by Lis Wiehl
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-the-scenes” 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.”
Allison and Nicole exchanged a puzzled look.
“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 what had happened in Seattle last month. She clutched the sleeve of Nicole’s jacket. “Maybe it’s not a drill.”
As Allison and Nicole turned toward the exit, they saw that one of the prospective jurors, a hunched old lady with a cane, was having trouble getting to her feet. They helped her up, and then Allison took her arm. “Let me help you down the stairs.”
“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 she 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 buttonhole and back over the button.
“Thanks.” She decided not to argue. At least Nicole knew her child was nowhere near here. What if this wasn’t just a drill?
Allison hurried through the black padded double doors and toward the stairs.
CHAPTER 3
Channel 4 TV
Juggling a handful of colorful dry-erase markers, Channel 4’s assignment editor, Eric Reyna, stood in front of the whiteboard at the station’s morning story meeting. Around the table, staff passed copies of the three pages of potential story ideas that Eric had compiled. Everyone sat on a rolling office chair—everyone except the new intern, Jenna Banks. She was balanced on a bright-blue exercise ball that she claimed helped strengthen her “core.”
Crime reporter Cassidy Shaw was already tired of the ball, and how Jenna bounced on it, and how her blonde cascade of hair rippled when she did, and how her tiny skirts rode up her slender thighs. But there was no point in complaining. She would just look old and bitter. It was a measure of the cruel reality of the news business that at thirty-three she might legitimately be considered old and bitter.
Eric ran his free hand through his thinning, gray hair as the reporters scanned the list. As the assignment editor, Eric was like the air traffic controller of the newsroom. He monitored scanners, managed news crews, and generated stories. And he ran the morning and afternoon story meetings that decided what aired at noon and what aired at night. He was a good ten years older than anyone in the room, but since he was never on camera, Eric didn’t need to worry about his potbelly or lack of charisma.
And while no one knew his face or asked for his autograph, Eric made it clear to Cassidy and the rest of the on-air staff that he saw himself as the true brains behind the pretty faces that spent time in front of the camera.
Led by Eric, the team quickly decided which stories to follow up on. A Portland couple accused of allowing underage drinking at their New Year’s Eve party was due back in court. Some environmental activists had chained themselves to the fence at the headquarters of a company they claimed used cancer-causing chemicals to line their aluminum cans. And the station’s political reporter, Jeff Caldwell, was chasing down a report of misconduct at city hall.
Once the day was planned out, Eric said, “Okay, people, during sweeps we’ll be running some special programming.”
February—as well as May, July, and November—was a sweeps month, when the Nielsen company measured the audience watching each television program. That information set the price advertisers paid for commercial time. The more people who watched the news, the more Channel 4 could charge for advertising for the next four months. During sweeps month, every news story had to be bigger, stronger, and just a little bit crazy.
Cassidy made her voice low and sonorous. “It killed Lucille Ball, Albert Einstein, and George C. Scott. And it’s caused by something you probably have in your medicine cabinet. Is your life in danger? Tune in at six to find out more.”
Everyone laughed. Everyone except Eric, who continued on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Cassidy will have that special piece about domestic violence that will air right before Valentine’s Day. I’m anticipating a lot of viewer reaction.”
Everyone looked at Cassidy. She straightened up and smiled. Then Jenna had to spoil it all by patting her hand and saying, “You’re so brave,” in the exact same tone as she would use to compliment someone competing in the Special Olympics.
Eric continued, “In addition to Cassidy’s piece, we’ll be running a couple of investigative exposés. One will invol
ve having someone pose as a streetwalker. We’ll set up a hotel room and surprise the johns for a little on-camera conversation.”
Cassidy pressed her lips together. No wonder Eric had singled out her piece. He was just trying to butter her up so she would be willing to go from serious to sleazy. It was bad enough that the station hadn’t made her coanchor, something they had hinted doing only a few weeks ago. Now they wanted her to put on some hot pants and a pair of vinyl boots and lean into creepy guys’ cars while they filmed her. Even if she would look pretty darn sexy, it was still demeaning. Well, she wasn’t that desperate. She would just tell them no. And then they would beg and plead, and maybe she would work some kind of deal. Get some extra vacation days, at a minimum.
