Face of Betrayal (35 page)

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.