Page 72 of Outsider

“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?”