The Insanity Plea (4 page)

(Twenty-three
years earlier)

Dan and Mary Lee moved to Houston
after their honeymoon. In September he learned he had passed the bar, finishing
second out of five-hundred applicants. Dan’s senior partner, Bob Gardner,
suggested that they should rent a house in the ritzy Memorial area of Houston
where they would be close to the other lawyers in the firm and their clients,
most of whom lived there or in River Oaks, the enclave for the wealthiest of
Houstonians. Dan eagerly fell into his work. Mary Lee took a job as a dietician
at M. D. Anderson Hospital in the medical center. Again at his partner’s
suggestion, Dan bought a BMW, one of the smaller ones, until he could move up to
a Mercedes.

Dan’s schedule was backbreaking. He
was at the office at seven every morning, doing legal research, attending
hearings at the courthouse with one of the more senior lawyers, beginning to
handle routine depositions, and usually finding three hours or so from six to
nine in the evening to catch up on the research he had to set aside that
morning. Saturdays were filled with more office work. With luck he would get
free by six in time to take Mary Lee to dinner or a movie. On Sunday he stayed
home and reviewed briefs and motions due the following week. It was tough but
not unexpected.

In his second year he was invited to
interact with clients in meetings, conference calls and lunches, almost always
at one of the several private clubs that dotted downtown. The firm’s client
list seemed to come from the Fortune 500. They wanted the best and didn’t bitch
about fees.
 
He also participated in two
trials as second chair, relegated to taking notes and occasionally being
permitted to argue a point of law to the judge.

In his third year it happened. He had
concluded a trial where he was actually allowed to examine some of the
witnesses. His firm represented a group of the finest medical center physicians
who sued International Physician Management (IPM) for defrauding them out of
enormous fees over several years, seeking forty-five million dollars. Dan and
the team of firm lawyers performed well against a similar team from another
giant Houston firm. They got a verdict of nearly thirty million dollars, not
what they were asking, yet more than they anticipated.

Only Dan was nervous throughout the
trial. Every time he looked he saw the IPM representative staring at him. In
the evenings when he left the courthouse, the IPM guy would be standing outside,
talking with his lawyers. When Dan walked by, they all got quiet and watched
him until he crossed the street to the parking lot.
 
And three times during the trial his home phone
rang. When he picked it up, no one was on the line.

Two days after the trial he walked
into Bob Gardner’s office. “Bob, we need to talk.”

“Fine. Have a seat. By the way, I
thought you really did a fine job in that IPM trial. A number of our clients
complimented you.”

Dan’s eyes darted around the room. “We
can’t talk here. Can we take a walk?”

Puzzled, Bob agreed, and they rode
the elevator down to the first floor.

“Okay, Dan. What’s on your mind?” Bob
asked as he walked over to a sitting area in the lobby.

“Let’s go across the street to the
park,” Dan replied, scanning the area for strangers.

“Come on, Dan. What’s going on? I
don’t have time for a walk in the park in the middle of the morning.”

“Please, Bob,” Dan implored. “It’ll
only take a few minutes.”

Figuring it would be easier to give
in, Bob agreed. They crossed the street to the park where Dan cautiously looked
around, choosing a bench with no one close by. Lowering his voice, he
whispered, “Thanks. We had to get out of the building. Our offices are bugged,
maybe the whole building.”

Startled, Bob said, “What the hell? Who’s
bugging our office and how do you know?”

“It’s IPM,” Dan continued to whisper.
“They’re out to get me and maybe the firm. They aren’t going to take that loss
lying down. Quiet, this may be one of them.”

A middle-aged woman dressed in
business attire walked by the two men, never slowing and never looking their
way.

“What the fuck are you talking about?
And how would you know IPM is out to get us? By the way, I’ve been seeing that
woman for twenty years. She works for an oil company in our building.”

“Voices, Bob. People are telling me. They
can get very loud. I’m surprised you haven’t heard them. Anyway, we need to
have our office swept for bugs, maybe even put a security guard on each floor. Look,
there’s a helicopter circling overhead. It’s probably someone from IPM spying
on me.”

Bob pondered for a moment and then
came to a conclusion. “Dan, you’ve been working too damn hard lately. Long
hours. The pressure of a trial. I want you to take two weeks off. Take your
sweet wife on a vacation somewhere. Just get away for a while.”

* * *

Dan did as he was told. Two weeks
later he returned to work and dropped by Bob’s office. Bob rose from his desk,
a smile on his face. “Welcome back. That rest do you good?”

“Yes sir. I feel great and ready to
hit it. I’ll go through my emails and in-box this morning. Can we meet this
afternoon to go over some of my projects?”

Pleased to see the improvement in his
young associate, Bob readily agreed. He even called a couple of the other
partners, telling them that his prize associate had merely succumbed to pressure
and was back in the saddle. Two hours later Bob walked by Dan’s office heading
to the restroom and heard Dan, his voice raised in anger as he tried to make a
point to the person on the other end of the conversation. Bob paused outside
the door and listened.

