Kennebunk is a town people drive through slowly. It isn’t a place where anyone may expect to become the center of a national scandal. However, it changed when a fitness instructor, namely Alexis Wright, opened her Zumba studio downtown.
It looked like another small business for some time, which was trying to make it. Then, the whispers started. Too many visitors. Too many late-night lights. And it alarmed the police.
What they uncovered stunned everyone. Inside the mirrored walls of the studio, investigators said, Wright had turned her dance business into something far different. Ledgers, videos, and client lists surfaced — more than anyone in Kennebunk was ready to face. News vans arrived.
Caught inside that storm were dozens of men accused of being clients. Some lost jobs, some families, and many faced public humiliation long before any legal judgment. That’s where Timothy E. Zerillo, a seasoned defense lawyer from Portland, stepped in. Calm, methodical, and fiercely aware of the human cost, he represented several men on that list. His job wasn’t only to argue the law. It was to protect his clients’ dignity in a courtroom already tried by the press.
Before the headlines and the flashing cameras, there was just a woman named Alexis Wright teaching Zumba in a narrow studio off Main Street. Music spilled onto the sidewalk when the door opened, and people said her classes were good: loud, sweaty, and full of energy. For a small Maine town, it felt like something new.
Then everything changed. Investigators said the studio wasn’t only about dance. They claimed Wright had been running a prostitution business from the same bright room where neighbors came to stretch and laugh. What looked like a harmless fitness trend suddenly became front-page news.
When police went through her computer, they said they found video clips, lists, and even spreadsheets that tracked appointments and payments. One officer called it “meticulous.” Reporters later called it “the List.” There were dozens of names, maybe more than a hundred, men from around Kennebunk and nearby towns: business owners, coaches, people no one expected to see on a charge sheet.
By early 2013, at least sixty-six men had been formally accused. The number alone was enough to change how the whole town looked at itself. In a place where everyone knows everyone, people began wondering who might be next.
The first clues came quietly. Residents had noticed cars stopping by the studio at strange hours. Lights on late. Short visits. At first, it was gossip, and then someone called the police.
Detectives started watching the building. They kept notes, checked license plates, waited. Eventually, they gathered enough to get a warrant. When they searched Wright’s studio and apartment, what they pulled out filled boxes: cameras, memory cards, receipts, ledgers, and even tax forms. Each item, investigators believed, told part of the same story that the Zumba studio doubled as a carefully managed business.
The charges came fast. Wright faced 106 counts in all: prostitution, promotion of prostitution, conspiracy, invasion of privacy, and several tied to taxes and public benefits. Her alleged partner, Mark W. Strong Sr., was charged with fifty-nine counts for helping her operate the scheme.
For a quiet coastal town, it felt unreal. News trucks parked near the police station. Satellite vans blocked traffic. Reporters lined up outside the courthouse like it was Hollywood. One Press Herald piece described it as “a circus in slow motion.”
The men on Wright’s client list faced far less serious legal trouble, but their reputations never recovered. Most charges were misdemeanors, yet the humiliation was lasting. Some lost jobs within days. Others packed up and left town altogether. A few called lawyers before they even called their families.
The police decided to release the names in groups, a few every week. Each new list hit like another storm. It wasn’t just the accused who suffered — their spouses and children saw their names in the papers too. What should have been handled quietly in court turned into a public ritual of exposure.
In Portland’s legal world, people know the name Timothy E. Zerillo. He runs the Zerillo Law Firm, a small but steady practice focused on criminal and federal defense.
Zerillo is not the kind of attorney who thrives on the spotlight. He prefers quiet rooms, long hours, and carefully built arguments. He believes that preparation wins cases more often than passion does. When reporters look for a headline, he stays focused on paperwork and law books. That discipline became vital when the Kennebunk story exploded and the media turned its attention toward a case that mixed gossip with crime.
For him, this case was different. It was not just another courtroom fight. It was a test of how the law holds up when the world outside the courthouse is already convinced it knows the truth.
As the Zumba investigation grew, Zerillo stepped forward to represent several men accused of being on the so-called client list. Records confirmed at least three of them. From the beginning, he knew the real battle was not inside the courtroom. It was outside, in the headlines and the living rooms, where people were already judging.
When police began releasing names, the town held its breath. Each list came like a new wave. Another handful of people were suddenly branded and shamed. Zerillo objected to that practice and said that justice should never start with exposure.
Zerillo’s position was clear. A name on a list was not proof of guilt. Releasing it before a trial was not justice. It was punishment delivered in advance.
Fairness was always at the center of Zerillo’s defense. He argued that the steady release of names made a fair trial impossible. Once the story reached television screens, the damage was done. No jury could ever truly forget what they had heard.
He also pointed to privacy as a deeper issue, as several of the accused said they had been filmed without their consent.
Reputation was another theme he returned to often. He called it the silent sentence that follows a person long after the case ends. A man can pay a fine or complete probation, but a ruined name has no expiration date. In small towns, it lingers in every conversation.
Then came the matter of pleas. Many of the accused, worn down by the constant attention, wanted to admit guilt simply to make it stop. Zerillo warned them not to act out of fear.
By the end, Zerillo’s work in the Kennebunk case had become something larger than individual representation. He reminded the community that due process exists for a reason. He asked people to pause before they condemn. Above all, he showed that the role of a defense lawyer is not just to argue in court but to hold the line when public opinion tries to replace justice itself.
