Small cast of characters bails out the accused

It's 3 a.m. You shouldn't have driven after pounding those beers. Or you just got into a tussle with your good-for-nothing brother-in-law. Or maybe those unpaid traffic citations have caught up with you.

Now you're sitting inside a cell at the King County Jail. As your new roommate with the grubby hair and 12 tattoos starts looking at you funny, you begin to wonder: "How the heck am I going to get out of here?"

In Seattle, you've got these choices: A guy in gold jewelry devoted to Jimi Hendrix; a tough-talking horsewoman; a former U.S. marshal and his wife; a dogged salesman who will track you down if you don't find him first; and a woman known only as "Ms. Fisher."

Lucky for you, they always answer their phones.

Behind the scenes

The modest offices of the five Seattle-based bail-bond agencies sit in contrast to the mammoth jail, towering courthouses and lawyer-filled high-rises of downtown.

From the polished interior of Lacey OMalley to the psychedelic den of Henry Lewis, bond agents guarantee tens of millions of dollars to the courts every year in exchange for the freedom of their clients. Their efforts keep King County's jails from overflowing with the 50,000 people awaiting charges or trial there each year.

And when the overburdened lawyers representing the accused don't have time, bond agents make reminder phone calls and patiently go over the complex web of court dates, legal requirements and inch-thick stacks of documents.

Yet the small cast of characters that bails thousands of King County's accused out of jail each year goes largely unnoticed, even by the lawyers, judges and court staff who usher people through the justice system.

Bail bondsmen and women know all too well the images they do bring to mind: seedy, smoke-filled backrooms with shady characters trading freedom for cash, or "Dog," the leather-clad, bad-boy bounty hunter who flexes his biceps while chasing down fugitives every week on television.

"That's TV land," said Troy Hansen, who runs All City Bail Bonds in Seattle.

In reality, the bail-bond business is usually more storefront insurance sales than adrenaline-pumping midnight stakeouts.

Whichever one you choose, Seattle's bail agents all want you to believe the same thing: When you're in trouble with the law, as scared as you've ever been, they'll be your friend. Really.

You just better show up to court.

A need for trust

It's too bad you have to get arrested to see the office of Henry "Fireball" Lewis.

Tucked inside a historic Pioneer Square building, Henry's Bail Bonds doubles as a Jimi Hendrix shrine of sorts. Lewis, a former baseball pitcher with a taste for camel's-hair coats and gold jewelry, reigns over the collection of framed Hendrix posters and T-shirts — just a sampling of the memorabilia he hopes to turn into a museum one day.

The décor is designed to help Lewis' clients feel relaxed. The calmer they feel, the more they trust him — something bond agents agree is critical. If there's no trust between the agent and the accused, it's easier for a person to "skip out" on bail — not show up to court when they've promised to.

"And they have to go to court. There are no bad-hair days," said Lewis, who some people call "the Jimi man" because of his longtime friendship with members of the Hendrix family.

Lewis went into the bond business more than a decade ago and says he does it partly because he likes to help people. He has about five to 10 clients a day, and his average bond is about $5,000.

Agency, or surety bonds, work like this: When someone is arrested, the court can set bail — an amount of money that must be paid in order to be released from jail. The amount — which can range from less than $500 to more than $1 million — is based on the defendant's perceived risk to the public, the seriousness of the alleged crime and criminal history. Sometimes, the court will free people on "personal recognizance" — they simply give their word that they will return to court.

When bail is set, those who can afford to pay the entire amount directly to the court can get out of jail with the understanding they must appear in court at some future date. If they follow the rules, they'll get all their money back later.

King County also occasionally allows defendants to post an "appearance bond" — pay 10 percent of the bail directly to the court, which is reimbursable after they come back for their court dates.

But many people don't have enough cash to get themselves out of jail. That's where a bond agency comes in.

A bond agency promises to pay the court (King County Superior or District Court or Seattle Municipal Court) the full amount of the bail within 60 days if a defendant fails to make the next court appearance.

In return, the defendant pays a fee of 10 percent of the bond amount to the agency, often by putting up personal collateral like a home, car or other property.

If the accused shows up as required and the case is decided, the bond is exonerated and the agency is released from its promise to pay.

But if a person fails to appear in court, also known as skipping, bond companies will send their recovery agents (bounty hunters) after them.

