But many weren’t. Twenty-four hour news cycles and the proliferation of cable channels and Internet sites meant that more and more people might be interested in grabbing at the chance for their fifteen minutes of fame. Even the most tangential relationship to a famous or infamous case could be parlayed into celebrity. Or at least a stint on a third-rate reality show. Britney’s nanny or Lindsay’s bodyguard might be joined by a Bratz Bandits juror—all of them spilling “behind the scenes” stories. Allison wanted to make sure that none of the jurors wanted to sit in the box just for the media attention they might later receive.
The jurors listened to each other’s answers, looking attentive or bored or spacey. Allison took note of the ones who seemed most disconnected—she didn’t want any juror who wasn’t invested. Like a poker player, she was looking for signs or tells in the behavior of a prospective juror. Did he never look up? Did she seem evasive or over-eager? Allison also made note of the things they carried or wore: Dr. Pepper, Cooking Light magazine, tote bag from a health food store, Wired magazine, brown shoes worn to white at the toes, a black jacket flecked with dandruff. Together with the written questionnaire the prospective jurors had filled out earlier, and how they answered questions now, the information would help Allison decide who she wanted—and who she didn’t want—on the jury.
It didn’t take a mind reader to guess that Nate would plead that his client was too young—and quite possibly too stupid—to fully grasp what she had done. That it had all been a joke. That she had fallen in with a bad crowd. In their separate trials, the two girls would each claim that it was the other’s idea.
There was an art to picking a jury. Some lawyers had rigid rules: no postal workers, no social workers, no engineers, and/or no young black men (although the last rule had to be unspoken, and denied if ever suspected). Allison believed in looking at every person as a whole, weighing each prospective juror’s age, sex, race, occupation, body language.
For this jury, she thought she might want middle-aged women who worked hard for a living and who would have little sympathy for young girls who had literally laughed all the way to the bank. Nearly as good would be younger people who were making something of their lives, focusing on good grades or climbing the career ladder. What Allison wanted to avoid were older men who might think of the girls as “daughter” figures.
“Barp . . . barp . . . barp.” Everyone jumped and then looked up at the ceiling, where red lights were flashing. It was a fire alarm. Allison and Nicole exchanged a puzzled look. Judge Fitzpatrick announced calmly, “It looks like we’re having a fire drill, ladies and gentleman. We’ll all need to take the stairs which are directly to your left as you exit the courtroom.” His voice was already beginning to be lost as people got to their feet, complaining and gathering their things. “Once the drill is over we’ll all reconvene here and began where we left off.”
“Kind of odd,” Nicole said as she collected her files. “I hadn’t heard we were going to have a drill today.”
Allison’s stomach lurched as she thought of Seattle. She clutched the sleeve of Nicole’s jacket. “Maybe it’s not a drill?” For an answer, Nic patted her arm.
As Allison and Nicole turned toward the exit, they saw that one of the prospective jurors sitting in the row directly behind them, a hunched old lady with a cane, was having trouble getting to her feet. Allison and Nicole helped her up and then Allison took her arm. “Let me help you down the stairs,” she said.
“No, I’ll take care of her, Allison,” Nicole said. “You go on ahead. Remember, you’re evacuating for two now.”
Allison had been so busy concentrating on the jury selection that had actually managed to forget for a few hours that she was pregnant. Eleven weeks along now. She didn’t quite show when she was dressed, but her skirt was only fastened with the help of a rubber band looped over the button, threaded through the button hole and back over the button.
“Thanks.” She decided not to argue. Nicole was a single mom to nine-year-old Makaylah, but at least she knew her child was safe. What if this wasn’t just a drill?
Allison went through the double black padded doors, past the elderly bailiff with his plastic name badge clipped to his chest, and hurried toward the stairs.