Escape (9 page)

"So who was this guy?"

Guma wiggled his bushy eyebrows dramatically. "Actually that's what's more interesting than just the fact that these thugs had an expensive lawyer. His name is William White, and he's a junior partner at the firm of Newbury, Newbury and White."

The Newbury name hung in the air like a bubble. "Interesting," Karp remarked, tapping again on the legal pad.

"I thought you'd think so," Guma said. "So do I tell them?"

"Tell who?"

"The feds ... about Khalifa."

Karp made a note on the pad. "When's your next meeting with them?"

"They haven't said when they might be so kind as to give me an update."

"Then I don't think there's any reason to bother them at this moment. Apparently, they aren't interested in anything we might have to say anyway."

"Fine with me, but they'll probably find out themselves at some point," Guma noted. "And when they do, and if they figure out we already had it, they might get pissed."

"Let me worry about that," Karp said. "Let's keep this quiet until they do. Something doesn't smell right about this investigation."

"My lips are sealed. Now, shall I send you a bill for those Yankee tickets?"

"Tell Fulton to take it out of his investigations budget."

"You mean his beer slush fund?"

"Whatever works."

Both men stopped laughing at the sound of a knock at the side door leading out of Karp's office. The door led to a private elevator that went to the ground floor and the main entrance to the DAO off the Franklin Street side of the building. The elevator was reserved for judges and the DA, and only someone with a special key could use it.

Dr. Louise "Niki" Nickles, a tiny woman with pink, oversized glasses and a page-boy haircut that was much too Clairol blonde and young for her lined, sixty-year-old face, smiled as she pushed a clipboard across the coffee table to Jessica Campbell. "This is ... um ... an MDQ, a Mood Disorder Questionnaire, that ... I, ah, yes ... would like you to fill out ... please."

They were sitting in a visiting room in the psychiatric wing of Bellevue Hospital—Nickles in a high-backed chair on one end of a low, glass-topped coffee table, Jessica on a chair meant for a child, while her defense attorney, Linda Lewis, sat between them on a couch.

"What's it for?" Jessica asked. The psychiatrist's voice reminded her of sweet warm milk. But rather than soothing, she found it condescending and difficult to follow—filled with odd pauses and sighs, as if the doctor were suddenly reminded of something she'd forgotten to do.

"Well, it will ... um, ah ... help me assess your mental illness for the purposes of your defense at trial," Nickles said pleasantly. She folded her hands in front of her as if to indicate that there'd been enough discussion.

"There's still going to be a trial?" Jessica asked, giving her attorney a worried glance. "I thought we didn't have to ... that they'd just let me stay in a hospital until I was better."

Lewis reached over and patted her client on the knee. She was a large woman, attractive but diminished by a dour personality. "We've been over this," she said. "Tomorrow there's going to be another competency hearing to determine if you're able to stand trial. The first time, right after your arrest, you were so obviously disturbed that the judge wanted to wait and see how you responded to treatment. But since that time, you have been examined by two doctors here at Bellevue and they've reported that you are presently competent to stand trial. We will, of course, that is to say, Dr. Nickles and I, attempt to prove differently at the hearing. But even if we win tomorrow, it will only delay the trial."

Lewis explained that the psychiatrists at Bellevue were only supposed to determine two very narrow questions: "whether you know and can appreciate—or understand—the nature and possible consequences of the charges against you, and whether you are capable of assisting your lawyer, me, with your defense."

It was an entirely separate issue from an insanity defense, Lewis added, "which is what we will argue at the trial. In that case, the questions become: Did you, at the time of the deaths of your children, understand the nature and consequences of your actions—in other words, did you know what you were doing to your children? And did you know it was wrong?"

Lewis smiled again to reassure Jessica Campbell.
Jesus, how many times have I given that speech over the past ten years,
she wondered.
It never gets old.

She'd made a legal career out of that one point of law—as well as a lot of money. She'd sold millions of books on the topic, and she'd made a small fortune in speaking fees. She had even been invited to talk on various television and radio shows, such as the
Off the Hook Show with Barry Queen
that she was scheduled to appear on soon to discuss the Campbell case. It was good timing since she'd be able to promote her newest book,
By Any Means Necessary: One Defense Attorney's Manifesto for Winning!

In the 1980s, she'd been among the first defense, attorneys to use the "battered wife syndrome" as a defense in murder cases. She'd won dozens of acquittals for women who'd killed their abusive husbands by claiming they'd killed in self-defense. Sometimes, she figured, it actually was self-defense; other times, it was a nice excuse to get rid of the bum.

