Plain Truth (15 page)

I hefted it into my arms. The discovery from the prosecutor was not nearly the volume of other cases I'd had in the past— this one small box contained everything the police had gathered, up to this point. But then again, you didn't need a lot of proof for an open-and-shut case.

“What is it?” Katie asked.

She stood beside Samuel, that same sweet, bewildered look on her face. “It's from the prosecution,” I told her. “It's all the evidence that says you killed your baby.”

Two hours later, I was surrounded by statements and documents and reports, none of which cast my client in a favorable light. There were holes in the case—for example, DNA testing had yet to prove that Katie was indeed the mother of the child, and the prematurity of the fetus cast doubt on its ability to survive outside the womb—but for the most part, the overwhelming evidence pointed to her. She'd been placed at the scene of the crime; she'd been tagged as someone who'd recently given birth; her blood was even found on the dead infant's body. The secrecy with which she'd tried to give birth made the prospect of someone else coming along and killing the baby seem ludicrous. On the other hand, it did offer up a motive for the prosecution: when you try so diligently to hide the act of birth, you're probably going to go to great lengths to hide the product of that act, as well. Which left the question of whether or not Katie was in her right mind when she'd committed the murder.

The first thing I needed to do was file a motion for services other than counsel. The court could pay for a psychiatric professional, someone far less likely than me to take Katie on pro bono; and the sooner I wrote up the motion, the sooner I'd have that check in my hand.

Getting off the bed, I knelt to reach beneath it for my laptop. The sleek black case slid along the polished wood floor, so wonderfully heavy with technology and synthetic fabric that it made me want to weep. I set it on the bed and unzipped it, lifting the hinged head of the computer and pressing the button to turn it on.

Nothing happened.

Muttering a curse, I rummaged in the pockets for the battery pack, and slipped it into the hardware. The computer booted up, beeped to alert me that the battery needed to be recharged, and then foundered to a bare, black screen.

Well, it wasn't the end of the world. I could work near an outlet until the battery recharged. An outlet … which didn't exist anywhere in Katie's house.

Suddenly I realized what it meant to me, a lawyer, to be working on an Amish farm. I was supposed to create a defense for my client without any of the normal, everyday conveniences accessible to attorneys. Furious—at myself, at Judge Gorman— I grabbed for my cell phone to call him. I managed to dial the first three numbers, and then the phone went dead.

“Jesus Christ!” I threw the phone so that it bounced off the bed. I didn't even have a battery for it; I'd have to recharge it through the cigarette lighter on a car. Of course, the nearest car was Leda's, a good twenty miles away.

Leda's. Well, that was one solution; I could do all my legal work over there. But it was a difficult solution, since Katie was not supposed to leave the farm. Maybe if I wrote the motion out by hand …

Suddenly, I stilled. If I wrote the motion out by hand, or if I managed to get my phone working again and called the judge, he'd tell me that the conditions for bail weren't working, and that Katie could cool her heels in jail until the trial. It was up to me to find a way out of this.

With determination, I stood up and headed downstairs, toward the barn.

• • •

From Katie I'd learned that the cows were not let out every day in the summer, it was too hot. So when I walked into the barn, the Holsteins chained to their stanchions lowed at me. One lurched to her feet, her udder huge and painfully pink, making me think of Katie the night before. Turning away, I walked between the two rows of cows, ignoring the occasional splash of urine into the grates behind them, hoping to find a way to make my computer work.

I had noticed that if any rules were relaxed on an Amish farm, it was due to economic necessity. For example, in the pristine milk room, a twelve-volt motor stirred the milk in the refrigerated bulk tank; and the vacuum milking machines were powered by a diesel engine that ran twice a day. These “modern conveniences” were not worldly as much as practical; they kept the Amish in a competitive league with other suppliers of milk. I didn't understand much about diesel fuel or engines, but who knew? Maybe one could be adapted to run a Thinkpad.

“What are you doing?”

At the sound of Aaron's voice, I jumped, nearly striking my head on one of the steel arms of the bulk tank. “Oh! You scared me.”

