Jodie Picoult - Plain Truth

Katie paused in the act of removing her apron, then nodded and continued. Keeping her back modestly turned, she slipped off her dress and hung it on one of the wooden pegs lining the walls, then pulled her nightgown over her head.

“It must have been nice, having Jacob all to yourself.”

“Ja,” Katie murmured, with none of the enthusiasm I would have expected.

Concerned, I came up on one elbow. “You all right?”

She managed a smile. “Tired, is all. We talked some about the trial, and it wore me out.” After a moment she added, “I said you would be telling everyone I was crazy.”

Not quite the terminology I’d have used, but there you had it. “What does Jacob think?”

“He said you were a good lawyer, and you knew what you were doing.”

“Bright boy. What else did he say?”

Katie shrugged. “Stuff,” she said quietly. “Stuff about himself.”

Leaning back again, I folded my arms beneath my head. “I bet he threw your father for a loop tonight.”

When there was no response, I assumed Katie had fallen asleep. I jumped when she swung out of bed in a quick motion and yanked on the blinds. “That moon,” she muttered. “It’s too light to get any rest.”

The blackout shades in the bedroom were hunter green, like every other blackout shade in the house. It was one of the ways you could tell an Amish place from an English one-the color of the shades, and the lack of electrical wires winnowing toward the house.

“How come the shades are green?” I asked, certain that there was an explanation for this, as for every other oddity of Amish life.

Katie’s face was turned away from me, her voice coated thick. If not for the mundane question I’d asked, I would have thought she was crying. “Because,” she said, “that’s the way it’s always been.”

I had gotten into the habit of taking only coffee in the morning, certain that my exit from the Fishers’ would coincide with an angioplasty if I didn’t watch myself more closely. But the day of the final pretrial hearing, when I came down to the kitchen wearing my red knock-’em-dead power suit, Sarah handed me a platter of eggs and bacon, flapjacks, toast, and honey. She even pushed me to have seconds. She was feeding me like she fed Aaron and Samuel, men who worked long, hard hours in order to preserve her way of life.

After only a moment’s thought to my triglycerides, I ate everything she stacked on my plate.

Katie was stationed at the sink while I ate, washing the bowls and pans used to cook. She was wearing her lavender dress and her best apron-her Sunday clothes-for the trip to the superior court. Although she would not be sitting in on the hearing, I wanted the judge to know that she was still firmly in my custody.

She turned to set a freshly washed mixing bowl on the counter, but it slipped out of her hand. “Oh!” she cried, grasping for it, fumbling in a comedy of errors to keep it from shattering on the floor. With pure luck, she managed to catch it, and hugged it close to her middle-only to move too quickly and knock a pitcher off the counter with her elbow, sending pottery shards and orange juice across the kitchen floor.

One look at the mess, and Katie burst into tears. Sarah scolded her gently in Dietsch, while Katie knelt to pick up the biggest slivers of the broken pitcher. I set my napkin on the table and got down on the floor to help her. “You’re jittery.”

Katie rocked back on her heels. “It’s just . . . all of a sudden, Ellie, this is very real.”

Sarah reached between us, mopping up the orange juice with a dish towel. Over her strong back I met Katie’s gaze and smiled. “Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

I knew it had rattled George Callahan to pass Katie, sitting serene and sweet on a bench just outside the judge’s chambers. He kept peering beyond the court reporter who’d come for the private hearing into the open doorway, where Katie was visible. “What’s your client doing here?” he finally hissed at me.

I made a big show out of craning my neck and studying Katie. “Praying, I think.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Oh, why did I bring her to court? Well, gosh, George. You should understand better than anyone. It’s part of the bail contingency.”

Judge Ledbetter bustled in. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, taking a seat behind her desk. She opened a file and scanned it. “Might I just say, Ms. Hathaway, how glad I am that you finally got around to noticing up your insanity defense?” She turned a page. “Any motions either of you plan to submit?”

“I’ve filed a motion to dismiss, Your Honor,” I said.

“Yes, I know. Why?”

“Because my client is being denied a constitutional right-a fair trial among her peers. However, not a single Amishman or woman will be sitting on that jury. In our society-in our system-her peers do not exist.” I took a deep breath as the judge’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I would consider asking for a trial in front of a judge, or even asking for a change of venue, but neither applies here-either of those options would still compromise her right to fair trial. A typical jury that’s a cross-section of America is not a cross-section of an Amish community, Your Honor. And if my client is not judged by people who understand her faith and her upbringing and, well, her world-then she’s at a marked disadvantage.”

The judge turned to the district attorney. “Mr. Callahan?”

“Your Honor, the fact remains that Ms. Fisher broke a law of the United States government. She is going to be tried in a United States court of law. It doesn’t matter if she’s Amish, Buddhist, or Zulu-she played with fire, and she is now required to deal with the consequences of her actions.”

“Oh, please. She’s not an international terrorist who set off a bomb in the World Trade Center. She’s an American citizen, which entitles her to objective treatment under the law.”

George turned, and said under his breath, “American citizens pay taxes.”

“Excuse me, I don’t think the court reporter quite got that,” the judge commented.

I smiled at her. “The county attorney was just erroneously making assumptions about my client’s fiscal responsibility. The Amish pay taxes, George. If they’re self-employed, they don’t pay Social Security, because they don’t use Medicare or Medicaid or any of the other services it funds, since they believe in caring for their own elderly. If they’re employed by someone else, they get Social Security taken out of their paychecks and never use a penny of it. The Amish don’t pay gasoline taxes, but they pay real estate taxes, which support public schools they don’t even use. They also don’t take advantage of federal agriculture subsidies, welfare, and student loans.” Turning to the judge, I said, “This is my point exactly, Judge Ledbetter. If the prosecutor in this case is already coming into court with preconceived misconceptions about the Amish, that prejudice will be multiplied by twelve on a traditional jury.”

The judge pinched the bridge of her nose. “You know, Ms. Hathaway, I’ve actually given this motion of yours a great deal of thought. It’s extremely distressing for me to think that a United States citizen might, simply by religious affiliation, not be able to get a fair trial. What you said in your brief is absolutely valid.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.”

“Unfortunately for you and your client, what Mr. Callahan just said in response is absolutely valid as well. We have a defendant on trial for murder here, not for stealing a pack of gum. It’s irresponsible to dismiss a trial of such magnitude. And although I think we can all pretty much guarantee that not a single Amish person will sit on that jury, the truth is, Ms. Hathaway, your client wouldn’t get a jury of her peers no matter what court in America this case winds up in. At least in Lancaster she’ll have the next best thing: twelve people who live and work in this community with the Amish on a daily basis. Twelve people who, one hopes, are slightly more knowledgeable about their Amish neighbors than the average cross-section of America.” She looked directly at me. “I’m going to deny your motion to dismiss, Ms. Hathaway, but I thank you for bringing up a provocative subject.” The judge flattened her hands on top of her desk. “Now, if there’s nothing else, I’d like to set the date for jury selection.”