These days it was all about postpartum depression for mothers who killed their infants, and/or bipolar mood swings in which the defendant lashed out either during an extremely low point or during a manic stage.
One of these days I'm going to find a great menopause defense case,
she thought with a wry smile.
"Your honor, my client was experiencing a hot flash, and when it was over, her unsympathetic bastard of a husband was lying on the kitchen floor with a steak knife
in
his heart.
"

Of course, Lewis had hoped that the Bellevue psychiatrists would deem Jessica incompetent to stand trial—or, if they wouldn't, bring in Nickles to see if she could persuade the judge. If that happened, Jessica would be sent to a mental institution where she would be examined regularly until judged competent to stand trial; and if Jessica did as she was told, that could take a long time. Lewis's scheme was to delay the criminal trial for as long as possible—buying plenty of time to stack up medical witnesses who were willing to testify about the seriousness of Jessica's mental condition and say what a gentle and caring person Jessica truly was. Also, with enough time, perhaps a more sympathetic DA would be elected, someone who would not want to prosecute a mom who was obviously insane at the time she "innocently" spared her children life's torment.

As a defense attorney, Lewis had helped cold-blooded murderers exchange a few years of acting crazy in a mental hospital—drawing disturbing pictures and acting out—for what would have otherwise been a very long stretch in prison. She had no qualms about teaching them how to play this game; her conscience did not trouble her even when former clients got out and committed other murders. That's how the system was set up, she reasoned, and all she was doing was using it to represent her clients to the best of her ability.

One of her favorite ploys was known in legal circles as the Ganser Syndrome. Essentially, it described the behavior of a defendant who became "psychotic" only when he realized that the evidence against him was so overwhelming that conviction was likely. She once had a client who liked to strangle the prostitutes he pimped but got away with it by perfecting the syndrome. Every time he was judged competent to stand trial, he'd start crowing like a rooster as soon as he entered the courtroom and attempt to hop up onto the defense table to flap his wings. Then they'd haul him back to the mental hospital where the process of finding him competent to stand trial would start all over again. He'd keep it up until the DA would plead his case down to a mere pittance of the time he deserved—turnstile justice at its worst. But Lewis had not lost any more sleep over thwarting justice in his case than she had when she heard that one of his prostitutes had sliced off his penis with a straight razor. He'd bled to death on the way to the hospital.

Of course, it was quite possible that none of these games were going to work for Jessica Campbell. She wasn't crafty enough to work the Ganser Syndrome, the DAO wasn't offering any plea deals, and Butch Karp, a man she detested, had just won an uncontested election and didn't appear to be going anywhere for awhile. Of course, Karp had designated Jessica Campbell's case file NLP.

There was still hope, and that was where Dr. Nickles came in. She was not just to assess Jessica's mental state, but to help teach her how to play the game. Still, it looked like they were going to have to win at trial by convincing the jury that Jessica Campbell, as a result of mental disease or defect, did not know or appreciate the nature and consequences of her acts or understand that they were wrong at the time she murdered her children.

Right now, they weren't going to win at the competency hearing. Dr. Nickles was going to testify that Jessica wasn't competent, but that was more to set the grounds for an appeal if she was found guilty at trial. The doctor was an expensive addition to the defense team, which consisted of Lewis and her investigators—she preferred to try cases alone—but that was all right; Jessica's parents were wealthy and had essentially given her carte blanche. "Whatever it takes to keep our daughter out of prison," Liza Gupperstein had insisted, handing over the first $250,000 retainer check.

"Eventually, we'll have to go to trial," Lewis told Jessica. "So we need to start preparing now by answering the doctor's questionnaire."

Jessica looked over at Nickles, who took a pen out of her pink briefcase, clicked it, and handed it to her. "Let's begin. There are ... um ... thirteen questions in the first part, and then a ... single question in parts two ... and um ... three. Please answer yes ... or no. For instance, Question One: Has there ever been a period of time ... um ... when you were not your usual self, while not on drugs or alcohol and ... ah, yes ... you were so irritable that you shouted at people or started fights or arguments?"

Jessica recognized irony when she heard it. "I'm a political science professor, of course I shout and argue."

Nickles and Lewis exchanged a meaningful glance; they would have to tone down that assertive personality in the courtroom. "Uh-huh ... I see ... so then you would mark ... 'Yes,'" the psychiatrist said, pointing at the clipboard.

