's my sister, Robert. I don't find it funny."

  Espinoza's face returned to its normal scowl, wrinkles of concern pulling at the corners of his narrow eyes. "I'm not trying to be funny, Quinn. She might be your sister, but she's also your client. She shot her husband in cold blood. It's a good deal. In fact, it's a great deal." Espinoza paused and seemed to be studying Quinn's very thoughts, trying to decipher whether this was all sinking in. "We need you back on some of these white-collar cases," he said. "Don't play games with your sister's life. Take the deal."

  Quinn bristled at the tone, more of a command than a suggestion. "I'll be talking with Annie tonight." His voice had the sharp edge he had perfected for cross-examination. "I'll be sure to let her know you think it's a blue light special."

  Espinoza scooted to the edge of his seat. "You're too close to this, Quinn. I'm just trying to give you an unbiased perspective from somebody who really does care." He stared at Quinn for a moment and then stood. "It's the deal of the century, buddy. Your sister would be well-served to take it."

  * * *

  Quinn called Bobby Jackson on his way to the Rogue, one of the newest casinos on the south end of the strip. It featured a lush and bustling tropical paradise decor, accentuated by dozens of fountains, sculptures, and flora. Many tourists were drawn by its bad-boy aura, complete with pirate themes and edgy burlesque shows. But Quinn liked it for other reasons. The high-stakes room always had plenty of action involving fresh money from inexperienced gamblers. And Richard Hofstetter Sr. was part owner of the Rogue, bringing Quinn an extra surge of satisfaction at the idea of making a little money at one of Hofstetter's joints.