Linda Castillo - Breaking Silence

“You mean to his farm?”

He nods. “Don’t make us go with him.”

“That’s not up to me.”

“Tell the social people to leave us alone.”

“Why are you so dead set against living with your uncle?”

He raises his eyes to mine. “My datt didn’t like him. I don’t like him, either.”

Sensing I’m getting only part of the story, I take a calming breath. “You can’t stay here at the farm by yourself.”

“It’s my farm,” he says defiantly. “I know how to care for the livestock. I know how to work the land.”

“I’m sure you can. But you’re only seventeen years old.”

“I’m a man.”

“Legally, you’re still a minor. I have to obey the law.”

“English laws are not for the Amish. I’m not going with him. He is not Amish. Er hot net der glaawe! ” He doesn’t keep up the faith.

There’s no translation needed; I’m all too familiar with the phrase. I heard it a thousand times growing up, especially after I’d decided not to join the church.

“I know this is hard,” I tell him.

“You don’t know anything,” he snarls.

I sigh. “I was older than you are, but I lost my parents, too.”

“It’s not the same.”

“You’re right. It’s not the same.” I pause, studying him, trying to figure out how to reach him. “I’m trying to help you, Mose. I’m not your enemy. I just want what’s best for you and your brothers and sister. Children Services—”

“No!” Panic flares in his eyes. “The social people will separate us. They’ll take the farm and leave us with nothing.”

The unspoken nuances of the situation crystallize in my mind, like a tiny puzzle with a thousand pieces flying together to make a picture. One I wish I’d detected before now, because for the first time I realize I’m being manipulated. “This isn’t about whether your uncle is Amish, is it, Mose?”

Refusing to meet my gaze, he digs a trench in the mud with the toe of his work boot.

“This is about your wanting to stay here on the farm with your siblings, isn’t it?”

When he finally raises his eyes to mine, they’re filled with tears. “That’s what my datt would have wanted.”

“Your datt would have wanted an adult to care for you until you’re old enough to care for yourself.”

When he says nothing, I sigh. “Turn around.”

He obeys, and I use my key to unlock the handcuffs. “Children Services is not the bad guy, Mose.”

“They’ll separate us. Take the farm. Datt told us that’s what the Englischers want.”

“I don’t believe that,” I tell him.

“That’s because you’re one of them.”

I don’t know what to say to that. Maybe it’s because I understand so very well. To the Amish, the Englischers —particularly those in the government—are outsiders and not to be trusted. “I won’t let anyone harm you or your brothers and sister,” I say quietly. But I don’t think I’m going to convince him of anything.

His hands curl into fists at his sides. For an instant, I think he’s going to slug me again, and I regret removing the cuffs. Instead, his face screws up and he chokes out a sob. “Don’t break up what’s left of us.” He uses his fist to wipe at the tears. It’s an embarrassed, angry gesture that makes me feel as if I’ve just kicked a puppy. “Please don’t take my brothers and sister away from me. They’re all I have left.”

The statement moves me more than it should. I know better than to get sucked into the plight of these kids. I’m a cop, not a social worker. I have faith that Children Services will do the right thing and place these kids with a good family, at least until Adam Slabaugh is cleared of any suspicion. I know they’ll do their utmost to keep the children together. But I know from experience that sometimes kids fall through the cracks. I’ve seen it happen. What’s right for one family can mean heartache for another.

I set my hand on Mose’s shoulder and squeeze. “Think about what I said, okay?”

He nods, crying silently, humiliated.

I don’t want to leave him like this, but I don’t have a choice. I have a murder to solve. Taking a deep breath, I turn away and start toward Skid and Adam Slabaugh.

Skid starts toward me. “So which one are we taking to jail?” he asks.

“Neither one.” I stop a few feet from Slabaugh. “Don’t come back here until an official decision has been made about the kids.”

“You cannot keep me from my family,” Slabaugh says. “They are my blood.”

“If you come back here again, I’ll put both of you in jail,” I snap. “You got that?”

Slabaugh skewers me with a stare so cold, I look over my shoulder twice on my way to the Explorer.

Back at the station, I go directly to my office and call the Holmes County Department of Job and Family Services. I’m put on hold twice before being transferred to the program manager of Children Services. The conversation goes much as I’d imagined. Once a social worker is assigned the case, he or she will drive out to the Slabaugh farm and “assess” the needs of the children. When I ask about placement, I’m told they almost always try to place orphaned children with family members. In the case of the Slabaughs, blood trumps religion. I wonder if Adam Slabaugh knew that would be the case.

I’m barely finished with the call when Glock appears at the door to my office. “A 911 just came in, Chief. Someone out on Township Road 2 says they found a half-naked Amish guy tied to his buggy.”

“You’re not kidding, are you?” I ask as I hang up the phone.

“That’d be pretty hard to make up.” Glock shakes his head. “The motorist who called it in says the victim looks like he’s had the crap beat out of him.”

Hate crime. The words flash like red neon in my brain. In an instant, I’m on my feet and grabbing my keys. “Get an ambulance out there,” I snap. “And call the sheriff’s office.” That makes me think of Tomasetti, and I unclip my cell phone, flip it open.

“Sure thing.” Glock watches me cross to the door. “Want me to go with you?”

I shake my head and tell him about my earlier conversation with Jerome Rankin. “I want you to go talk to Lauren Walker and verify Rankin’s alibi.”

He gives me a mock salute. “I’m on it.”

Then I’m down the hall and heading toward the reception area. Lois stands when she sees me. “Tomasetti just called for you.”

I don’t stop. “I’ll call him on the way.”

Then I’m through the door and jogging across the sidewalk to the Explorer. I hit the speed dial for Tomasetti’s number as I slide behind the wheel. He answers just as I crank the engine. “I think we have another hate crime,” I say without preamble.

“Where?”

I give him the location. “I’m on my way now.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

Jamming the Explorer into reverse, I back onto the street, put it in gear, then hit the gas.

I’m not sure what to expect at the scene; hopefully, no one is seriously injured. The one thing I do know is that I won’t tolerate any kind of hate crime in my town. The very thought puts my blood pressure into the red zone. All hate crimes are troubling. But the fact that the Amish are being targeted somehow makes it even more insidious. Maybe because I know the culture so intimately. The Amish are kind, hardworking, and deeply religious. They are pacifists, and most just want to be left alone. I can’t help but wonder: How could anyone hate them?

But I know the answer, and it’s as disturbing as the question itself. Some people hate for the sake of hating. They hurt others for the sake of hurting. In the three years I’ve been chief of police, I’ve seen both of those things in all their hideous forms. I’ve heard the explanations, too, and they’re as pathetic and ugly as the people who act on them: The Amish are stupid; they only go through the eighth grade. The Amish are dirty. The buggies slow down traffic and cause accidents. The Amish are a cult of religious fanatics. The diatribe goes on and on, as senseless as the people who spew it.