Percy shook his head in confusion. “What are we dealing with here, Mr. Yoder?”
Jarret hesitated. “On the whole, sir?”
Percy nodded. “If it answers my question.”
Yoder drew in a steady breath.
Then, in so many words, he proceeded:
The defendant’s mother had died giving birth to him after extended (“nineteen hours of horrifying homebound”) labor complications—something for which his father had always blamed him in full, and with an active vengeance. Several witnesses, herein assembled, would testify to as much under oath, citing occasions on which the elder had struck, pummeled or beaten the boy. One needed only regard his battered condition at present to bear out their claims. The young man’s entire body was marked with the signs of severe and continual abuse. He was also a mute. He’d been terrified into a state of speechless, glassy-eyed shock. This, Yoder intended to prove, had contributed to the events of that afternoon.
To which Stutz, of course, raised a howling objection. The judge agreed to hear him out.
First, he responded, the young man in question was widely known to be mentally defective. His status as a mute was accepted as having resulted from an accident in early childhood—a blow to the back of his skull sustained in a fall down the stairs, a common blunder. Likewise, his “present condition,” the bruising and such, was the product of a childhood bout with a genetic disorder inherent to the Amish—a disorder from which he had suffered violent recurring flashbacks ever since. This added to his inability to speak—and, moreover, his general “feeble-mindedness.” It also accounted for his lack of motor skills, which had resulted in numerous mishaps—many resulting in physical injuries … All of these matters had been addressed by the young man’s district council already. Less widely acknowledged, though certainly known, was the fact that, since early adulthood, he’d been in trouble with the law on a regular basis. At eighteen, his record already included one arrest for under-aged drinking, four charges of violating curfew, one count of hedging a truck off the road, and now, the brutal, unwarranted assault of three “unsuspecting” individuals … His father, the Minister Bontrager, on the other hand, was a respected, upstanding member of the community—a minister appointed by his own congregation—whose curse in life it had been to attempt to control this boy—with little success.
Scoffs went up from the group of Orderlies seated directly behind the defendant. Somebody blurted, “The old man’s a drunk!” It managed to catch the judge’s attention.
Percy thumped his gavel and called the group to order. They settled down …
Turning back to Davin Stutz, the judge asked, “So where is this father now? This—” Squinting, he leafed through his papers. “What was his name?”
“Benedictus Bontrager, Your Honor,” said Stutz. “We haven’t been able to locate him.”
Barely able to keep his seat, Yoder signaled. “Your Honor?”
“Yes, Counsel?”
Jarret stood up. “Your Honor, as of forty-five minutes ago, Minister Bontrager has been in police custody on charges of attempted arson.”
A wave of gasping swept the room. Percy straightened up in his seat.
Yoder lifted a yellow paper and read from it. “Yes, sir: ‘Attempted Arson.’ ‘Destruction of Property.’ And ‘Breaking and Entering.’ He was arrested with five other men here in town for attempting to burn down an athletic center.”
The silence to follow was thick with confusion. The judge leaned forward: “You’ll have to do better than that, Mr. Yoder. What’s this about?”
Shrugging, Yoder held up his hands. “We just received the call, Your Honor. We don’t have any specifics, as yet. We can only present the arrest report. Permission to approach the bench for that purpose?”
The judge nodded, beckoning stiffly. Yoder moved forward to deliver the report. Percy took it and started to read, looking even more perplexed than before. He muttered under his breath discreetly, “Do you know what you’re doing, Jarret?”
Yoder whispered back, “Just ask me about his job.”
While a stern-faced Percy continued to try and make sense of the hastily filed report, Yoder counted his stars for the last-minute gifts that had just fallen out of the sky. Even though Jack hadn’t been available (some day the bastard would carry a cell phone), even though now was the worst of all possible times for the kid to have gotten in trouble, and even though Yoder had not been fully prepared to appear in court, just yet, he had been graced in being arraigned before Percy, not only a personal friend, but a judge who had garnered a reputation as hell on domestic-abuse offenders. Along with that distinction he had a well-known aversion to Davin Stutz.
What’s more, the Bontrager kid, through his actions, had laid the foundation for a plea of insanity—which, most likely, would be upheld, at present, by his ghoulish, unholy appearance. He looked as bad as his uncle ever had. He looked like fucking Linda Blair …
To continue, his father, with several accomplices, had been arrested an hour earlier—something so perfectly timed, it defied explanation, and couldn’t have served them better.
Then, out of nowhere, Franklin Pendle had wandered up, wearing a Beaver Street jacket. Apparently, he and “his boys” had seen the whole thing and would testify gladly, if needed.
Which was reassuring, although it was still too-little-too-late for Franklin …
And last, from beyond, a pair of middle-aged Plain Folk had shown up to aid in the case—the first, Johann Schnaeder, a bishop in Minister Bontrager’s own congregation, and the second, a woman claiming to be the boy’s aunt and former guardian.
