Jodie Picoult - Plain Truth

The warden, a man with the unfortunate name of Duvall Shrimp and the more unfortunate habit of staring at my breasts, gladly ushered us into his office. I gave no explanations for Katie, no matter how odd it seemed to have a young Amish girl sitting next to me while I asked for a generic tour of the facility, and to Duvall’s credit, he didn’t ask. He led us through the control booth, where the barred door slammed shut behind Katie and made her draw in her breath.

The first place he took us was the dining hall, where long tables with benches framed a center aisle. A straggly line of women moved like a single snake at the serving counter, picking up trays filled with unappetizing lumps in different shades of gray. “You eat in the hall,” he said, “unless you’re in the restricted housing unit for disciplinary behavior, or one of the capital case inmates. They eat in their cells.” We watched factions of prisoners separate to different tables, eyeing us with undisguised curiosity. Then Duvall led us up a staircase, into the block of cells. A television mounted at the end of the hallway cast a puddle of colored light over the face of one of the women, who dangled her arms through the bars of the cell and whistled at Katie. “Whoo-ee,” she catcalled. “Ain’t you a little early for Halloween?”

Other prisoners laughed and snickered, brazenly standing in their tiny cages like exhibits in a circus sideshow. They stared at Katie as if she was the one on display. As she walked past the last cell in the row, whispering a prayer beneath her breath, a prisoner spat, the small splat landing just beside Katie’s sneaker.

In the exercise yard, Duvall grew chatty. “Haven’t seen you around. You been defending men instead of women?”

“About even. You haven’t seen me around because my clients get acquitted.”

He jerked his chin in Katie’s direction. “Who’s she?”

I watched her walk the perimeter of the empty yard, stop at the corner, and view the sky, framed as it was by curls of razor wire. In the tower above Katie’s head were two guards, holding rifles. “Someone who believes in seeing the property before signing the lease,” I said.

Katie approached us, pulling her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “That’s all,” Duvall said. “Hope it was everything you thought it was cracked up to be.”

I thanked him and ushered Katie back to the parking lot, where she got into the car and sat in absolute silence for most of the two-hour trip. At one point she fell asleep, dreamed, and whimpered quietly. Keeping one hand on the wheel, I used the other to smooth her hair, soothe her.

Katie woke up as we got off the highway in Lancaster. She pressed her forehead to the window and said, “Please tell George Callahan that I do not want his deal.”

I finished the last words of my opening argument with a flourish and turned at the sound of clapping. “Excellent. Direct and persuasive,” Coop said, coming forward from the shadows in the barn. He gestured at the lazy cows. “Tough jury, though.”

I could feel heat rising to my cheeks. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

He linked his hands at the small of my back. “Believe me. This is exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

With a shove on his chest, I pushed away. “Really, Coop. I have a trial tomorrow. I’ll be lousy company.”

“I’ll be your audience.”

“You’ll be a distraction.”

Coop grinned. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Sighing, I started to walk back to the milk room, where my computer was glowing green. “Why don’t you go inside and let Sarah cut you a piece of pie?”

“And miss all this excitement?” Coop leaned against the bulk milk tank. “I think not. You go on ahead. Do whatever you were going to do before I showed up.”

With a measured glance, I sat down on the milk crate that served as my chair and began to review the witness list for tomorrow’s trial. After a moment, I rubbed my eyes and turned off the computer.

“I didn’t say a word,” Coop protested.

“You didn’t have to.” Standing, I offered him my hand. “Walk with me?”

We wandered, lazy, through the orchard on the north side of the farm, where the apple trees stood like a coven of arthritic old women. The perfume of their fruit twisted around us, bright and sweet as ribbon candy. “The night before a trial, Stephen would cook steak,” I said absently. “Said there was something primitive about devouring fresh meat.”

“And lawyers wonder why they’re called sharks,” Coop laughed. “Did you eat steak, too?”

“Nope. I’d get into my pajamas and lip-synch to Aretha Franklin.”

“No kidding?”

I tilted back my head and let the notes fill my throat. “R-E-S-P-EC-T!”

“An exercise in self-esteem?”

“Nah,” I said. “I just really like Aretha.”

Coop squeezed my shoulder. “If you’d like, I can sing backup.”

“God, I’ve been waiting my whole life for a guy like you.”

He turned me in his arms and touched his lips to mine. “I certainly hope so,” he said. “Where are you going to go, El, when this is all over?”

“Well, I . . . ” I didn’t know, actually. It was something I’d avoided thinking about: the fact that when I stumbled into Katie Fisher’s legal quandary, I’d been on the run myself. “I could go back to Philadelphia, maybe. Or stay at Leda’s.”

“How about me?”

I smiled. “You could stay at Leda’s too, I suppose.”

But Coop was absolutely serious. “You know what I’m saying, Ellie. Why don’t you move in with me?”

Immediately, the world began to close in on me. “I don’t know,” I said, looking him squarely in the eye.

Coop stuffed his hands into his pockets; I could see how hard he was fighting to keep from making a disparaging comment about my treatment of him in the past. I wanted to touch him, to ask him to touch me, but I couldn’t do that. We had been standing on the edge of this point once before, a hundred years ago, and for all that the cliff looked the same and the drop just as steep; I still couldn’t catch my breath.

But we were older, this time. I wasn’t going to lie to him. He wasn’t going to walk away. I reached out for an apple and handed it to him.

“Is this supposed to be an olive branch, or are you feeling biblical?”

“That depends,” I said. “Are we talking psalms or sacrificial offerings?”

Coop smiled, a sweet conciliation. “Actually, I was thinking of Numbers. All that begetting.” He tangled his fingers with mine, leaned back into the soft grass, and pulled me down on top of him. With his hands angling my head, he kissed me, until I could barely hold a thought, much less a thread of my defense strategy. This was safe. This, I knew.

“Ellie,” Coop whispered, or maybe I imagined it, “take your time.”

“Okay,” I said, in my best impression of a prosecutor, “here’s my offer: You let me unhook that water bucket, and you’re looking at two to five. Carrots, I mean.”

Nugget shook his heavy head and stomped at me, as belligerent as any defense attorney turning down a lousy plea bargain. “Guess we’re going to have to go to trial,” I sighed, and ducked into the stall. The horse shoved me with his nose, and I scowled at him. “Stubbornness sure runs in this family,” I muttered.

In response, the rotten beast took a nip at my shoulder. Yelping, I dropped the water bucket and backed out of the stall. “Fine,” I said. “Go get your own damn drink.” I turned on my heel, but was stopped by a faint sound overhead, like the mew of a kitten.

“Hello?” I called. “Anyone here?”

When there was no response, I began to climb the narrow ladder to the hayloft, where the bales of hay and the grain for livestock were kept. Sarah was sitting in one corner, crying, her face buried in her apron to muffle the noise.