Kornwolf (33 page)

Yoder paused to lay the file on the table and dig back into his case. Producing another folder, he began his summary:

“Your Honor, in light of all of these factors—along with the testimony from today's incident, and more importantly, the defendant's condition—I'm obliged to remark at this time that his recent behavior can hardly be seen as surprising. Attributing blame to a medical disorder, as, predictably, Counsel Stutz has seen fit, is a standard recourse, tried and tested here in this courthouse on many occasions, and is no more confirmed, at present, than a more likely diagnosis of schizophrenia. On that note, at least, a history of mental illness
does
exist in the family …

“Whatever the case, we have every indication that the young man's father is a grievous threat to him—and, by way of same, a community hazard. We also have members of the Minister's own congregation”—Yoder refrained from naming or pointing out the Bishop directly—“who are pressing to have him shunned from their church for rejecting its code of nonresistance—which is to say, in common terms: for advocating the use of violence … Bear in mind that, within the fold, ordinations are determined by a drawing of lots—which is to say, by random chance. To be nominated, less than a fifth of the district body's recommendation is needed. We know that the Minister's standing in his own congregation is anything but unilateral.

“We also know that, at this moment, he's in custody on charges of attempted arson. We know that this man and his colleagues have faced repeated charges of animal abuse, and we intend to submit the photographs herein …” Yoder held up a second folder—and now, he was pushing his luck a bit (he still hadn't figured out how he was going to render these prints admissible, legally, as Jack had broken into the compound to take them)—nevertheless,
he proceeded: “… to prove that existing conditions at the mill are in gross violation of federal standards.”

“Your Honor!” cried Davin Stutz, getting up. “Exactly
who
is being charged?”

Percy fixed him with a glare of contempt. “Sit down and shut your mouth, Counsel.”

Furious, Stutz sunk back in his chair.

Percy returned his attention to Yoder. “Is there anything else you have to add?”

“Yes, Your Honor. One last thing.” Jarret reached into his case and pulled out a copy of the footage that Jack had shot from an Intercourse Getaway's third-level window. “In conclusion: we intend to prove with this videotape—and with the cooperating verification and assistance of Bishop Johann Schnaeder—that Minister Bontrager has used the collection funds of his own congregation, as well as a tariff in homemade whiskey, to pay off members of the Lamepeter Township Police Department—again, Officer Rudolf Beaumont, specifically—in exchange for police cooperation.”

Whereupon, Yoder held his peace.

In place of the expected objection from Stutz, along with outbursts from parts of the crowd, to say nothing of lengthy appeals from Assistant District Attorney Gerald Metzger, a heavy silence fell over the room. All eyes fixed on Judge Percy, as, leaning back in his chair, he clamped his brow with an overwrought sigh of bewilderment.

“Well, Mr. Yoder,” he mumbled. “This is quite a can of worms you've opened.”

After a moment, he lowered his hand, leaned forward and took one look at the defendant.

At last, he followed up: “And how exactly are you proposing this be resolved?”

Nodding graciously, Jarret placed the cassette on the table before him and, turning, signaled Grizelda to come forward.

All eyes watched as, clothed in traditional Amish garb, she
approached the table. Yoder leaned toward her, whispering: “Don't worry. I'll do the talking.” He turned around.

Hoping to get this right, he commenced: “Your Honor, this is Grizelda Hostler. She and her family live in New Holland. Her maiden name is Bontrager. She is the defendant's biological aunt. For almost three years of the defendant's childhood, Mrs. Hostler served as his caretaker. The boy was sheltered and raised in her house. He was brought up as one of the family's own … It was only when Benedictus Bontrager had become a minister that the boy was returned, by council decree, to his father's home. Ever since, Mrs. Hostler has pushed—often to the scorn of her whole community—for her nephew's removal from the Minister's custody. She claims to have personal, firsthand knowledge of numerous attacks on the boy by his father—including being struck with a shovel, and even branded with a red-hot fire poker—along with dozens of senselessly drunken beatings which couldn't be deemed excusable. In light of all of this information, Your Honor, I propose the following: obviously, this case will have to be tried within your chambers in due course. With no disrespect to the victims intended …” Yoder turned to the crowd of parents and students, nodding. “All of whom will see their complaints addressed, to be sure …” He turned back to Percy, “… something will have to be done with the defendant in the meantime … As you know, I myself work with juvenile cases. We provide treatment and counseling programs. We also provide emergency housing—on which point, in this case, a far more effective alternative to prison is available already—and in my opinion, warranted, sir. That is to say, with your compliance: Mrs. Hostler might assume temporary guardianship of this young man. I myself could thereby work with him on an immediate, one-to-one basis. A community service assignment might be arranged. There are many options. But prison, Your Honor, should not be one of them. If, indeed, as the adage contends, “The bias of the father runs on to the son,”
then this young man is in need of treatment. Affording him less would be criminal negligence.”

