by Jodi Picoult
“Did you determine anything about the footprint?”
“It would have belonged to a barefoot woman who wore a size seven shoe.”
“What did you do next?”
“I tried to find the woman who’d given birth. First I interviewed Aaron Fisher’s wife, Sarah. I found out that she’d had a hysterectomy nearly a decade ago, and was unable to have children. I questioned the neighbors and their two teenage girls, all of whom had alibis. By the time I got back to the farm, the Fishers’ daughter, Katie, had come downstairs. In fact, she came into the tack room where the medical examiner was with the newborn’s body.”
“What was her reaction?”
“She was very disturbed,” Lizzie said. “She ran out of the barn.”
“Did you follow her?”
“Yes. I caught up with her on the porch. I asked Ms. Fisher if she’d been pregnant, and she denied it.”
“Did that seem suspicious to you?”
“Not at all. It was what her parents had told me, too. But then I noticed blood running down her legs and pooling on the floor. Although she was reluctant, I had her forcibly removed by the EMTs and taken to the hospital for her own personal safety.”
“At this point what was running through your mind?”
“That this girl needed medical attention. But then I wondered if perhaps the defendant’s parents had never known she was pregnant—if she’d hidden the truth from them, like she’d tried to hide it from me.”
“How did you discover that she’d hidden the truth?” George asked.
“I went to the hospital and spoke to the defendant’s doctor, who confirmed that she had delivered a baby, was in critical condition, and needed emergency treatment to stop the vaginal bleeding. Once I knew that she had lied to me about the pregnancy, I got warrants to search the farm and the house, and to get a blood test and DNA from the baby and from the defendant. The next step was to match the blood in the hay of the calving pen to that of the defendant, the blood on the baby’s body to that of the defendant, and the blood type in the baby’s body to that of the defendant.”
“What came of the information you got from these warrants?”
“Underneath the defendant’s bed was a bloody nightgown. In her closet were boots and shoes in a size seven. All the lab tests positively linked the blood in the barn to the defendant, and the blood on and in the baby to the defendant.”
“What did this lead you to believe?”
Lizzie let her gaze rest lightly on Katie Fisher. “That in spite of her denial, the defendant was the mother of that baby.”
“At this point, did you believe that the defendant had killed the baby?”
“No. Murder’s rare in East Paradise, and virtually unheard of in the Amish community. I believed, at this point, that the baby was stillborn. But then the medical examiner sent me the autopsy report, and I had to refine my conclusions.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one thing, the baby had been born alive. For another, the umbilical cord had been cut by scissors—which made me think of the scissors Aaron Fisher said were missing; scissors from which we might have lifted a print. The newborn had died of asphyxia, but the medical examiner found fibers deep in the baby’s mouth that matched the shirt it had been wrapped in, suggesting that he had been smothered. That was when I realized that the defendant was a potential suspect.”
Lizzie took a sip of water from a glass perched beside the witness stand. “After that, I interviewed everyone close to the defendant, and the defendant herself. The defendant’s mother confirmed that a younger child had died many years ago, and that she had no idea her daughter was pregnant—nor any reason to think so. The father wouldn’t speak to me at all. I also interviewed Samuel Stoltzfus, one of the hired hands and coincidentally the defendant’s boyfriend. From him I learned that he’d planned to marry the defendant this fall. He also told me that the defendant had never had sexual intercourse with him.”
“What did that lead you to believe?”
Lizzie raised her brows. “At first I wondered if he’d found out that Katie Fisher had two-timed him—and if he’d smothered the baby out of revenge. But Samuel Stoltzfus lives ten miles from the Fisher farm with his parents, who confirmed that he was sleeping there during the window of time the medical examiner said death occurred. Then I began to think that maybe I had it backward—that the information pointed to the defendant, instead. I mean, here was a motive: Amish girl, Amish parents, Amish boyfriend—and she gets pregnant by someone else? That’s an excuse to hide the birth, maybe even get rid of it.”
