The sidebar contained a paragraph of titillating speculation about the Carvers' nefarious clients and numerous enemies. Could the kidnapping be an act of revenge?
But sidebars didn't make the front page. Cat needed a
story.
Her source at the police department called thirty minutes before deadline. She wanted to rush him, but she knew from experience that she couldn't short-circuit his routine.
"Are you using your earpiece?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Take it out and pick up the handset."
Catherine waited a moment. He was a great source, but his paranoia could be frustrating. "Okay."
"This is off the record, not for attribution, and not for publication unless I specifically say so."
"Right."
"You would go to jail, if necessary, before disclosing my name."
"Absolutely."
"You won't give me up to your editor, your fellow writers, or even the paper's attorney."
"Especially the paper's attorney." Catherine checked her watch. One more set of questions before he would start talking.
"Even in the face of extreme torture, you will protect my confidentiality."
The first time he had said this, Catherine thought he was serious. She had since learned it was just his quirky way of driving the point home. "Do you have anything in particular in mind?" she asked.
"As a matter of fact, I was researching this torture method perfected by the Romans. They would strap a person to a dead body, face-to-face, until the decay from the dead body started rotting the live person."
"Ugh," Cat gasped. "Where do you come up with these things?"
"Would you talk under those circumstances?"
"Of course."
The source paused, another part of the game. "Okay, I'll take my chances."
"I'm listening." Catherine wedged the phone against her ear, freeing her hands to type.
"This is not for publication, but we have a note."
"I thought the chief said there was no ransom note."
"There isn't. That's the problem." The source paused again, and Catherine heard the seriousness in his tone. Fun and games were over. "We believe the kidnapper has killed the children."
Catherine glanced at the photos and felt her chest tighten. "Based on what?"
"I can't say. There are things we have to withhold for strategic reasons."
Cat hated these games, but she kept her tone even. She could not afford to alienate her source. "What
can
you say, then?"
"This kidnapping is not an isolated event. We believe it's related to another kidnapping that took place in northern Virginia about two months ago. The powers that be don't want a widespread panic, but I can't justify withholding this from the public. If I had little kids, I'd want to know."
"Does that mean I can publish the link?"
"As long as you don't identify me."
Cat sucked in a breath as her fingers flew across the keyboard. Serial kidnappings! "How do you know this?" she asked.
"I can't say."
"But you've got to give me
something
. If I can't corroborate this, my editors will never let me run it."
The source paused to give the impression he was thinking this through. Catherine waited him out. She knew he had already anticipated this concern.
"The kidnapped baby in Washington, D.C., was Rayshad Milburn, a three-month-old baby taken in a parking garage from his mother, Sherita Johnson. The father is a twice-convicted felon named Clarence Milburn who beat a rape and murder charge several months ago based on an invalid warrantless search. The cops thought they had exigent circumstances, but the judge disagreed."
Cat typed furiously while processing this new piece of the puzzle. "Was he represented by the Carvers?"
"No. But the MOs for the crimes were very similar. In both cases, a victim was immobilized and then injected with the same type of powerful sedative. There are other connections, but that's all I can say for now."
"What other connections? What else can you give me?"
"We never had this phone call," her source said. "Not unless you get tied to that rotting corpse."
"I understand," Catherine said.
Without another word, her source hung up the phone.
10
The next day, Catherine scored another front-page article, trumpeting the news that the Carver kidnapping was not a stand-alone crime. Predictable panic spread among mothers of infants, matched only by the consternation in the Virginia Beach Commonwealth's Attorneys' office. The Carver investigation had sprung a leak! Determined to plug it, the chief deputy commonwealth's attorney subpoenaed Catherine to a grand jury hearing to ask about her source. When Catherine refused to reveal her source, he scowled and threatened to have a circuit court judge hold her in contempt. When Catherine scowled back, he set up a hearing for late afternoon in the Virginia Beach Circuit Court.
At a few minutes after 4:00, Catherine took her place in the witness box and swore to tell the truth. She crossed one leg over the other and then switched them back, trying to get comfortable.
"Please state your name and place of employment," said Boyd Gates, chief deputy attorney. He was a former Navy SEAL and the top prosecutor at the Beach, doing the heavy lifting in court while his boss, Commonwealth's Attorney Anthony Brower, gave political speeches and media interviews about being tough on crime. Gates was bald, midforties, and a bulldog during trials.
Catherine looked at William Jacobs, the lawyer hired by the newspaper. Jacobs was a bookish man with thin gray hair and a worried look on his face. The reporters hated it when the conservative Jacobs got involved in libel-proofing their stories. Scared to death of getting the paper sued, he would always make the reporters water down the good stuff. Jacobs gave Catherine a curt nod.
"Catherine O'Rourke. I'm a reporter for the
Tidewater Times.
"
"Is this an article you wrote for this morning's paper?" Gates handed a copy to Catherine and a second copy to the judge.
"Yes," Catherine said. "That's generally what it means when we put our name on it."
Jacobs shot Catherine a disapproving look.
"Do you think this is funny?" Gates demanded. "Do you find something humorous in the kidnapping of the Carver twins?"
"No," Catherine fired back. "I don't think this is funny at all. I'm being threatened with jail time if I don't reveal a confidential source."
"Read the last paragraph to the court."
Catherine wanted to say that she thought the judge could read those big words all by herself, but she thought better of it.
