Evan grunted noncommittally. He was wearing his uniform, although it was Monday and his day off. He’d already told her that he’d need to be present when she spoke with Moses, since, technically, she had no business there.
“I understand that, with Moses’s confession, there isn’t much that can be done,” she said, “but I promised his mother that I’d speak with him.”
“You need to convince him that he has to have legal counsel,” Evan replied, keeping his eyes on the road. “Even a guilty man needs legal assistance in our justice system. If his family can’t afford an attorney, the court will appoint one for him.”
“Right. You said.” She grimaced. “Public defender. Not the best option for someone who says he killed a man. And not the best for an Amish man. A court-appointed lawyer might have no experience with the Amish. And then with the way he is—”
“The way he is?” Evan asked.
“You know . . . odd. I told you, I’m no expert, but my guess is that he has Asperger’s syndrome. He doesn’t respond to things the way we expect a person to respond.”
“Hence the ax.”
Rachel almost laughed at Evan’s dry joke, but the matter was too serious for laughter. It was easy for a man like Moses to be mistreated in the justice system; there weren’t enough people trained to deal with men and women who were different from the average Joe. And without an official diagnosis, any request for special treatment would be denied.
“Anyway,” Evan went on, “any public defender is better than having no attorney.”
She pressed her lips together and puffed out her cheeks, but stopped short of blowing a raspberry. He was right, but the idea of some just-out-of-law-school do-gooder or overworked, stressed-out lawyer just going through the motions worried her. Even if Moses was guilty, he deserved to be treated fairly.
She glanced over at Evan. He’d shaved this morning, and she caught the faint whiff of aftershave lotion. His campaign-style trooper hat rested on the backseat, and she noticed that he must have stopped for a haircut on the way to pick her up because the line along the nape of his neck was militarily precise.
Chet’s Barber Shop opened at six thirty sharp six days a week, and if a regular was ill or elderly and unable to get out of the house, Chet would stop by in the evening or on Sunday to give a trim. He’d been cutting hair in Stone Mill since Rachel was a little girl, and unlike some no-frills, unisex haircut places, Chet knew how to give a man’s haircut.
Evan slowed the SUV behind a mammoth motor home lumbering ahead of them. The road surface was pocked and uneven due to potholes caused by falling rocks, and the guardrails on the outer side of the highway didn’t inspire confidence. The slow-moving RV had a Florida license plate, and it was obvious to Rachel that whoever was driving didn’t have much experience on narrow mountain roads. At least they were behind the RV and not descending the far side of this mountain with the big vehicle breathing down their necks.
“I really do appreciate you doing this for me,” she said, looking at him again. “I know this sort of thing is outside your comfort zone.”
“I’m not happy about it,” Evan repeated for at least the third time since they’d left her house. “You shouldn’t be involved in this at all. Sharpe told me that you were lucky that he didn’t bring charges against you for interfering at the Studer farm. He complained that you were speaking to them in Deitsch and wouldn’t tell him everything being said.”
“Thus the get your woman under control.”
He didn’t even crack a smile.
She sighed. “But you understand how it is with my people. If I’d spoken English to them, they might not have listened to me. Detective Sharpe may not realize it, but I prevented more trouble than I caused.” She thought about fourteen-year-old Lemuel and his threat to get his shotgun and she winced. That wouldn’t have gone well, but it wasn’t something she wanted Evan to worry about, either. Some things were better not brought up.
As if he guessed that there was more to the story than Sharpe had realized, Evan raised a hand in protest. “I don’t want to know about it. I can’t be involved in this. You can’t be involved. Have you forgotten that we’re trying to plan our wedding?”
“Ne, I haven’t forgotten. Of course I haven’t forgotten,” she said with enthusiasm.
Truthfully, the wedding was fast becoming a headache. Not marrying Evan. She wanted to marry him, but the wedding itself was stressing her. There was so much to do. Food. First there had been a caterer; now her mother was preparing the meal. Flowers. She hadn’t known what to choose and the arrangements had seemed expensive. A wedding dress. Appointments to be made and missed. An Amish wedding would have been so much simpler. She would have chosen an ordinary dress, and they would have had the entire community helping prepare and serve the food. But that wasn’t possible, since neither of them was Amish.
“I need you to help me decide what we’re doing on our honeymoon,” Evan said. “We have to make reservations for the good stuff.”
She smiled at him. “Turks and Caicos. Seven days.” She’d never been to the Caribbean before, and it sounded wonderful. Warm. Palm trees and sand. Blue ocean. It had been Evan’s choice, and she couldn’t have chosen better. He’d researched the various islands and given her three destinations to pick from. But she’d guessed from his