“That’s so sleazy,” Cassidy said. “Do I really have to do it?”
Eric smirked as if he had been waiting for her. “No one’s asking you to, Cassidy. Jenna has already agreed to go undercover and do the reporting for that story. We want you to work on a different investigative piece. We’re going to send you to a spa in the Pearl District. We have reports that they’re using bad Botox.”
All Cassidy could manage was to sputter “Jenna!” Her disdain for the story evaporated. Jenna! Jenna! But she was the intern! She was only twenty-two years old! Okay, she was smart enough, but you had to pay your dues before you got airtime. Before you got a story served to you on a platter.
From the other end of the table, Jenna gave Cassidy an exaggerated smile that showed every one of her shiny, white teeth. She coyly dipped her head toward one shrugging shoulder, miming an apology.
Right. Like Cassidy was dumb enough to think that Jenna hadn’t known this was coming.
Halfway down the table, Cassidy heard Brad Buffet’s soft snicker. Brad was the anchor, the once and future king. Cassidy had tried to depose him, or at least share power, and he had made it clear he would never forgive her betrayal.
Where was the fairness? A few weeks earlier, Cassidy had handed Channel 4 a story about a dead girl and a senator that pushed the ratings into the stratosphere overnight. Stations from all over the country had courted her. By now she could have been telling viewers the top story in San Francisco or Boston. Instead, she had stayed put in Portland, for the promise of coanchoring with Brad.
Sure, she got to fill the role a few times, but the promise turned out to be empty. The station manager instead told her, “We’re bringing in a new gal to partner with Brad. Former Miss Connecticut. She tests very well.”
“But you promised me, Jerry!” Cassidy had protested.
“We didn’t promise. We said we would try it out.” Jerry had sighed. “And we did give you a run in the anchor’s chair, but the overnights didn’t come back like we’d hoped. We gave it a shot, Cassidy, but I have to think of the good of the station. As a crime reporter, everyone loves you. But you just don’t have the same impact in the anchor’s chair.”
And now, to add insult to injury, Jenna was getting the story that would showcase her gorgeous body. And Cassidy was stuck with the segment that would make viewers think of her as old.
When the meeting was over, Cassidy fled to the ladies’ room. After making sure she was alone, she looked at herself in the mirror. Despite the fact that she had finally started getting more sleep, in the unflattering fluorescent light her skin looked somehow sallow. Did her hair—which she spent several hundred dollars getting cut and colored every six weeks—appear more like straw? She drew her fingers down on either side of her lips. Could she be getting puppet lines? Next, she turned to the side and put her hand on her stomach. It was flat when she sucked it in—but not so much when she didn’t.
It was at that moment that Jenna walked in, moving so fast that by the time Cassidy jerked her hand away from her belly, she could tell that Jenna had already seen it.
“Hey,” Cassidy said, giving her a false smile. She quickly moved to the door with her hand outstretched.
“Do you think I’m wrong to be taking the assignment?” Jenna asked. “Do you really think that it’s degrading?”
Something inside Cassidy snapped. “It’s bad enough that you’re doing it, but don’t pretend that it wasn’t what you wanted all along!”
Jenna’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know anything about it until Eric asked me. I’m sorry if you think I’m not being some old-school feminist, but I personally think you can still be hot and be a journalist.”
“Of course you do,” Cassidy said. She had clearly underestimated Jenna, who had managed to call her ancient and ugly without actually using the words. Without saying any more, Cassidy pulled open the restroom door.
As she walked back down the hall, Eric looked up from the police scanner. The small, black box was used to monitor police, ambulance, fire, and public utilities transmissions.
“Hey, Cassidy, didn’t you tell me once that you know Jim Fate?”
“Yeah. Casually.” She managed a shrug. “Why?”
“Because the scanner is saying there’s been some kind of explosion over at KNWS. It’s not very clear. But it sounds like someone took him out.”
Cassidy went absolutely still. Jim? Dead?