If the collateral isn't there, or the client doesn't seem trustworthy enough, bond agencies can say no to a client, Hansen said.

"It's just like placing a loan at the bank," said Hansen, who connects with some clients by spending afternoons at the jail courtroom, where recent arrestees have their first appearances and are hoping to post bail.

Nationally, about 10 percent of people skip out on their bonds, said Dennis Behrend, public information officer for the Professional Bail Agents of the United States and co-owner of Seattle's Lacey OMalley.

"Not just a dollar"

Inside Lacey OMalley's Third Avenue office, soft beige walls, smooth mahogany and the scent of leather give visitors the feeling of being in a bank. The company's Web site boasts the slogan, "Sometimes bad things happen to good people."

On a recent day, Behrend sported a crisp white shirt, necktie and a pair of shiny cuff links from his prized collection. Co-owner and Behrend's wife, Gayle Brandon Behrend, dresses in lawyerly suits that prove bond agents are not all "fat guys with gold jewelry and cigars."

Ironically, Behrend is a retired deputy U.S. marshal. He used to lock accused criminals up; now he gets them out.

"The two jobs are actually more similar than you'd think," he said. "With both, you're just a cog in the wheel of the justice system."

Lacey OMalley is the agency that wealthy and well-known locals often turn to when they get arrested. The company's nine licensed bond agents have dealt with some of Seattle's most famous, including athletes and high-profile business people.

So how do bond agents make sure that their clients turn up in court?

The importance of family buy-in is key, Behrend said. Because family members often put up collateral for the accused, they have a vested interest in making sure the person follows through.

Though bond agents make a profit off of people's troubles, they aren't heartless, said the Behrends, who draw from their Christian values.

"A lot of time the family members, like parents, are destroyed by what has happened to their loved one," Brandon Behrend said. "They cry. We try to show that we care — it's not just a dollar."

Can't consider charges

Call Bobbi's Bail Bonds and you'll hear the brusque voice of a tough businesswoman. Walk into Bobbi Van Alstyne's minimalist Ikea-style office across from the King County Correctional Facility and you'll meet a blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty who can talk slang with convicted criminals as easily as she can discuss the fine points of horses, which she shows in her spare time.

Like all of Seattle's agents, she said she tries not to think about the charges and to remember that everyone is innocent until proved guilty.

"I try to stay open-minded, but the child rapes are tough to swallow. If it's a really bad case, you do think twice about bailing them out. I'm just like other people — I think about the child molesters and I think 'Oh that's nasty,' " said Van Alstyne, 35, who blows off steam by entering horse shows with Hustle, her half Arabian, half quarter horse.

Van Alstyne, who opened her two-person agency less than a year ago after spending seven years at All City Bail Bonds, said an average-sized company bails out thousands of people a year. It can be lucrative, she said.

Like other local agents (some companies based outside of Seattle also post bail in King County but have no offices here), Van Alstyne helps confused clients keep track of court dates and decipher legal documents. But she doesn't give legal advice.

"I have no desire to be an attorney," she said.

"I'd argue all day with the prosecutors and tell them to go kiss my butt."

Competitive business

Even in Seattle, where passive aggressiveness rules, rivalry can escalate among the tiny bond-agent community. Because they all charge a 10-percent fee, agents have to find other ways to compete for clients.

Some push the customer-service angle, some go heavy on advertising, others jockey in the jail courtroom to attract arrestees making their first court appearance.

Lucille Fisher, Seattle's grande dame of bail bonds, dislikes just two things as much as overly aggressive tactics: giving her age and thinking about retirement.

An elegant, well-spoken woman known in the bond world as "Ms. Fisher," she studied insurance in college and owned a hair salon before buying a bond company in 1970. She wrote her first bond for $3,000, an amount that "nearly gave me a heart attack."

Experience has taught Fisher, owner of Seattle Bail Bonds, never to typecast an accused person. "I've gotten priests out of jail, bankers out of jail. I've rushed to get a lawyer out of jail before the sun comes up so he can go defend someone else."

And despite the fact that they spend their days entrenched in the bowels of the criminal-justice system, most bond agents say their faith in humankind isn't shaken.

"People are people," Fisher said. "I'm here to give service and to give respect. The courts will judge."

Natalie Singer: 206-464-2704 or nsinger@seattletimes.com