As Yoder rested his case, an unexpected calm settled over the courtroom. Amazingly, no objections went up. Stutz appeared resigned to the fact that this wasn't to be his day in court. Gerald Metzger, too, seemed oddly moved by Yoder's testimony. Even the white suburban parents along the wall were strangely quiet.

At length, having reached a decision, apparently, Percy exhaled and sat upright. Before speaking, he dabbed his brow with a handkerchief. Then he lowered his gaze to Yoder.

“Counsel, perhaps against my better judgment, I'm going to grant your request.”

A whooping cheer went up from the group of Plain Folk seated behind the defendant.

“Quiet!” Percy hollered, waving his gavel—thrusting it,
jabbing
it toward them.

He almost looked ready to call out the bailiffs.

Scowling, he turned back to Yoder and resumed his ruling. “As I said, I'm going to grant your request. But on three conditions.”

Jarret nodded.

“First, the defendant will remain confined to house arrest on the property of Mrs …”

“Hostler, your honor.”

“Mrs. Hostler. Any attempt to leave the premises without due clearance will annul this ruling. Understood?”

Having expected as much, Yoder nodded. “Understood.”

“Second, the defendant will wear an electronic ankle bracelet, by which his location might be determined. Any attempt to remove the device will result in immediate incarceration.”

Again, Yoder nodded. “Agreed.”

“And third: I want detailed notes on this young man's progress in therapy—as conducted by you, Mr. Yoder—delivered to my office on a weekly basis. Breach of this agreement will result in a
ninety-day suspension of your license to practice law. Are we in accord on all of the above?”

“Absolutely, Your Honor,” said Yoder.

Percy picked up his gavel. “This trial is scheduled for Tuesday, November 16th at one p.m. Arraignment dismissed.”

As the crowd rose, Jarret Yoder stood and shook his head in disbelief. In fifteen years, he had never handed Stutz a more decisive whipping. In truth, he had only argued the bastard to a standstill on four or five occasions, and less, only once or twice, had he actually come out on top by a clear margin.

As the Orderlies huddled around him in gratitude, grinning, then quickly surrounded Ephraim, and Metzger faced the tempered wrath of the quietly nervous victims' parents, and Mrs. Hostler, openly sobbing with joy, thanked him over and over, Jarret Yoder regretted only that Jack wasn't there to share in the moment.

It wasn't as a journalist that Owen got caught up in traffic en route to the Heritage House. In theory and practice, he was no longer flogging his wares in the field of reporting. The tapestry falling together at last would find no place in public print. And the truth, he felt certain, would only get stranger. The scanner served to assure him of that …

The whole way down 30, he tried to make sense of the drama unfolding on Channel Twelve. Seven men had been apprehended dousing the walls of the gym with accelerants. The building was unmarked; that was the good part. Everything else just fueled the confusion: mentioned among the raiding party's principle members was someone named Bontrager. Owen had trouble placing the name until, out of the static, a dispatcher relayed the fact that this Bontrager's son, one Ephraim, had also gotten in trouble downtown. He'd just been picked up for “grievous assault” and was presently being arraigned at the courthouse.

Now he made the connection, did Owen: that rampaging Amish buggy driver …

Another familiar name on the page—and, for that matter, one more reminder that, yes, the truth belonged in a padded cell.