“You have lost something?” he asked, frowning at the corner where I'd been peering.

“No, actually, I'm trying to find something. I need to charge a battery.”

Aaron took off his hat and rubbed his forehead on the fabric of his shirt. “A battery?”

“Yes, for my computer. If you want me to represent your daughter adequately in court, I'm going to have to prepare for her trial. That involves writing several motions beforehand.”

“I write without a computer,” Aaron answered, walking away.

I fell into step beside him. “You may, but that's not what the judge will be expecting.” Hesitating, I added, “I'm not asking for an outlet in the house; or even for Internet access or a fax machine—both of which I use excessively before trial. But you must understand that it's not fair to ask me to prepare in an Amish way, when the event I'm getting ready for is an English one.”

For a long time, Aaron stared at me, his eyes dark and fathomless. “We will speak to the bishop about it. He is coming here today.”

My eyes widened. “He is? For this?”

Aaron turned away. “For other things,” he said.

Without a word, Aaron herded me into the buggy. Katie was already waiting in the back, her expression a signal that she didn't understand what was happening either. Aaron sat down on Sarah's right side and picked up the reins, clucking to the horse to set it trotting.

Another buggy pulled out behind us—the open carriage that Samuel and Levi drove to work. In a caravan we turned onto roads I had never traveled upon. They wound through fields and farms where the men were still working, and finally came to a stop at a small crossroads that was dotted with several other buggies.

The cemetery was neat and small, each marker the same approximate size, so that the very oldest ones were differentiated from the newest only by the chiseled dates. A small group of Amish stood in the far corner, their black dresses and trousers brushing the earth like the wings of crows. As Sarah and Aaron stepped from the buggy, they moved in unison, in greeting.

Too late, I realized that the Fishers were only their first stop. They circled me and Katie, touching her cheek and her arm and patting her shoulder. They murmured words of loss and sorrow, which sound the same in any language. In the distance, Samuel and Levi carried something from their wagon; the small, unmistakable shape of a coffin.

Stunned, I broke away from the little group of relatives to stand beside Samuel. Toes to the edge of the grave, he stood looking down at the tiny wooden box. I cleared my throat, and he met my gaze. Why is no one sympathizing with you? I wanted to ask, but the words stuck fast.

A car pulled slowly to a stop behind the carriages, and Leda and Frank got out, dressed in black. I looked down at my own jeans and T-shirt. If someone had mentioned to me that we'd be attending a funeral, I could have changed. But from the looks of things, no one had bothered to tell Katie this, either.

She accepted the sympathies of her relatives, flinching slightly every time someone spoke to her, as if suffering a physical blow. The bishop and the deacon, men I recognized from the church service, came to stand beside the open grave, and the small group gathered around.

I wondered what sense of responsibility had made Sarah and Aaron retrieve the body of an infant that they would not admit aloud was their grandchild. I wondered how Samuel felt to be standing on the fringe. I wondered what Katie made of all this, given her denial of the pregnancy altogether.

With her mother firmly holding her hand, Katie stepped forward. The bishop began to pray, and everyone bowed their heads—everyone except Katie. She looked straight ahead, then at me, then at the buggies—anywhere but in that grave. Finally, she turned her face to the sky like a flower, and smiled softly, inappropriately, as the sun washed over her skin.

But as the bishop invited everyone to silently recite the Lord's Prayer, Katie suddenly pulled away from her mother and sprinted to the buggy, climbing inside and out of sight.

I started after her. No matter what Katie had said up to this point, something about this funeral had apparently struck a chord. I had taken a step in her direction when Leda grasped my hand and stopped me with a brief shake of her head. To my surprise, I remained standing beside her. I found myself mouthing the words of the prayer; words I had not said in years; words I had forgotten I even knew. Then before Leda could stop me again, I hurried to the buggy and climbed in. Katie was huddled in a lump on the seat, head buried beneath her hands. Hesitantly, I stroked her back. “I can imagine how hard this is for you.”