She read in a slow monotone, her voice trembling just a little. "According to a law-enforcement source familiar with the investigation, the Carver kidnapping may be linked to a similar kidnapping two months ago in Washington, D.C., in which the three-month-old child of Clarence Milburn and Sherita Johnson was abducted in a parking garage. Investigators are reviewing a host of other kidnappings nationwide to determine if other occurrences fit a similar pattern."
"Who was that source, Ms. O'Rourke?"
William Jacobs stood and lodged a halfhearted objection. "For the reasons I explained at the start of this hearing, Your Honor, we don't think Ms. O'Rourke should be required to testify at all, much less reveal a confidential source."
"A reporter's privilege is not absolute," Gates countered. He spoke curtly, as if lecturing the judge. "A compelling governmental interest can override the qualified privilege in a case like this. We are dealing with an extremely sensitive investigation in a high-profile case. As with any investigation, the police held back certain details so they could filter out frauds and trip up the real perpetrator." Gates motioned to the front row of the courtroom at an athletic African-American detective named Jamarcus Webb. "As Mr. Webb testified earlier, the link with another kidnapping was one of the facts held back. And for good reason--"
Judge Amelia Rosencrance cut him off with an impatient flip of her wrist. "Yes, yes, I know how the argument goes, Mr. Gates. And, for the reasons stated earlier, I tend to agree with you. I'm going to overrule Mr. Jacobs's objection and instruct the witness to answer. The government's interest in finding a leak on an investigation of this magnitude overrides Ms. O'Rourke's right to protect her sources."
"Note my objection," Jacobs said politely. When he sat down, all eyes turned to Catherine O'Rourke.
She folded her clammy hands in her lap and swallowed hard. She felt alone in the courtroom as the prospect of facing jail became real.
"Ms. O'Rourke," Judge Rosencrance said, "I've overruled the objection. Please state your source."
"I can't say," Catherine testified. "With respect, Your Honor, I'm not willing to reveal my source."
Judge Rosencrance leaned toward the witness box and seemed to hover over Catherine, like an eagle ready to swoop in for a field mouse. "Your counsel has made his argument," the judge said tersely. "I have overruled it. The law does not protect your right to withhold critical information in the midst of a kidnapping investigation."
Gates took a few steps closer to the witness box, hemming Catherine in. She cast a pleading look toward her own lawyer, motionless at counsel table. Her eyes darted toward the judge, then down at her hands.
"I won't," Catherine said softly, barely above a whisper.
"Then I'll have no choice but to hold you in contempt," Rosencrance responded, her voice sharp.
"I'm sorry, Judge."
Looking up, Catherine thought she detected a flash of sympathy in the judge's eyes. Or maybe uncertainty. No judge in her right mind wanted to put a newspaper reporter in prison. Catherine would probably be reporting for a very long time, including future stories about this judge.
But Boyd Gates had no such ambivalence. "Ninety percent of all kidnapping cases are solved within the first forty-eight hours," he snapped. "Most of the children recovered during that time survive. After forty-eight hours, the odds drop precipitously. While we're here playing games, trying to determine which officers we can trust with confidential information and which ones might be leaking information to the press, the lives of two innocent babies are slipping away."
Catherine felt her heart racing. In journalism school, it all seemed so clear. You made a promise to your sources, you kept your word. Jail was a badge of courage.
But now, with jail actually looming and the lives of two babies at stake, things seemed murky. She shook her head slowly and set her jaw. She faced Judge Rosencrance for one final plea. "If I must, Your Honor, I'm prepared to go to jail. But if the court could just give me a short recess--just overnight so I can talk to my source--maybe this entire standoff could be avoided."
Rosencrance turned to Gates and raised her eyebrows. "Mr. Gates?"
"It's out of the question, Your Honor. We have a compromised investigation. Time is of the essence. We need to know what other confidential information was released to the press and who released it."
"Mr. Jacobs?"
Catherine's lawyer stood and gathered his thoughts. "These are substantial issues of law, Your Honor. If there is a chance of avoiding this dilemma, we should seize it. I know the court doesn't want to curtail my client's First Amendment rights if it can be avoided."
"I'll give you one night," Rosencrance said brusquely. "I want all parties back in my courtroom at 9:00 tomorrow morning."
Gates voiced another objection, but the judge proved she had a stubborn streak too. Finally she banged her gavel and adjourned court.
Catherine got off the witness stand as quickly as possible and gathered her things from the counsel table.
"I hope you can get your source to agree to let you divulge his or her name," William Jacobs said, emotionless as ever. "I don't think we can win this on appeal. You could be serving for an indeterminate time."
Catherine stood to her full height and stared at the man who was supposed to be protecting her. She had heard that the paper paid Jacobs more than $300 an hour. She had also heard he was golfing buddies with the publisher.
"You're fired," said Catherine.
Jacobs did a second take, confusion wrinkling his face. "I work for the paper," he said. "You can't fire me."
"I just did," Catherine shot back. "The paper's not going to jail. I am." She turned and stalked out of the courtroom. On the way, she brushed up against Jamarcus Webb, the investigator who had taken the stand to testify about the confidential nature of the information Catherine had printed.
Her message to Jamarcus was unmistakable.
You owe me, Officer Webb.
And keep the info coming.
11
Quinn was in a foul mood when his plane landed at the Norfolk International Airport. The small terminal could probably have fit inside a Vegas casino lobby with room to spare. He pulled his luggage behind him and looked for the driver with the
Quinn Newberg
sign who would be taking him to Regent Law School in Virginia Beach.