“I don’t have to do what you demand! I’m
perfectly capable of making my own decisions. You get what I’m saying?”

Hearing enough, Bob walked through
the door. The phone was in its cradle. The speaker function light was dark. His
associate was alone.

“What’s going on, Dan?”

Wayne crawled out of bed at
six-thirty in the evening, downed three aspirin and started looking for his
basketball shoes, shorts and an appropriate T-shirt. He rummaged through his
dresser until he found baggy green shorts and a faded blue shirt with a hole on
the right side. A grey sweatshirt completed his outfit. There were no points
for fashion in this league.

Fonde Recreation Center sat on the
western edge of downtown. It housed an old gym with few modern amenities; yet
it attracted some of the best basketball players in the country. In the off
season, college stars, NBA players and some of the better local college-bound
high school hoopsters competed there. It wasn’t an organized league.
 
They were pick-up games. Two teams on the
court at a time while others watched. First team to twenty won. The losing team
was benched, and the winner was challenged by the next team in line. Not surprisingly,
most of the players were black. Wayne was permitted to play because he was a
smart point guard who could bring the ball down the court, pass the ball at the
right time and generally run an offense. Occasionally, he got to shoot. It also
didn’t hurt that Duke always picked Wayne for his team. Wayne generally tried
to make Wednesday night since most of the players were well past thirty. When
he started playing regularly years before, Duke nicknamed him “Honkey” and it
stuck. Wayne didn’t mind what he was called as long as he got to play.

Wayne showed up right at seven,
parked his Nissan and waved to a security guard. As usual, the first sensation
was the smell of sweat, dirty socks and old sneakers; next was the sound of
male voices, yelling on the court and from the sidelines. Talking smack, the
guys called it. As he climbed into the stands, a voice boomed, “Dammit, Honkey,
it’s about time you got here. How come you’re always late? I’ve already picked
three of my players and was about to give up on you. Get your sweatshirt off. We’re
next up.”

“Come on, Duke. Go easy on an old
man. Besides, I’ve got a headache and your yelling isn’t helping.”

“Poor baby. You sure you’re up to
playing with the big boys tonight?”

No mercy at Fonde. Wayne shot him the
finger.

“Now, there’s an attitude I like. Strip
off that sweatshirt. We’re on.”

The game started with Wayne bringing
the ball up the court. He was the only white guy on either team but he knew all
the players and their moves. As he crossed mid-court an opposing guard blocked
his way. Wayne feinted right, dribbled the ball behind his back, took two steps
and fired the ball to Duke under the basket. Two points. Wayne continued to
play with a fire that he rarely showed and led his team to an easy win. They
lost their next game, but won two more before the evening was over.

As they were toweling the sweat off
in the bleachers, Duke said, “Well, my man, you really did kick some butt
tonight. You keep playing like that, I may have to give you a new name. Ready
for a beer?”

Wayne slumped his shoulders, stared
at the floor and then up at his friend. “Don’t think so, Duke. I’ve already
been drunk once today and just sobered up in time to get over here. I think I
just better head home.”

A frown crossed Duke’s face as he put
his arm around Wayne’s shoulders. “Sorry, man, but I ain’t letting you go home.
You got some problem you need to tell your Uncle Duke about. Let’s just drive
out to Canyon Creek and get some food in your stomach. Then you can tell me
what got you to drinking in the middle of the afternoon.”

Canyon Creek was just off I-10, close
to Memorial Park and Duke’s high rise apartment. It catered to joggers, golfers
and other athletes who frequented Memorial Park. After work, it was packed with
a young crowd that thinned as the evening advanced. On this Wednesday night,
Wayne and Duke arrived just before closing and the place was deserted. Wayne
ordered a cheeseburger, barbecue beans and iced tea. Duke doubled Wayne’s order,
threw in some fries and added a Budweiser. Having their pick of tables, they
chose one by the window. Both ate in silence for several minutes before Duke
took another swig of his beer, let out a satisfied belch and said, ‘Okay, it’s
just you and me in here. What’s eating on you?”

Wayne swallowed a mouthful of barbecue
beans, wiped a stray bean from his mouth and replied, “Look, Duke, I don’t
really want to talk about it. It’s personal. I just need to deal with it.”

“Why, you son of a bitch,” Duke
grinned through a mouthful of burger, “You finally got that blonde you’ve been
dating into bed and knocked her up, haven’t you?”

A wan smile crossed Wayne’s face. “I
wish it was that simple. Hell, I’m long past being old enough to be married. If
it was that, I’d just do the right thing. You know, marry her and get on with
my life. Forget it, Duke. When I’m ready to talk, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Nosiree. Ain’t gonna happen.” Duke’s
voice was beginning to echo through the empty restaurant. “Ain’t I your
brother? Answer me that.”

“Duke, keep your voice down.”

“Done.” His voice dropped a couple of
octaves. “But we’re not leaving here until I know what’s chewing on your ass.”

