The judge then pointed out the defendant, Bethany Maddox, who wore a demure pink and white dress that Allison was sure someone else had picked out for her. The courtroom stirred as people craned their necks or got to their feet to get a glimpse. Bethany smiled, looking as if she had forgotten that she was on trial. Her defense attorney, Nate Condorelli, stood and introduced himself, but it was clear that the would-be jurors weren't nearly as interested in Nate as they were in his client.
Today was the first step in bringing to justice the pair the media had dubbed the Bratz Bandits, courtesy of their full lips, small noses, and trashy attire. What was it with the media and nicknames for bank robbers? The Waddling Bandit, the Grandmother Robber, the Toboggan Bandit, the Runny Nose Robber, the Grocery Cart Bandit--the list went on and on.
For a few weeks after their crime, grainy surveillance video of the pair had been in heavy rotation not just in Portland but nationwide. The contrast between two nineteen-yer-old girls--one blonde and one brunette, both wearing sunglasses, short skirts, and high heels--and the big, black guns they waved around had seemed more comic than anything else. On the surveillance tape, they had giggled their way through the bank robbery.
The week before, Allison had heard Bethany's parents on The Hand of Fate, the radio talk show. The mother had told listeners that the two young women were not bandits, but "little girls that made a had choice."
Bethany's mother had seemed surprised when Jim Fate laughed.
The father, who was divorced from the mother, had sounded much more in touch with reality, and Allison had made a mental note to consider putting him on the stand.
"God gives us free will, and it's up to us what we do with it," he had told Jim Fate. "Any adult has to make decisions and live with them--good, bad, or indifferent."
The two girls had done it for the money, of course, but it seemed they welcomed the accompanying fame even more. On their Facebook pages they now listed more than a thousand "friends" each. Allison had even heard a rumor that Bethany--the blonde half of the pair and the one on trial today--would soon release a hip-hop CD.
The challenge for Allison was getting a jury to see that what might seem like a victimless crime--and which had only netted three thousand dollars--deserved lengthy jail time.
The courtroom deputy read out fifty names, and the congestion eased a little bit as the first potential jurors took seats in the black swivel chairs in the jury box and in the much-less-comfortable benches that had been reserved for the overflow.
Now the judge turned to the screening questions. "Has anyone heard anything about this case?" he asked. No one expected jurors to have lived in a vacuum, but he would dismiss those who said their minds were made up. It would be an easy out, if anyone was looking for one.
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 the Bratz Bandits juror--all of them spilling "behind-thescenes" stories.
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 overeager? Allison also made note of the things they carried or wore: Dr Pepper, Cooking Light magazine, a 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.
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 tried to look at each person as a whole, weighing each prospective juror's age, sex, race, occupation, and 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."
Barrrp . . . barrrp.. . barrrp. Everyone jumped and then looked up at the ceiling, where red lights were flashing. Judge Fitzpatrick announced calmly, "It looks like we're having a fire drill, ladies and gentlemen. Since they lock down the elevators as a precaution, 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 reconvene here and pick up where we left off."