Yoder remembered her vaguely from childhood. She was Maria Speicher’s friend. Jarret himself had never known her.
Whatever the case, he admired her courage. Testifying in an English court against a member of her family, not to mention the church, would be no laughing matter within The Order. Surely, there would be hell to pay—possibly excommunication.
Whatever the penalty may have been, Yoder wasn’t about to talk her out of it. She was probably the only thing left between Ephraim and Cell Block Five for the evening. She was the strongest card in their deck, by far—with the bishop in shining second. Between them, Yoder had only been able to wrangle ten minutes of preparation. But in that time, with the notes he had taken, their case had been fortified many times over.
“You may return to the floor, Mr. Yoder,” Percy announced at a normal level.
As Jarret walked back to his table, the judge continued, addressing Stutz. “Do you mean to tell me then, Mr. Stutz, that on entering this courtroom you knew nothing about this incident?”
“Your Honor?”
Percy held up the report. “This, Counsel. You know what I’m saying.”
Stutz hesitated, then swiveled his head. “Your Honor, yes … in a manner, I did. But we really should hold off judgment until the men in question have been arraigned.”
The judge frowned. “It says here they tried to burn down the building with gasoline.”
Stutz, flinching, could only repeat, “We should hold off judgment till the facts are in.”
As Percy exhaled and removed his glasses, assistant D.A. Gerald Metzger, who, until then, had held his tongue quietly, at last stepped forward to announce at full volume:
“Your honor, may I point out that while my colleagues are so earnestly discussing the defendant’s home life, three young men lie injured in the hospital, one of them critically, due to his actions. With or without a pattern of abuse, someone must be held to account here.”
A roar of agreement went up from the crowd of angered parents to the rear of the room. Judge Percy waved them to order, yet somewhere above the diminishing sizzle, the voice of a Beaver Street kid went out:
“Sounds like a load of BULLshit, yo!”
Percy pounded his gavel. “Quiet!” he yelled. His voice boomed over the courtroom. “This isn’t a peanut gallery, people. One more disturbance and everyone goes.” He glared at
the crowd to drive home his point. Then he returned his attention to Stutz.
“Now, Counsel. The man you’re defending. This …”
“Benedictus Bontrager, Your Honor.”
Blinking, Percy shook his head. “Right. You say this man’s an ordained minister?”
“Yes, Your Honor. Mr. Bontrager’s been an Old Order minister for seventeen years. Dozens of fellow community members would readily stand to vouch for his character. The same cannot be said for the defendant.”
Again, Yoder raised his hand. Percy waved him off. “One moment.” The judge wasn’t finished with Stutz, apparently. “What is this minister’s line of work?”
Stutz hesitated, shifting uneasily. Then: “He works in livestock, Your Honor.”
Another collective scoff went up from the group that was seated behind the defendant. Percy flinched. He looked ready to hold the whole crowd in contempt.
Jarret cut in. “Your Honor?”
“What, Mr. Yoder?”
“Permission to offer remarks at this time?”
Frowning, Percy looked away from the crowd. He nodded. “Let’s get somewhere.”
Jarret dropped his pen on the table. He picked up a folder … He hadn’t had time to prepare, much less rehearse … At this point, he was just hoping to get all the names right … He couldn’t afford to slip up. If anything—even one detail—was off, Davin Stutz would call him out, as Stutz had defended the mill for years.
“Your Honor, please excuse the defendant’s friends and family for their verbal outbursts, but as each of them is well-aware, Minister Bontrager works in, and co-owns, the most intensely scrutinized puppy mill operation in the greater Stepford area.”
“OBJECTION!” yelled Stutz,
“Overruled!” snapped Percy.
Stutz, wide-eyed, regarded Yoder in baffled amazement as much as rage. Jarret was turning the tables on him, beating Stutz at his own game.
“Thank you, Judge.” Yoder proceeded, crossing his fortune to get this right. “Since 1970, Benedictus Bontrager and four associates have been operating the Blue Ball Canine Emporium. In 1980, a court-ordered search of the premises revealed deplorable sanitary conditions—massive overcrowding of cages, sometimes four or five dogs to a unit—malnutrition, disease, neglect and broad indications of physical abuse. Studies have shown that dogs being raised in the mill—and later sold to distributors—have significantly higher rates of, among other ailments, heart disease, bone marrow cancer and blindness than dogs being bred and bought elsewhere. For many years, this facility has been under watch by numerous organizations. Mr. Bontrager has personally driven off members of the media with a baseball bat. A petition signed by six hundred persons against the Emporium was filed last year. A national coalition of pet owners has cited the mill as the ‘epitome of evil.’”
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 mig
ht 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.”
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