Then Brad spoke from behind her, making her jump. “I’m surprised nobody did something to that guy a long time ago. How many people has he ticked off over the years?”
Neither Eric nor Cassidy answered him. Instead Eric said, “Cassidy, I’m assigning this story to you, given your personal connection. I want you and Andy over at KNWS right now.”
She managed to get the words out past her suddenly dry throat. “Sure. But tell Andy we’ll take separate cars and I’ll meet him there.”
Eric’s eyes narrowed. “I want you on this right away. I’m going to put it on a breaking news crawl. So don’t dawdle, Cassidy. I want a finished package for the noon news. Maybe even sooner.”
“And you’ll get it. Don’t worry.”
Cassidy turned away. Her fingers were already in her purse, feeling for the key to Jim’s condo.
CHAPTER 4
Mark O. Hatfield United States Courthouse
Allison had been one of the first down the stairwell. The man in front of her pushed open the heavy door, and the sound of dozens of sirens rolled over them, so loud that she winced and put her hands up to her ears. She blinked in the pale sunshine and looked out at a world entirely different from the orderly one of the courthouse. She stopped short, but then a hand pushed her shoulder from behind. She stepped to one side, so that she wasn’t blocking the exit, and pressed her back against the cold granite wall.
People were running in all directions. They cut across the street without regard to traffic. Cars sounded their horns and pulled into bike lanes and even into the oncoming lane in a futile effort to find a clear path.
Chaos.
“Move! Move, people, move! Move away from the downtown core!” A policeman standing on the corner shouted into a megaphone, but his words were nearly drowned out by the sirens. “Go across one of the bridges. Get out of downtown!”
Looking past him, Allison could see what she guessed must be the source of the problem. Half a block away was a knot of fire trucks, police cars, ambulances, cops, and firefighters—but what really froze her blood were the men in white hazmat suits milling around, waving wands in the air as they checked small handheld machines. She thought of the thumbnail sketches of the victims of the recent terrorist attack that the Oregonian had been running. Would her picture and two paragraphs about her life be in next week’s paper?
A section of sidewalk in front of an office building had been cordoned off by orange cones and yellow tape strung around spindly street trees. And in the middle, a tall Asian-looking woman stood in what seemed to be a blue kiddie pool, screaming as more men in white chemical suits and blue rubber boots sprayed her off with a high-pressure hose. Her eyes were closed, and her arms were wrapped around her head. And as Allison watched, she toppled over.
Allison didn’t know where to go—just away from the sirens, awa
y from whatever had happened to that poor woman. Get away before it got her too. A woman in a turquoise blouse darted in front of a dark sedan, and the next second she was on top of the hood, her body pressed against the windshield. Allison gasped in horror, but the woman pushed herself off the car and started running again, limping, before Allison could help her.
An older man in a heavy overcoat doubled over right in front of her, his breath wheezing. He clutched his fur collar. “It’s in the air!” he yelled. “It’s in the air! Terrorists! Sarin!”
Allison’s breath caught in her chest. Sarin! What could that do to her developing baby?
All around her, dozens of people were trying to clear their throats, gagging, swaying, coughing, even falling to the ground. Allison stood frozen for a second. Should she try to help someone—maybe drag the middle-aged woman who sat panting in the middle of the sidewalk? But to where? Was any place safe? Would stopping to help just strike her down too? Dear God, she prayed, help me know what to do.
Her heart was beating so fast. The air smelled sour. Her mouth tasted like metal. She took one more look at the poor woman in the wading pool. She was still now, and the men in white suits were cutting off her clothes, dropping each scrap into a red plastic bag marked with hazard symbols.
Allison realized she had to save herself. Save herself and the baby inside her. If she didn’t get out of here right now, they might both be dead.
All around her more and more people staggered, coughed, fell to the ground. One woman was crawling, still trying to get away. Others had given up. And in the middle of the crowd stood a Hispanic toddler, screaming. Allison hesitated. No one was rushing to her side. The child was all alone. And in a second she might succumb, as so many were, gagging, eyes rolling, falling to the pavement.
Allison raced to the little girl, grabbed her and held her close, and began to run.
Run while she still could.