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  Katie set the iron on its edge on the stove. "I would still go to jail, then."

  I nodded. "The risk in accepting the offer is that if you go to trial and get acquitted, you don't go to jail at all. It's like settling for something, when you haven't seen what's out there." But even as I said it, I knew it was the wrong explanation. An Amishman took what he was given--he didn't hold out for the best, because that would only come at someone else's expense, someone who didn't get the best.

  "Will you get me acquitted, then?"

  It always came down to this, with clients who were offered a plea. Before they ceded to my advice, they wanted the assurance that things were going to come out in our favor. In most cases of my career, I'd been able to say yes with fervor, with conviction--and I then went on to prove myself right.

  But this was not "most cases." And Katie was no ordinary client.

  "I don't know. I believe I could have gotten you off with temporary insanity. But with the abbreviated length of time I've had to prepare this new defense, I just can't say. I think I can get you acquitted. I hope I can get you acquitted. But Katie ... I can't give you my word."

  "All I have to do is say I was wrong?" Katie asked. "And then it's over?"

  "Then you go to jail," I clarified.

  Katie lifted the iron and pressed it so hard against the shoulder of her father's shirt that the fabric hissed. "I think I will take this offer," she said.

  I watched her run the iron over and between the buttonholes, this girl who had just decided to go to prison for a decade. "Katie, can I tell you something as your friend, instead of your lawyer?" She glanced up. "You don't know what prison is like. It's not only full of English people--it's full of bad people. I don't think this is the way to go."

  "You don't think like me," Katie said quietly.

  I swallowed my reply and counted to ten before I let myself speak again. "You want me to accept the plea? I will. But first I'd like you to do something for me."

  I'd been to the State Correctional Institution at Muncy before, courtesy of several female clients of mine who were still serving out their sentences. It was a forbidding place, even to a lawyer accustomed to the reality of prison life. All women sentenced in Pennsylvania went to the diagnostic classification center at Muncy, and then either stayed on to serve out their sentence or got moved to the minimum security institution at Cambridge Springs in Erie. But at the very least, Katie would spend four to six weeks here, and I wanted her to see what she was getting herself into.

  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-E-C-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.

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