Slowly, Katie sat up, her spine poker-straight. Her eyes were dry; her lips curved the slightest bit. “He's not mine, if that's what you're thinking.” She repeated, “He's not mine.”

“All right,” I conceded. “He's not yours.” I felt Aaron and Sarah climb into the buggy, turn the horse toward home. And with every rhythmic step I asked myself how Katie, who professed ignorance, had known that the infant was a boy.

Sarah had prepared a meal for the relatives who'd come to the funeral. She set platters of food and baskets of bread on a trestle table that had been moved onto the porch. Unfamiliar women hurried in and out of the kitchen, smiling shyly at me whenever they passed.

Katie was nowhere to be found, and even more strange, no one seemed to find this disturbing. I settled myself on a bench with a plate of food, eating without really tasting anything. I was thinking of Coop, and how long it would be before he got here. First the milk coming in, and now the burial of a tiny body—how much longer could Katie deny the birth of a baby before breaking down?

The bench creaked as a large, elderly woman sat down beside me. Her face was lined like the inner rings of a great sequoia, her hands heavy and swollen at the knuckles. She wore the same black horn-rimmed glasses I remembered my grandfather wearing in the 1950s. “So,” she said. “You're the nice lawyer girl.”

I could count on one hand the number of times in my career I'd heard the words
nice
and
lawyer
in the same sentence, much less the reference to my thirty-nine-year-old self as a girl. I smiled. “That would be me.”

She reached across her plate and patted my hand. “You know, you're very special to us. Standing up for our Katie this way.”

“Well, thank you. But it's my job.”

“No, no.” The woman shook her head. “It's your heart.”

Well, I didn't know what to say to that. What mattered here was getting Katie acquitted, which had virtually nothing to do with my own opinion of her. “If you'll excuse me,” I said, standing, planning on a quick escape. But no sooner had I turned than I ran into Aaron.

“If you would come with us,” he said, gesturing to the bishop beside him. “We can talk about that matter from earlier today.”

We walked to a quiet spot in the shade of the barn. “Aaron tells me you have a problem with your legal case,” Ephram began.

“I wouldn't call it a problem with the case. It's more like a difficulty in logistics. You see, part of my job requires me to be plugged into technology. I need the tools of my trade to prepare the motions I'll be sending to the judge, as well as depositions that will come later on. If I hand the judge a handwritten legal text, he'll laugh me out of court—right after he puts Katie into jail, saying that the bail conditions aren't working out.”

“You are talking about using a computer?”

“Yes, specifically. Mine will run on batteries, but they're dead.”

“You can't get more of these batteries?”

“Not at the local Turkey Hill,” I said. “They're expensive. I could recharge them, but that requires an outlet.”

“I will not have an outlet on my property,” Aaron interrupted.

“Well, I can't go into town and charge the battery for eight hours and leave Katie alone here, either.”

The bishop stroked his long, gray beard. “Aaron, you remember when Polly and Joseph Zook's son had the asthma? You remember how much more important it was for the child to have oxygen than to adhere to the strict letter of the
Ordnung?
I think this is the same thing.”

“This is not the same at all,” Aaron countered. “This isn't life or death.”

“Ask your daughter about that,” I shot back.

The bishop held up his hands. At that moment, he looked exactly like every judge I'd ever stood up to in a courtroom. “The computer is not yours, Aaron, and I do not doubt your personal commitment to our ways. But like I told the Zooks, the ends justifies the means, in this case. For as long as the lawyer needs it, I will allow an inverter on this farm, to be used only by Miss Hathaway for the electric.”

“An inverter?”

He turned to me. “Inverters convert twelve-volt current into one-hundred ten volt. Our businessmen use them to power cash registers. We can't use electric straight from a generator, but an inverter, it runs off a battery, which is okay by the
Ordnung
. Most families can't have inverters, because there's too much temptation. You see, the electric goes from diesel to generator to twelve-volt battery to inverter to any appliance—such as your computer.”

Aaron looked appalled. “Computers are forbidden by the
Ordnung
. And inverters—they're on probation,” he said. “You could plug a lightbulb into one!”