“Some of it’s going to depend on what we can prove,” I tell her. “How helpful you are if this thing moves forward.”
“How accommodating the district attorney is feeling,” she mutters. “I don’t even want to think about what Mercer and Bertrand have put into play.”
“You’re not the only one who has a credibility problem,” I tell her. “Neither of them is squeaky clean.”
She thinks about that a moment. “Kate, they’re not stupid. They have resources. They’re good at covering their tracks. Being cops, they’ve got their choice of suspects to bring forward for things they themselves have done.”
“That is the nature of corruption.” The words taste bitter coming out, like a mouthful of bad food. “So much arrogance.”
She looks away, swirls the whiskey in her glass. “I don’t want to go to jail,” she whispers.
“Get a good lawyer. Make yourself valuable. Negotiate for what you want.”
“If I have to do time…” She shudders, lets the words trail. “If it’s the last thing I do, I swear I’m going to nail those sons of bitches.”
“Every case they’ve been involved in over the years is going to get another hard look,” I say. “We’re talking the affidavits. Warrants. Arrests. Convictions. I would imagine there will be some exonerations coming down.”
Movement at the doorway draws my attention. I glance over to see Adam enter the kitchen. Head bent, he’s squinting down at a Louis L’ Amour paperback novel. He’s so engrossed, he doesn’t notice us. Gina and I watch as he moves to the propane refrigerator and reaches for the door, likely to sneak a piece of rhubarb pie.
“You are so busted,” Gina says.
The Amish man lowers the book, his eyes flicking from Gina to me and back to her. “I didn’t realize you were still awake.”
“I haven’t gone to bed at ten P.M. since I was six years old,” Gina tells him.
Adam tugs open the refrigerator door. “You two look like you’re up to no good.”
“We are,” she says, deadpan. “Want to join us?”
His eyes skate away from hers and move to the interior of the fridge. “I thought I might have a glass of milk and some pie.”
“Sammy ate the last piece before he went to bed,” I tell him.
“I’ve got something better than pie right here on the table.” Gina flicks the bottle of Gentleman Jack with her index finger. “Heaven in a bottle.”
I nudge her under the table with my foot, toss her a cut-it-out look.
Adam turns from the refrigerator, his gaze moving to the glasses in front of us and the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Contrary to popular belief, drinking alcohol isn’t always forbidden by the Ordnung, the unwritten rules set forth by the local church district. It depends on the district leadership. While drinking is generally frowned upon, some Amish—even outside of their Rumspringa years—quietly enjoy the occasional cold beer or glass of wine.
Lifting the bottle, Gina wriggles it back and forth. “Plenty to go around,” she says.
“Most Amish don’t drink,” I tell her, hoping to give Adam an easy out.
Noticing my expression, she shrugs. “Hey, no problem. I wouldn’t want to be a bad influence.”
I laugh. “Too late for that.”
As I take another sip, let the smoky taste of it settle on my tongue, I notice that Adam didn’t pull the raw milk from the fridge. Instead, he goes to the cabinet above the sink, snags a glass, and brings it to the table.
“A lot of English have the wrong idea about the Amish,” he says as he pulls out a chair and sits. “I think you could be one of them.”
Grinning, Gina pours two fingers of the amber liquid into the glass. “I’m rethinking all of my preconceived notions as we speak.”
“I’ve drunk whiskey before,” he tells her.
A memory tickles the back of my brain. “If I’m not mistaken, it was my whiskey and there were five of us.”
He smiles. “The Yoder brothers.”
“And Mervin Hershberger,” I remind him. “Talk about a bad influence.”
“We sneaked down to the covered bridge.” He chuckles. “We were what? Sixteen years old?”
“Sixteen going on twenty and looking for trouble.”
“Some of us more than others.” Adam gives me a pointed look. “Do you remember what Mervin Hershberger did?”
“After one drink of whiskey, he took off his clothes and dove off the bridge into the creek.”
“Right about the time his mamm and datt happened by in the buggy.”
Remembering, I nearly choke on my whiskey. “I’ll never forget the look on his face.”
“I’ll never forget the look on his parents’ faces.”
“We didn’t see him again until school started.”
All three of us are laughing now. At the time, what Adam and I did that day seemed forbidden and sinful. Looking back, I realize that while what we did was outside of Amish norms, we were good kids, set on breaking the rules. At the time it seemed momentous, but only because we’d led such protected lives.
Gina caps the bottle and raises her glass. “To good memories and good friends.”
“And breaking the rules,” Adam puts in.
Our glasses clink together and we drink.
He leans back in the chair and stretches his legs out in front of him. “My parents were sad for you when you left, Katie.”
I shoot him a smile. “Even though I could play ice hockey better than you.”
“You always liked to win,” he says, chuckling.
“That’s the Kate we know and love,” Gina murmurs, and then gives me her full attention. “Do you ever miss being Amish?”
I think about the question for the moment. “I did for a long time after I left. I was confused and afraid I’d made a mistake. I missed my family. The sense of community. I missed spending time out of doors. On the farm.” I shrug. “But I was young and looking ahead, too. The longer I was gone, the easier it got, and the more certain I became that I did the right thing.”
I feel Adam’s eyes on me, but I don’t look at him. I’m not sure I want to know that he still disapproves of my decision to leave the fold. A lot of the Amish disapproved. Early on, it hurt, but I got used to it. To this day I still hear the occasional comment. It rolls off me, for the most part. But there are times when an Amish person I respect denigrates the decision I made and the things I’ve done with my life, and the young Amish girl who still resides inside me flinches.
“Mer sott em sei eegne net verlosse; Gott verlosst die seine nicht,” I say. “I heard that a lot when I came back.”
“What does it mean?” Gina asks.
Adam replies. “One should not abandon one’s own; God does not abandon His own.”
“That’s harsh,” Gina tells him. “Talk about a guilt trip.”
“It is the Amish way.” Adam looks at me. “I never held it against you, Katie. It didn’t matter that you could play hockey better than me.”
The sound of snow tapping against the window fills the silence that follows. Gina finishes her whiskey. I try not to notice when she pours another.