“Did you interview anyone else?”
“Yes, Levi Esch, the second hired hand on the farm. He said that the defendant had been sneaking to Penn State for the past six years to meet with her brother. Jacob Fisher did not live like the Amish anymore, but like any other college student.”
“Why was that relevant?”
Lizzie smiled. “It’s a lot easier to meet a guy other than your Amish boyfriend when a whole new world is at your fingertips—one with booze and frat parties and Maybelline.”
“Did you speak to Jacob Fisher, too?”
“Yes, I did. He confirmed the defendant’s secret visits and said he had not known of his sister’s pregnancy. He also told me that the reason the defendant had to visit him behind her father’s back was because he was no longer welcome at home.”
George feigned confusion. “How come?”
“The Amish don’t attend school past eighth grade, but Jacob had wanted to continue his education. Breaking that rule got him excommunicated from the Amish church. Aaron Fisher took the punishment one step further, and disowned Jacob. Sarah Fisher followed her husband’s wishes, but sent her daughter to visit Jacob covertly.”
“How did this affect your thinking about the case?”
“All of a sudden,” Lizzie said, “things became more clear. If I were the defendant, and I knew that my own brother had been exiled for something as simple as studying, I’d be very careful not to break any rules. Call me crazy, but having a baby out of wedlock is a more severe infraction than reading Shakespeare on the side. That means if she didn’t find a way to hide what had happened, she was going to be tossed out of her home and her family, not to mention her church. So she concealed the pregnancy for seven months. Then she had the baby—and concealed that, too.”
“Did you determine the identity of the father?”
“We did not.”
“Did you consider any other suspects, beside the defendant?”
Lizzie sighed. “You know, I tried to. But too much didn’t add up. The birth occurred two and a half months early, in a place with no phone and no electricity—which means no one could have been called, or have known about it, unless they were living at the farm and heard the defendant’s labor. As for a stranger coming by, what’s the chance of someone dropping in unannounced at two A.M. on an Amish farm? And if a stranger did show up, why kill the baby? And why wouldn’t the defendant have mentioned this?
“So that left me with family members. But only one of them had lied about the pregnancy and birth to my face. For only one of them were the stakes frighteningly high should news of this baby get out. And for only one of them did we have evidence placing her at the scene of the crime.” Lizzie glanced at the defendant’s table. “In my opinion, the facts clearly show that Katie Fisher smothered her newborn.”
* * *
When Ellie Hathaway stood up to do her cross-examination, Lizzie squared her shoulders. She tried to remember what George had said about the attorney’s ruthlessness, her ability to worm answers out of the most stubborn witnesses. From the looks of her, Lizzie didn’t doubt it a bit. Lizzie could hold her own with the boys in the department, but Ellie Hathaway’s cropped hair and angular suit made it seem as if any of the softer edges of her personality had long been hacked away.
Which is why Lizzie nearly fell over in her seat when the attorney approached her with a genuine, friendly smile. �
�Did you know I used to spend summers here?”
Lizzie blinked at her. “At the courthouse?”
“No,” Ellie laughed, “contrary to popular belief. I meant in East Paradise.”
“I did not know that,” Lizzie said stiffly.
“Well, my aunt lives here. Used to own a little farm.” She grinned. “But that was before real estate taxes went as high as the new cellular towers.”
At that, Lizzie chuckled under her breath. “That’s why I rent.”
“Your Honor,” George interrupted, giving his witness a warning look, “I’m certain the jury doesn’t need to hear Ms. Hathaway’s stroll down memory lane.”
The judge nodded. “Is there a point to this, counselor?”
“Yes, Your Honor. It’s that growing up around here, you get to watch the Amish quite a bit.” She turned to Lizzie. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes.”
“You said you hadn’t booked many Amish. When was the last one?”