Wayne stared out the window and
finally turned to Duke. “You know Harry Klein, the D. A. down in Galveston?”

“Come on, Wayne, don’t dis me. Have
you forgotten that I’m a criminal lawyer? I’m down there at least once a month.
Of course I know him.”

“I used to have a brother when I was
growing up. Klein sent word to me today that he’s been charged with capital
murder.”

Duke got up from his chair, walked to
the front and came back with two beers. Setting one in front of Wayne, he said,
“Now, that’s just a little bit confusing, isn’t it? You say you used to have a
brother like he died, and now you’re telling me that he rose from the dead and
is charged with murder. You see something a little wrong with this picture?”

Wayne sighed, “Okay, that’s all I’m
going to say tonight. It’s a long, complicated story and I’m exhausted. We’ll
continue this conversation some other time.”

Duke rose. “Fair enough, bro. Only
that other time is going to be tomorrow night at dinner. I’m convening the
posse. Claudia, Rita, you and I are having dinner. You might as well be ready
to tell it all or we’ll drag it out of you. Three against one won’t even be a
fair fight. By the way, I’m glad you didn’t knock that blonde up. One of these
days you’re going to realize that Rita’s the woman for you.”

After a nap Parke changed into black
jeans and a black shirt. He left his knife on the dresser and returned to the
coffee shop. The sun was disappearing, leaving Jackson Square shimmering in its
last rays. The group this time was a little larger than the one in the
afternoon. Jennifer bounded from the coffee shop and took tickets. She looked
at the killer. “Now let me think. You’re Paul, right? So you want to help me
find some ghosts?”

Parke smiled when he handed her his
ticket and trailed the group on the same tour he had taken that afternoon. He
didn’t really listen. He just wanted Jennifer to move along and get to the
cemetery. Finally, they arrived at the gate.

“Now we’re entering the St. Louis
Cemetery.” Her voice started to crack in feigned fright. “This is the most
haunted place in New Orleans. You must keep your eyes open because you may very
well see a ghost. People have been known to enter this hallowed ground at night
and never be seen again. I’ll need to take a head count now and then on the
other side to make sure that everyone gets through the graveyard and safely out
the other gate.”

Jennifer arrived at Queen LeVeaux’s
tomb and told the same story, this time emphasizing Zombi, suggesting that
everyone carefully watch where they step so as not to wake up the boa. When she
led the tourists to the gate, Parke stepped behind the tomb. Once through the
gate and on the street, Jennifer paused to count heads. She did it once and
then a second time. Hiding her own nervousness about someone missing in the
cemetery, she said, “Uh, oh, we’re one short. You folks stay here. I’ll go back.”

One man volunteered to go with her. She
declined, citing company policy. Another man turned to his wife and suggested
that this was all part of the tour. Some shill from the coffee shop had stayed
back and would soon come out with Jennifer, telling tales of seeing Queen
LeVeaux or some other ghost.

Parke was waiting in the shadows of
the tomb. Once he heard about the boa that afternoon, he knew he could change
his routine. Jennifer would be choked and left in front of the tomb. The voodoo
believers would be convinced that it was Zombi that did it.
 
He heard her voice. “Hello. This is Jennifer. You
need to catch up.”

Jennifer approached the tomb and
walked past. Parke stepped behind her and put his right arm around her neck,
grabbing his right wrist with his left hand. He had never killed someone this
way. Jennifer struggled and tried to cry out, but she had no breath and could
barely make a sound. She was really no problem for the killer. He was six feet
tall and in excellent shape. She was five feet and a hundred pounds. Parke felt
her body go limp. He put her body on the steps of the tomb and felt for a
pulse. He smiled. She was dead. He used his cell phone to snap a picture of her
body and noticed a small silver cross on a chain around her neck. He jerked it
off and put in in his pocket as a memento of victim nine. Then he turned and
walked back to where they had entered the cemetery, trying to decide if he
should try to get a table at the Commander’s Palace or Galatoire’s.

Fifteen minutes later the man who had
volunteered asked another man to go with him to look for Jennifer. They used
the flashlight features on their cell phones. When they spotted Jennifer’s
body, one checked for a pulse while the other dialed 911.

The next morning Parke was watching the
news while having room service breakfast. The lead story was the mysterious
death of Jennifer. A voodoo muda was interviewed in front of the tomb that was surrounded
by yellow police tape. The cemetery was overrun with tourists, many of whom
were chanting voodoo prayers. The muda was positive that the young woman was
killed by Zombi. Jennifer must have said something that offended Queen LeVeaux.
Of course, the police denied any such thing. Still, St. Louis Cemetery had one
more mystery. That put Parke in a good mood as he packed his bag and caught a
taxi to the airport. Then it hit him. He had enjoyed this one. He somehow felt
more alive after the killing. He wondered if his scientific study had evolved
into something more. On the way to the airport he could not stop thinking about
his next victim.