The Jodi Picoult Collection Read online

  Jacob leaned forward. “There’s this little acronym I was taught in grade school—it’s J-O-Y. It’s supposed to make Plain children remember that Jesus is first, Others come next, and You are last. The very first thing you learn as an Amish kid is that there’s always a higher authority to yield to—whether it’s your parents, the greater good of the community, or God.” Jacob stared at his sister. “If Katie found herself with a hardship, she would have accepted it. She wouldn’t have tried to save herself at the expense of another person. Katie’s mind just wouldn’t have gone there; wouldn’t have even conjured up killing that baby as some kind of solution—because she doesn’t know how to be that selfish.”

  Ellie crossed her arms. “Jacob, do you recognize the name Adam Sinclair?”

  “Objection,” George said. “Relevance?”

  “Your Honor, may I approach?” Ellie asked. The judge motioned the two lawyers closer. “If you give me a little leeway, Judge, this line of questioning will eventually make itself clear.”

  “I’ll allow it.”

  Ellie posed the question a second time. “He’s my absentee landlord,” Jacob answered. “I rent a house from him in State College.”

  “Did you have a personal relationship prior to your business relationship?”

  “We were acquaintances.”

  “What was your impression of Adam Sinclair?”

  Jacob shrugged. “I liked him a lot. He was older than most of the other students, because he was getting his doctorate. He’s certainly brilliant. But what I really admired in him was the fact that—like me—he was at Penn State to work, rather than play.”

  “Did Adam ever have the chance to meet your sister?”

  “Yes, several times, before he left the country to do research.”

  “Did he know that Katie is Amish?”

  “Sure,” Jacob said.

  “When was the last time you spoke to Adam Sinclair?”

  “Almost a year ago. I send my rent checks to a property management company. As far as I know, Adam’s still in the wilds of Scotland.”

  Ellie smiled. “Thank you, Jacob. Nothing further.”

  * * *

  George tucked his hands in his pockets and frowned at the open file on the prosecution’s table. “You’re here today to help your sister, is that right?”

  “Yes,” Jacob said.

  “Any way you can?”

  “Of course. I want the jury to hear the truth about her.”

  “Even if it means lying to them?”

  “I wouldn’t lie, Mr. Callahan.”

  “Of course not,” George said expansively. “Not like your sister did, anyway.”

  “She didn’t lie!”

  George raised his brows. “Seems to be a pattern in your family—you’re not Amish, your sister’s not acting Amish; you lied, she lied—”

  “Objection,” Ellie said dispassionately. “Is there a question in there?”

  “Sustained.”

  “You lied to your father before you were excommunicated, didn’t you?”

  “I hid the fact that I wanted to continue my schooling. I did it for his own peace of mind—”

  “Did you tell your father you were reading Shakespeare in the loft of the barn?”

  “Well, no, I—”

  “Come on, Mr. Fisher. What do you call a lie? Hiding something? Not being truthful? Lying by omission? None of this rings a bell for you?”

  “Objection.” Ellie stood. “Badgering the witness.”

  “Sustained. Please watch yourself, counselor,” Judge Ledbetter warned.

  “If it wasn’t a lie, what was it?” George rephrased.

  A muscle jumped in Jacob’s jaw. “I was doing what I had to do to study.”

  George’s eyes lit up. “You were doing what you had to do. And you recently said that your sister, the defendant, was good at doing what needs to be done. Would you say that’s an Amish trait?”

  Jacob hesitated, trying to find the snake beneath the words, poised and ready to strike. “The Amish are very practical people. They don’t complain, they just take care of what needs taking care of.”

  “You mean, for example, the cows have to get milked, so you get up before dawn to do it?”

  “Yes.”

  “The hay needs to be cut before the rain comes, so you work till you can barely stand up?”

  “Exactly.”

  “The baby’s illegitimate, so you murder and dispose of it before anyone knows you made a mistake?”

  “No,” Jacob said angrily. “Not like that at all.”

  “Mr. Fisher, isn’t it true that the saintly Amish are really no better than any of us—prone to the same flaws?”

  “The Amish don’t want to be saints. They’re people, like anyone else. But the difference is that they try to lead a quiet, peaceful Christian life . . . when most of us”—he looked pointedly at the prosecutor—“are already halfway down the road to hell.”

  “Do you really expect us to believe that simply growing up among the Amish might make a person unable to entertain a thought of violence or revenge or trickery?”

  “The Amish might entertain these thoughts, sir, but rarely. And they’d never act on them. It just goes against their nature.”

  “A rabbit will chew off its leg if it’s caught in a hunting trap, Mr. Fisher, although no one would call it carnivorous. And although you were raised Amish, lying came quite naturally to you when you decided to continue your studies, right?”

  “I hid my studies from my parents because I had no choice,” Jacob said tightly.

  “You always have a choice. You could have remained Amish, and not gone to college. You chose to take what your father left you with—no family—in return for following your own selfish desires. This is true, isn’t it, Mr. Fisher?”

  Jacob looked into his lap. He felt, rolling over him, the same wave of doubt that he’d struggled with for months after leaving East Paradise; the wave that he once thought he’d drown beneath. “It’s true,” he answered softly.

  He could feel Ellie Hathaway’s eyes on him, could hear her voice silently reminding him that whatever the prosecutor did, it was about Katie and not himself. With determination, he raised his chin and stared George Callahan down.

  “Katie’s been lying to your father for six years now?”

  “She hasn’t been lying.”

  “Has she told your father she’s been visiting you?”

  “No.”

  “Has she told your father that she’s staying with your aunt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has she indeed been staying with your aunt?”

  “No.”

  “And that’s not a lie?”

  “It’s . . . misinformation.”

  George snorted. “Misinformation? That’s a new one. Call it what you will, Mr. Fisher. So the defendant misinformed your father. I assume she misinformed you too?”

  “Never.”

  “No? Did she tell you she was involved in a sexual relationship?”

  “That wasn’t something she—”

  “Did she tell you she was pregnant?”

  “I never asked. I’m not sure she admitted it to herself.”

  George raised his brows. “You’re an expert psychiatrist now?”

  “I’m an expert on my sister.”

  The attorney shrugged, making it clear what he thought of that. “Let’s talk about these destructive Amish gangs. Your sister belonged to one of the faster gangs?”

  Jacob laughed. “Look, this isn’t the Sharks and the Jets, with rumbles and territories. Just like English teenagers, most Amish kids are good kids. An Amish gang is simply a term for a group of friends. Katie belonged to the Sparkies.”

  “The Sparkies?”

  “Yes. They’re not the most straitlaced gang in Lancaster County—that would be the Kirkwooders—but they’re probably second or third.” He smiled at the prosecutor. “The Ammies, the Shotguns, the Happy Jacks—those are the gangs that are,