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Jemima followed Mark back to the big white farmhouse that had been built by his great-great-grandfather 100 years before. It was white, with a green roof, spotlessly clean, and, apparently, temporarily empty.
Mark’s mother Elizabeth was out doing chores and was nowhere to be seen: so Mark invited Jemima to sit down at the kitchen table. He poured her a cup of coffee, served her a piece of snitz pie, grabbed one for himself, and then went upstairs to change.
Jemima ate the pie gratefully. It was past noon now, and the walk had made her hungry.
When Mark came back downstairs, he was holding a big bonnet. He held it out to Jemima. “This belongs to my Mamm. If you wear it, no one will be able to see your face.” Then he went outside to hitch up the buggy.
A few minutes later they were riding down the driveway and out onto the road.
They sat in silence. It was a good five miles to town from the Christner’s farm, and Mark, as always, preferred silence to speech. But to Jemima’s relief, it was the comfortable silence of long friendship. Even though the money had put a barrier between them, the money was still the only barrier there was.
It was also apparent that the bonnet was doing its job. It was far too big for Jemima and hid her face completely if she turned away from the road. No one they passed on the road took a second look at her. If they knew Mark, they supposed her to be his mother: if they didn’t know Mark, they probably thought the same. Jemima figured that since the reporters didn’t know him, they’d see him as just another young Amish man. But she was careful to look away when cars passed by, and to her great gratitude, no one took any notice of them.
Mark drove her, via sleepy side streets, to the office of Barfield Hutchinson, a lawyer who was trusted and sometimes hired by Amish folk in the area. Jemima had chosen him because he was frankly the only lawyer she knew and because she had once heard her father speak of him approvingly.
When Mark stopped the buggy outside his office, he threw the reins aside, turned to her, and took her hands solemnly.
“Mima, are you sure about this? Maybe you should think about it some more. This is a big step.”
Jemima looked into his frowning eyes. She knew he was genuinely worried for her.
“You’re so sweet, Mark,” she whispered, and kissed him. His lips were warm and strong and delicious on hers – they tasted of snitz pie, and protective. But when they parted, she looked him dead in the eye.
“I’ve decided. I am going in there, and I—I am going to hire him. I have no choice.”
Mark sighed, and shook his head. “You’re changing, Mima,” he murmured, half to himself, and Jemima shot him a frightened look. Her mother’s warning came back to her with terrible force, and she was shaken by the sudden fear that she might lose Mark.
“You don’t hate me – do you, Mark?” she whispered.
He looked shocked. “Of course not, Mima,” he sputtered and leaned in to kiss her reassuringly. “Hate you! Never. It’s just that – well, you never used to be this – brave.”
Jemima digested this and decided that she would take it as a compliment. “I’ve had to be,” she told him grimly, then gathered her skirts, and climbed down from the buggy.
Mark opened the door for her, and they walked into the lawyer’s office. It was housed in a two-story red brick building, the kind found in any small town square—except this one was on a tree-lined side street.
The interior was elegantly furnished in colonial antiques – a highly polished grandfather clock ticked softly in one corner, what looked like a Persian rug covered the floor, and even the lobby furniture was upholstered in leather.
Jemima looked uncertainly at Mark, and he took her elbow. They walked to the receptionist’s desk.
A young, attractive Englisch woman sat there. She was well-groomed and well-dressed but didn’t seem especially well-disposed toward visitors. She smiled politely – but coolly, Jemima was quick to note.
“Good afternoon. Can I help you?”
Jemima nodded. “I’d like to hire Mr. Hutchinson,” she said firmly.
The woman smiled broadly, and Jemima went red to the roots of her hair.
“Do you have an appointment?” she asked blandly.
Jemima shook her head.
The young woman smiled again. “I’m afraid Mr. Hutchinson is busy today,” she said smoothly, “but if you’d like to make an appointment, he might be able to see you—-” she glanced at her desk calendar “– two weeks from Friday.”
Jemima looked at Mark helplessly. His lips were pressed into a thin, straight line. He said nothing, but he took hold of the bonnet and gently lifted it from her head.
The woman looked up and froze. Her eyes widened.
“This is Jemima King,” Mark told her.
The woman stared, and then recovered her poise. She smiled again, and this time the expression touched her eyes.
“Let me buzz Mr. Hutchinson,” she said. “I’m sure he’ll want to see you, Miss King.” She picked up the phone and pressed a button.
“Mr. Hutchinson, there’s a Miss Jemima King to see you.” She looked up at Jemima’s face. “Yes. All right.”
She put the phone down again. “Mr. Hutchinson will be right with you.”
Jemima glanced at Mark gratefully, but she had no time to do more. There was a faint bumping sound on the other side of a polished door, and it opened to admit Mr. Barfield Hutchinson. He was a tall, distinguished-looking elderly man, with a thick head of long white hair, bright blue eyes, a trim mustache, and a broad, handsome mouth.
He smiled to reveal a full set of white teeth, and gestured in welcome.
“Please come in,” he smiled.
They walked into his spacious office, and Jemima sank into one of two seats facing an ornate antique desk. The wall behind the desk was covered in law books that looked as if they dated back a century at least.
Mr. Hutchinson sat down in his leather chair, folded his hands on top of his desk, leaned forward, and smiled at Jemima.