Jessica had never wanted children in the first place. Her career came first, and the way she saw it, that would leave little room for anyone but herself and her husband.

But Charlie had decided in 1997 that it would be good for his political ambitions to be perceived as a "family man." He was thinking of the photo ops that playing ball with a son would produce. But to convince Jessica, he'd recast the idea as an opportunity for them to demonstrate to the rest of the world how a modem couple raised a morally conscientious child.

"You could write a book about it," he said. "After all, what kind of a country will this be if the only ones having children are the Christian Right?"

It was the perfect button to push. He saw her shiver as she contemplated the thought of a nation full of little Pat Robertsons and Jerry Falwells.

Having made the decision, she concentrated on getting pregnant. She'd always been "reserved" in her lovemaking, though she'd kept her ambivalence mostly hidden until after they were married. But now she was almost enthusiastic, so long as the deed was done while she was ovulating.

Once the pregnancy was confirmed, she shifted gears. Sex was no longer part of her equation, and she spent her free time reading everything she could find on child-rearing with liberal sensibilities. And she read important works to the fetus:
The Autobiography of Malcolm X
and Gloria Steinem's
Feminist Family Values.

Soon, Jessica pictured herself as the perfect modem mother—a career woman who would balance a meaningful life with the needs of a child, at least for the first few weeks or so until an au pair could take over. And as the day approached, she interviewed several dozen nannies before settling on a large black woman from Jamaica named Rebecca. Perfect.

Thus it was an embarrassment when something went haywire with her brain chemistry following the birth of her first daughter in March 1998. Instead of joy and pride, she just felt blue. When the nurse brought the infant in to nurse for the first time, Jessica burst into tears, rolled over onto her stomach, and went to sleep.

After her discharge, she went home determined to do her best to be "Super Mom." But the ups and downs of her moods continued and even grew worse after a few weeks. Euphoric reactions to something like her baby's smile, or a kind word from Charlie, would be followed by thirty-minute crying jags that she alleviated by downing a quart of mint-chocolate-chip ice cream.

As her blues grew bluer, she spent entire days in her "dark place," refusing to attend to her child despite the pleadings of the nanny, indifferent to Charlie's endeavors to settle on a name—he'd eventually chosen Hillary, after the president's wife—and unable to get out of bed any longer than it took her to use the bathroom.

Charlie saw that something needed to be done when he came home on the nanny's day off and found Jessica cutting off her stringy hair "because it's ugly," while Hillary, who had obviously not been changed all day, wailed in her crib. Mindful of keeping "family business" out of the media, he quietly took her to their family physician, who diagnosed Jessica's behavior as postpartum depression. The doctor explained that what she was experiencing was due to a chemical imbalance in Jessica's brain brought on by all the hormonal changes and stresses that came with pregnancy. He prescribed Prozac and assured Charlie that Jessica would soon be back to normal.

The anti-depressant had the desired effect. Jessica came out of her blues and became the devoted mother she'd envisioned. Still, she was glad to get back to the university and resume indoctrinating her students on the evils of old, white males and their negative impact on the United States. It was a good balance. She saw Hillary briefly in the morning before leaving for work, and then again for a couple of hours in the evening before the nanny put the infant to bed. On weekends, she happily pushed the baby carriage to art museums and political rallies as part of Hillary's education.

The September 11, 2001, attack on the World Trade Center, and Jessica's subsequent protest at Trinity Church with Hillary in her arms, gave even more meaning to Jessica's life. At least until Charlie started talking about having another child.

Jessica thought that having one child was more than sufficient—and more socially responsible. But Charlie still wanted a son, which resulted in shouting matches. He called her "frigid" and "self-centered." She sneered at him
"needing an heir with a dick to pass on the family sperm. How typically male."

However, he eventually wore her down. Before Hillary, she would never have let him get his way. But she was aware that despite his increasing paunch and receding hairline, Charlie was attractive to other women— especially the "whore-bitch" Diane Castrano, who'd started working in his borough president's office in 2001.

Barely out of Brown University, Diane's main attribute—at least from Jessica's viewpoint—was that she had big, creamy white breasts that she flaunted with low-cut blouses. Charlie described her as
"intelligent and in
-
valuable"
and told Jessica to quit being jealous.
"Jesus,"
he'd exclaim, shaking his head as if she were crazy,
"she's just an enthusiastic kid."