It was dark by the time he pulled into the lot. Leaving the glare of oncoming traffic, he parked, got out and ran to the building. It was open, thank God. One more hour.

A tiny old woman was seated behind the front desk, next to a postcard stand. The skin was hanging off of her bones. She looked like a prune. A Mennonite prune.

The walls were lined with books for sale. Handmade quilts were on display in a case. Down the hall to the right, a sign hung over a staircase: “Library in Basement.”

Owen bought a ticket and went down. A door led into the reading room. A row of tall, aluminum off-gray bookshelves spanned more than half of the floor. The rest was an open seating area, set against glossy, whitewashed brick. Two individuals were sitting at tables—one, an older portly man with his nose pressed into a big black book, the other, a pale young waif in a bonnet and secondhand Pumas, reading a paper. Neither paid Owen any mind as he draped his jacket over a chair. Soon, he would look up to find them gone—both, it would seem, without making a sound.

The shelves were packed with books of every size, shape, age and condition: modern, updated historical texts, original maritime passage logs, hundreds of genealogical volumes, district records and family studies, countless editions of
The Ausbund
, the
Regel and Ordnung
and other prayer-related books, sailing charters, land deeds, birth and death certificates, tax records, court records, service records, diaries, memoirs, maps, accounts and letters … This was the most comprehensive base of data on the Pennsyltucky Dutch in existence: available information on every acknowledged Anabaptist in history, including all Amish, Mennonite and Hutterite residents of Stepford, from past to present—as well as a good many (thousands) of non-Anabaptist families who had emigrated either from the Rhine/Palatinate region of Gemany or Switzerland during the eighteenth, then mid-nineteenth centuries.

All of this, Owen was given to understand by way of a free brochure.

With his pulse in a flutter, he walked to the wooden card catalog along the wall.

He found a drawer with a faded label reading “STA—SUR.” He opened it and started flipping through cards. Not surprisingly,
the surname Stumpf filled a third of the drawer. There were dozens of entries, and even a couple of Stubbes to boot. But no Jack in the lot. And only one Jacob, d.1905. Long deceased.

Having expected as much, Owen moved up a couple of drawers to the label reading “SI—SPO.” Similarly, half of the drawer was filled with Speichers. But this time, some Jacobs appeared—too many, in fact: the total number of listings came to forty-one. A brief examination revealed that, of that figure, thirty were listed as having been born in the twentieth century—ten of whom had died before '74. Of the twenty remaining, three were under the age of thirty, four were over sixty, one was in Utah, five were in Indiana and three were scattered through Ohio. The rest lived somewhere in Stepford County. Jacob Abraham Speicher (b. 1953–) was a resident of Stasburg, a shoe smith by trade. Owen took note of his reference number. Jacob Berman Speicher of Bareville (b. 1947–) was listed as belonging to District Sixteen. Owen wrote that down, as well, though the card appeared newer, updated, maintained. Neither seemed very likely as, first, Jack's middle name was (allegedly) Ezekiel, and second, both cards made reference to current religious or trade affiliations—
un
like the last two names, which included no middle initials and no occupations. The first was a Jacob Speicher, b. 1952, of New Holland. No occupation. No listed baptism … Only a reference number: volume 21 of
The Pennysyltucky Dutch Unabridged
. Duly noted … The second was Jacob Pfaff Speicher (b. 1941–) of 249 E. Lime St., Stepford, downtown. A definite possibility. But that would put Jack at fifty-two … And Jack was an early forties, at best. As well, he didn't live on Lime Street.

Uncertain, Owen noted the family research volume number anyway. Then he turned to the line of bookshelves, going, on a hunch, for the dead man from New Holland. 1952 sounded right …

Volume 21 of
The New Holland Pennsyltucky Dutch Unabridged
sat at eye level, deep in the fourth row of books. The series of fat, hardbound volumes took up nearly a third of one bookcase—four and a half shelves, in total. A place to begin, however daunting.

With trembling hands, Owen reached for the book. It peeled from its slot with the crackle of hardbound covers clung together with age. Curious, he checked the copyright date. The series was less than ten years old. It hadn't been used much. Or maybe the place just needed a dehumidifier.