“Now what can I do for you, Miss King?”
Jemima glanced over at Mark, but if she had hoped for encouragement, she was disappointed. Mark’s stoic expression told her that he still thought their visit was a mistake, and that he wished neither of them was there. She set her mouth and turned to the lawyer.
“I want to hire you,” she told him. “I’m being sued.”
“Ah.” The smiled faded from Mr. Hutchinson’s face, to be replaced by an expression of mild concern. “And who would be suing such a charming young lady?”
Jemima dug into her bag and pulled out the sheaf of legal papers. She handed them to Mr. Hutchinson. “A man named Caldwell C. Morton,” she frowned.
The lawyer took the papers and scanned them. He mumbled under his breath and flipped the pages briefly. “Hmm. Yes, I’ve heard your story, Miss King, like most everyone else in the country.” He looked up at her and smiled. “Congratulations on your historic find! Do you have any proof that you purchased the letter, to establish ownership – a receipt, witnesses?”
Jemima nodded. “I bought the letter at Mr. Satterwhite’s Gift Shop on the square,” she told him, “and I think I still have the receipt. I’ll have to look. But Mr. Satterwhite sold the clock to me, so he knows I bought it. And there was someone else, who saw me take it out of his shop, and who saw the letter fall out of it.”
“Who would that be?” the lawyer asked, scribbling on a notepad.
Jemima felt herself going red. She was very conscious of Mark, sitting at her elbow. She coughed a little. “A reporter, from the Ledger newspaper, named Brad Williams.”
The lawyer nodded. “Yes, of course. The young man who broke the story! It’s been very well documented, so I don’t think I need to get that part of it from you.”
Jemima looked down at her hands, and could feel Mark scowling.
“And – forgive me, Miss King –” the lawyer was smiling again – “but just for the record, are you certain that you never signed anything to the effect that you would sell the clock or the letter to this Morton fellow? You never promised that, in any way?”
Jemima shook her head vehemently. “No. He asked me over and over, but I never signed anything, and I never promised him I would. He’s lying!”
“Is there anyone who can back you up on that, in court?”
Jemima bit her lip and looked down at her hands again. “Yes,” she replied unwillingly. “After I bought the clock, the Englischer came out to my house and asked to buy it. Then Brad Williams came out, too. He told me that the clock could be valuable, and not to sell. Then the Englischer threw money on the porch and demanded I sell the clock to him. And said I had promised to sell. And I told him that no, I had not promised to sell, only to show him the clock. And – and Brad Williams was there when I said that.”
Mr. Hutchinson scribbled again. “Good.”
Jemima raised fierce eyes to his face. “But I don’t want you to call Brad Williams, or to talk to him at all because I don’t want to see him again!”
The lawyer looked at her. “Why not, Miss King? It seems to me that he could help you a great deal.”
Jemima felt suddenly flustered, and huffed, “Because, because he was the one who got me into this mess, and I never want to see him again!”
The lawyer looked down and scribbled again. “I respect your wishes, Miss King, but I’m bound to tell you that it will make my job harder if he doesn’t appear. Assuming he was the only witness to that conversation?”
Jemima bit her lip and nodded.
Mr. Hutchinson sighed. “Well, Miss King, I’ll still be happy to represent you. Try hard to find the receipt, and if you do, send it to me.”
“There’s something else,” Jemima told him reluctantly. “I don’t have all the money any more. I’ve given it away to different people. I only have half of what he’s suing me for!”
The lawyer paused, pulled his glasses down his nose, and stared at Jemima over them. “You mean to say – you’ve given away half of the money?”
Jemima looked down, and nodded.
“Do you mind telling me – to whom?”
Jemima looked up at him uncomfortably. “Well – to the Yoders – their little boy fell down a well, and broke almost all his bones, and he was in the hospital, and they couldn’t pay their bills, so I gave them $200,000. And then there was the Millers, John Miller had a heart attack in January and the family’s bills were terrible, and I gave them $150,000 for that. And I gave about as much to the Beilers for their premature baby, and a little to Grandma Sarah Fisher for her last trip to the emergency room, when she had the mini-stroke and had to stay overnight.”
Mr. Hutchinson frowned, and closed his eyes, and shook his head slightly. “So – you’re telling me – you gave all of that money to other people?”
Jemima met his eyes. “Yes.”
“Would they be willing to be deposed?”
Jemima shook her head, and he added: “Would they come and tell me that themselves if they knew it would help you?”
Jemima nodded. “I think so.”
Mr. Hutchinson tilted his head, and added: “You’ve certainly been very generous, Miss King! Would you tell me, please, how much of this money you’ve spent on yourself?”
Jemima raised her eyebrows and shrugged. “Why, nothing. I’m healthy, and my family does well. I don’t need anything.
“But do – do you think I’m in very much trouble?”
Mr. Hutchinson smiled again, very broadly. “Oh, my dear,” he told her, “don’t worry about anything. Just leave everything to me.” He rubbed his long hands and muttered, half to himself: “Morton will probably drop the suit, because if we go to a jury trial, I’ll destroy him.”
Mr. Hutchinson looked up at Jemima and smiled again. “What I mean to say is, of course I’ll do everything in my power to see that you prevail.”