Lizzie backpedaled mentally. “About five months ago. A seventeen-year-old who drove his buggy into a ditch under the influence.”
“And before that? How long had it been?”
She tried, but she couldn’t remember. “I don’t know.”
“But a good length of time?”
“I’d say so,” Lizzie admitted.
“In your dealings . . . both professional and personal . . . have you found the Amish to be fairly gentle people?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what happens when an unwed Amish girl has a baby?”
“I’ve heard that they take care of their own,” Lizzie said.
“That’s right, and Katie wouldn’t have been excommunicated—only shunned for a while. Then she’d be forgiven and welcomed back with open arms. So where’s the motive for murder?”
“In her father’s actions,” Lizzie explained. “There are ways around excommunication if you want to keep in touch with family members who’ve left the church, but Aaron Fisher didn’t allow them when he banished the defendant’s brother. That severe fact was in the back of her mind, all the time.”
“I thought you didn’t interview Mr. Fisher.”
“I didn’t.”
“Ah,” Ellie said. “So now you’re psychic?”
“I interviewed his son,” Lizzie countered.
“Talking to a son won’t tell you what’s in the father’s mind. Just like looking at a dead baby doesn’t tell you that its mother killed it, right?”
“Objection!”
“Withdrawn,” Ellie said smoothly. “Do you find it odd that an Amish woman is being accused of murder?”
Lizzie looked at George. “It’s an aberration. But the fact is, it happened.”
“Did it? Your scientific proof confirms that Katie had that baby. That’s indisputable. But does having that baby necessarily lead to killing that baby?”
“No.”
“You also mentioned that you found a footprint in the dirt near where the infant’s body was found. In your mind, this links Katie to murder?”
“Yes,” Lizzie said. “Since we know that she wears a size seven. It’s not convicting evidence in and of itself, but it certainly adds support to our theory.”
“Is there any way to prove that this specific footprint was made by Katie’s foot?”
Lizzie folded her hands together. “Not conclusively.”
“I wear a size seven shoe, Detective Munro. So theoretically, it could have been my foot that made that print, correct?”
“You weren’t in the barn that morning.”
“Did you know that a size seven adult woman’s shoe is also approximately equivalent in length to a size five child’s shoe?”
“I didn’t.”
“Did you know that Levi Stoltzfus wears a size five shoe?”
Lizzie smiled tightly. “I do now.”
“Was Levi barefoot when you arrived at the farm?”
“Yes.”
“Had Levi, by his own admission, been standing on the floor near that pile of horse blankets to reach for one when he happened to find the body of the infant?”
“Yes.”
“So is it possible that the footprint you’re chalking up to evidentiary proof of Katie committing murder actually belonged to someone else who was in the same spot for a completely innocent reason?”
“It’s possible.”
“All right,” Ellie said. “You said the umbilical cord was cut with scissors.”
“Missing scissors,” Lizzie interjected.
“If a girl was going to kill her baby, Detective, would she bother to cut the cord?”
“I have no idea.”
“What if I told you that clamping and cutting the cord prompts the reflex that makes the newborn breathe on its own? Would it make sense to do that, if you’re going to smother it a few minutes later?”
“I suppose not,” Lizzie answered evenly, “but then again, I doubt most people know that cutting the cord leads to breathing. More likely, it’s a step in the birthing process they’ve seen on TV. Or in this case, from watching farm animals.”
Taken down a peg, Ellie stepped back to regroup. “If a girl was going to kill her baby, wouldn’t it be easier to cover it up with hay and leave it to die of exposure?”
“Maybe.”
“Yet this baby was found wiped clean, lovingly wrapped. Detective, what murderous young mother is going to swab and swaddle her baby?”
“I don’t know. But it happened,” Lizzie said firmly.
