Murder in Plain Sight. Marta Perry
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She thought briefly of the accented English of the young couple in the buggy. “Fascinating, but what does it have to do with the case?”
“Everything. You can’t possibly defend Thomas if you don’t understand what he comes from. Amish kids live a sheltered life, but in their late teens, they’re allowed more freedom. They’re supposed to be socializing with each other with a view to finding a mate, but plenty of them want a taste of the outside world before making the decision to be baptized into the Amish church and give it up forever. That period of running around is called rumspringa. That’s what Thomas was doing when he got involved with Cherry Wilson.”
She pondered that explanation, trying to fit it into a possible defense. “How old is Thomas?”
“Nineteen. But a young nineteen in the ways of the world.”
“And the woman—Cherry Wilson, you said?”
His lips moved in an expression of distaste. “Cherry was in her mid-twenties. Had a reputation of liking to party. She worked as a waitress at the inn in Springville. You probably passed it on your way to the house.”
She hadn’t, since she’d gotten lost instead. “What was she doing alone in a barn with a nineteen-year-old? She sounds a bit old for teen parties.”
“Rumor has it she got a kick out of partying with younger kids. I don’t know how she hooked up with Thomas.” He frowned a little, as if getting past his initial distaste to actually think about the case. “That is odd. The Esch family has a farm not far from our place. A close family, I’d say. Thomas always seemed a bit shy, but maybe that made his reaction all the worse.”
“What do you mean?” She didn’t like the idea that he was taking it for granted that her client was guilty. He seemed a reasonably intelligent man, behind the slightly tyrannical attitude of his. If he thought the boy guilty…
Well, her job was to provide the best defense she could, regardless. Since she’d taken the position with Henderson, Dawes and Henderson, she’d certainly defended clients who’d have been the better for a guilty plea. Things had been a lot clearer, in a way, when she’d been a prosecutor.
Trey’s forehead knotted, and his hands moved restlessly on the steering wheel. “Take a kid like that—inexperienced, shy—and put him in a situation where he’d been drinking with a woman who led him on. He might, I guess, get carried away, not knowing what he was doing.”
“Carried away enough to batter her with a hammer? It still seems out of character for the person your mother described.”
His frown lingered. “Maybe. It’s hard to say what happened. All we have are the facts, and they don’t look good for Thomas.”
No, they didn’t. If she ended up trying to plea-bargain the case, Geneva would be disappointed in her. She’d be disappointed in herself, for that matter, but she’d do what was best for the client.
“When did this happen?”
“They were found in the early hours of Sunday morning in a barn outside of town.” Trey negotiated the narrow streets of Lancaster with ease. “Thomas was passed out, drunk. Cherry had apparently been dead for several hours, if the rumors are true, and they usually are.”
“He’s been in custody over twenty-four hours?” Her voice rose. “Without an attorney?”
“Relax, Counselor,” he said. “A local attorney has been handling the situation, basically advising the boy to say nothing. The local man doesn’t want to continue with the case, though.”
Trey sounded as if he didn’t blame the man.
In fact, if Trey was right, the entire community was convinced of the boy’s guilt. Everyone, apparently, except Geneva Morgan.
A random thought popped into her mind. The newspaper piece she’d read—
“Your mother tried to speak with Thomas when he was being taken into the police station, didn’t she?”
She could almost hear his teeth grinding.
“Yes. She did. Except that it was when he was being taken to the county jail. The newspaper got that wrong. Fortunately they didn’t get her name, either.” He clamped his lips shut on the words.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Trey was worried about his mother. She’d give him credit for that, although she wasn’t convinced Geneva needed all that protection.
Jessica subsided, staring out the window at the fields on both sides of the road, lush and green. White farmhouses sat well back from the road, as if to protect their privacy. Here and there she spotted people working in the fields, looking like figures in a landscape painting.
“Amish,” Trey said, nodding at one farmhouse. “You can tell because no power lines go to the house.”
“No electricity.” She tried to imagine it. “What about phones?”
Trey’s shoulders moved in a shrug. “Not in the house. Often there’s a phone shanty at the edge of the field, so they can use a phone for business or in an emergency.”
This was the life her client had led. She tried to reconcile it with drunken parties and found she couldn’t.
Springville appeared—a collection of shops and a few restaurants facing the road, with residential areas spread out behind them. She took a second look at the Springville Inn, where the dead woman had worked. A visit to talk with her coworkers might be in order.
Then they were in the countryside again. Neat farms, neat houses, twin silos flanking barns, contented-looking cows grazing in fields…it was like something off a calendar.
The truck overtook a gray horse-drawn buggy. Trey passed with care, raising a hand to the driver. The bearded man nodded, face impassive, and the two towheaded children with him grinned and waved.
“They know you,” she said. She thought again of the pair in the buggy she’d met earlier. They’d known the Morgan family, too.
“I know most people in the township. Morgans have been here for a long time.”
She let that revolve in her mind. If he knew the place that well, she couldn’t ignore his sense of what the community believed about this crime.
Farmland gave way abruptly to residential areas, a few strip malls, and then they were in Lancaster proper. Trey wove his way through a maze of narrow streets easily, still wearing a slight frown. No doubt he’d like to divorce himself from this proceeding entirely.
“The county jail is in the next block,” he said at last. “Anything else you need to know before you see Thomas?”
“Just one question.” She probably shouldn’t ask this, but she was going to, because when you were swimming in a strange ocean, it helped to know who the sharks were. “Given how you feel about the case, why did you want to come with me?”
The stone jaw returned with a vengeance. “I don’t want my mother involved in this at all. She’s too trusting, and she doesn’t have the slightest idea how serious it is. But if I can’t stop her, I’m at least going to make sure it’s handled appropriately.” He pulled into a parking space and stopped, turning to face her, crowding her in the small space. “You do one thing to turn this situation into a media circus or to manipulate my mother, and I’ll make you wish you’d never heard of the Morgan family.”
Well, that was clear enough. She had a client who was probably guilty, an employer who was acting on instinct and a very formidable man who was determined to dog her every step. And she hadn’t even met the client yet.
CHAPTER THREE
THE ROOM ALLOTTED TO lawyer/client meetings was typical of such places—cement-block walls, a high barred window and a bare wooden table bolted to the floor, flanked by two chairs. The wire-meshed window in the door allowed a police officer