Sixteen-year-old Amelia Keown was on her way home from school — stopping to grab pom poms for dance practice — when she was struck and killed by a driver under the influence of drugs. The driver had recently been released on parole and had an extensive criminal history. The community was furious. In response to Amelia’s story, the Tennessee legislature unanimously passed “Amelia’s Law,” which mandates that individuals convicted of substance-related crimes wear transdermal monitoring devices upon their release.
A year later, the law remained unenforced as the pertinent departments lacked the necessary devices.
In one perspective, Amelia’s Law represents an excellent narrative. A young victim. A tragedy that could have been avoided. A seemingly sensible response. However, in terms of sound policy, it may fall short — and fresh research indicates that the two aspects are intertwined in ways that should prompt reflection.
Krystia Reed, a psychologist and legal scholar at the University of Texas at El Paso, has dedicated years to deliberating on what she terms eponymous legislation: laws and bills named after victims of tragedies. Megan’s Law, the Brady Act, AMBER Alerts, Caylee’s Law. The prevalence of these names becomes apparent once one starts noticing them. Their numbers have surged since the 1990s and now exist in nearly every US jurisdiction. Reed and her colleagues sought to explore a straightforward yet uncomfortable question: does associating a bill with a victim alter voter support, even if the policy remains unchanged?
Through three experiments engaging over 670 participants, the conclusion was clear. Yes. Significantly. In ways that seemingly bypass rational scrutiny of the policy entirely.
“Our research indicates that incorporating a victim’s name and story into a bill can significantly enhance public backing, even when the policy remains the same,” Reed states. “Victim narratives not only make legislation more memorable — they also render it more compelling. Sympathy can influence approval, implying that lawmakers and voters might prioritize feelings over facts.”
In the initial study, participants reviewed either a standard bill concerning the limitation of solitary confinement in juvenile detention or the same bill, now titled “Rosemary’s Bill,” contextualized by the story of a 16-year-old who died by suicide after enduring weeks in solitary confinement. Among those who read solely the bill, 73% endorsed it. Among those who learned of Rosemary’s story, the support soared to 100%. Everyone approved. Furthermore, the victim’s narrative strikingly removed any confusion. Several participants in the unnamed group opposed the bill while explicitly declaring their support for its objectives — they simply misunderstood the legislative content. None of the participants exposed to the eponymous version made that error.
This last observation might be the most intriguing aspect in an otherwise rather troubling set of findings. Victim narratives are not just emotionally manipulative — they can also aid voters in comprehending what legislation genuinely proposes. Reed’s team is cautious to recognize this. A name paired with a story can act as a translation mechanism for complicated legal language, diminishing the likelihood that someone votes against a policy they would support if they understood it. It’s conceivable, therefore, to maintain that eponymous legislation inflates support through sympathy while also making complicated bills more approachable for the general public. Both assertions appear valid.
However, the inflation is indeed substantial. In their second study, utilizing a national community sample and a bill inspired by Amelia’s story (a transdermal monitoring requirement for individuals on parole), the named version garnered 79% support compared to 62% for the unnamed bill. The disparity is narrower, partly because the policy itself was more contentious — involving issues of bodily autonomy — but the trend remained consistent. Importantly, when the researchers probed the underlying mechanisms, it was found that sympathy played a pivotal role in influencing votes. Participants who read Amelia’s story experienced greater sympathy, which influenced their voting behavior. They weren’t necessarily dehumanizing the perpetrator. They weren’t processing in a colder or more analytical manner. They were simply feeling, in a relatively straightforward way, sorrow.
In the third study, Reed’s team distinguished between the name and the narrative — inquiring whether it is “Alyssa’s Bill” that affects people, or the story of who Alyssa was and how she passed away. The story prevailed decisively. Merely attaching a name to a bill had a moderately measurable effect, but informing someone about the circumstances surrounding that person was what significantly swayed votes. “Stories are potent mechanisms in shaping public sentiment,” Reed remarks. The existing research she cites indicates that this is profound and likely not easily rectified: narratives tend to be more convincing, easier to remember, and more persuasive than abstract propositions across most contexts. Jurors structure trial evidence into narratives. Donors react more strongly to a single identifiable victim than to statistics concerning thousands. The identifiable victim effect is robust and well-documented. Eponymous legislation, in a sense, embodies this same principle.