“That brings me to another point,” Ellie continued. “According to your theory, Katie hid the pregnancy for seven months and sneaked into the barn to deliver the baby in absolute silence—going to great lengths to keep anyone from finding out that a baby ever existed either in utero or out. So why on earth would she leave it in a place that she knew very well would be crawling with people doing the milking a few hours later? Why not dump the baby in the pond behind the barn?”
“I don’t know.”
“Or in the manure pile, where it wouldn’t have been found for some time?”
“I don’t know.”
“There are a lot of places on an Amish farm where the body of a baby could be disposed of that are far more clever than under a pile of blankets.”
Shrugging, Lizzie replied, “No one said the defendant was clever. Just that she committed murder.”
“Murder? We’re talking basic common sense here. Why cut the cord, get the baby breathing, swaddle it, kill it—and then leave it where it’s sure to be discovered?”
Lizzie sighed. “Maybe she wasn’t thinking clearly.”
Ellie rounded on her. “And yet by the very terms of a charge of murder, you allege that she was cognizant of this act, that she premeditated this act, that she committed it with intent? Can you be deliberate and confused all at the same time?”
“I’m not a psychiatrist, Ms. Hathaway. I don’t know.”
“No,” Ellie said meaningfully. “You don’t.”
* * *
When Katie and Jacob had been small, they’d played together in the fields, zigzagging through the summer cornfields as if they were a maze. Incredible, how thick and green those walls could grow, so that she could be a foot away from her brother just on the other side, and never know it.
Once, when she was about eight, she got lost. She’d been playing follow-the-leader, but Jacob got ahead of her and disappeared. Katie had called out for him, but he was teasing her that day and wouldn’t come. She walked in circles, she grew tired and thirsty, and finally she lay down on her back on the ground. She squinted up between the slats of stalks and took comfort from the fact that this was the same old sun, the same old sky, the same familiar world she’d awakened in that morning. And eventually, feeling guilty, Jacob came and found her.
At the defense table, with a flurry of words hailing around her like a storm, Katie remembered that day in the corn.
Things had a way of working out for the best,
when you let them run their course.
* * *
“The patient was brought into the ER with vaginal bleeding, and a urine pregnancy test was positive. She had a boggy uterus about twenty-four weeks’ size, and an open cervical os,” said Dr. Seaborn Blair. “We started her on a drip of pitocin to stop the bleeding. A BSU confirmed that the patient was pregnant.”
“Was the defendant cooperative about treatment?” George asked.
“Not as I recall,” Dr. Blair answered. “She was very upset about having a pelvic done—although we do see that from time to time in young women from remote areas.”
“After you treated the defendant, did you have a chance to speak to her?”
“Yes. Naturally, my first question was about the baby. It was clear that Ms. Fisher had recently delivered, yet she wasn’t brought in with a neonate.”
“What was the defendant’s explanation?”
Dr. Blair looked at Katie. “That she hadn’t had a baby.”
“Ah,” George said. “Which you knew to be medically inaccurate.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you question her further?”
“Yes, but she wouldn’t admit to the pregnancy. At that point, I suggested a psychiatric consult.”
“Did a psychiatrist ever examine the defendant at the hospital?”
“Not as far as I know,” the doctor said. “The patient wouldn’t permit it.”
“Thank you,” George finished. “Your witness.”
Ellie drummed her fingers on the defense table for a moment, then stood. “The boggy uterus, the positive BSU, the bleeding, the pelvic exam. Did these observations lead you to believe that Katie had had a baby?”
“Yes.”
“Did these observations lead you to believe that Katie had killed that baby?”
Dr. Blair glanced, again, at Katie. “No,” he said.
* * *
Dr. Carl Edgerton had been the medical examiner in Lancaster County for over fifteen years and easily fit the role, with his tufted eyebrows and white hair waving back from a central part. He’d participated in hundreds of trials, and approached every one with the same slightly irritated look on his face, one that said he’d rather be back in his lab. “Doctor,” the prosecutor said, “can you tell us the results of the autopsy on Baby Fisher?”
