The Amish Clockmaker (42 page)

He wished with all his heart he had fallen instead.

Clayton crumpled to the cold tiles, and to his knees in supplication
. Lord, why have You allowed this? Why am I here?

He knelt there for a long while, pleading with God to answer him. His knees grew numb, but still he knelt, his bad leg eventually throbbing with pain. He pulled himself up from the floor to lay on the cot, his mind sinking deeper and deeper into hopelessness.

A few hours passed and Clayton, tired of feeling, closed his eyes. Just
before his body surrendered to sleep and his mind became still, a thought popped into his head, a Bible verse he had memorized as a child.

Remember the word that I said unto you, the servant is not greater than his lord. If they have persecuted me, they will also persecute you.

Clayton eyes snapped open.

If Jesus Himself had been accused of crimes He hadn't committed—was even crucified for them—then who was Clayton to believe he was above wrongful imprisonment? Perhaps the Lord wasn't punishing him but instead was inviting him into a more intimate understanding of His sufferings, an intimacy that could only be cultivated through the refining fires of persecution.

Clayton was comforted by this thought, but still his heart ached. His mind was still burdened by doubts and fears. But stronger than these was a feeling of peace, that regardless of the result of the trial to come, the only opinion that mattered was God's, and God knew the truth.

God knew he was innocent.

Three days later, Clayton was resting on his cot after yet another meal of beans and canned fruit and congealed soup when he heard a clatter in the hall. He limped to the cell door and pressed his face against the bars, trying to see what was causing the commotion.

It was the same guard he usually saw, but this time he was bringing in another prisoner. And though the guard, true to form, said not a word, the man he escorted was about as noisy as a person could be. He was complaining and stumbling, and as they drew closer, Clayton recognized the soured smell of alcohol.

The guard locked the man in the cell directly across from Clayton, and he found himself feeling oddly pleased. As much as he didn't relish witnessing the raucous behavior of a drunken man, he'd been so isolated that even this was better than nothing.

The man tossed his linens toward the cot and then stood where he had been left, rocking back and forth and singing to himself. Then he looked over, noticed Clayton, and grew silent.

He stared for a long moment, his body swaying back and forth. “You're him, ain't you?”

Clayton blinked. “Excuse me?”

The man barked out a laugh, as if he couldn't believe his luck. “You're
him
. The one all over the news. I don't believe it.” Another laugh, this time with a slap to the knee. “They done stuck me in here with a murderer. Not just any murderer—a famous murderer. A famous
Amish
murderer.” Shaking his head, he moved to the cot and half sat, half collapsed onto it. “Don't that just beat all.”

Lying back against the mattress, the man covered his eyes with one arm and almost immediately let out a loud snore. He was asleep.

An hour later, when he finally stirred, Clayton spoke. He had been waiting.

“What are they saying about me?” he asked, not truly sure that he wanted to know. If even his mother was against him, telling the detective all sorts of personal things about him and Miriam, then he could only imagine what “facts” were being spread all over town by everyone else.

The guy ran a hand down his face, sat up, and spat toward the corner.

“What do you mean?” he grunted, only slightly less inebriated than before.

“You said I was famous. How? What are they saying, exactly?”

He laughed. “What do you think? A picture of them taking you away been on the front page of every paper in town, ‘Amish Clockmaker Kills Wife in Jealous Rage.' ”

Clayton swallowed hard as the man continued, rattling off a series of mistakes and misconceptions and outright lies. “Somebody said she never even slept with you, not once, 'cause she was in love with another man. She was carrying his child. Is that true?”

Clayton did not reply.

The drunk burped and wiped some spittle from his chin with his sleeve. “I said, is that true? You never been with your own
wife?
Is something wrong with you, boy?”

Clayton pursed his lips, closed his eyes, prayed for deliverance from this torment.

To his great relief, he heard what sounded like another snore, and when he looked over at the man again, he realized he'd collapsed back against the cot and was once again out.

Weariness settled onto Clayton's shoulders like an iron yoke. He lay back on his cot as well and stared up at the ceiling.

Heavenly Father,
w
hatever happens I accept the plans You have for me. The servant is not greater than his lord.

On the fifth day of his incarceration, Clayton heard the main doors down the corridor open and close. He assumed another prisoner was being ushered in, but then the guard was standing in front of his cell and unlocking the door.

“Let's go. You're being released,” the guard said, as casually as if he'd announced the lunchroom would be serving French fries today.

Clayton stared at him.

“Come on, Raber. Get up. I have other inmates to manage.”

His mind numb, Clayton slid his feet into his shoes, stood, and followed the guard down the hall, hobbling as fast as his legs would carry him. As if in a dream, he was processed out of the prison, far more quickly than he'd been processed in. He was given back his clothes and possessions. He signed some paperwork and then changed in the dress out room.

“What has happened?” he kept asking. But the only answer he got was that he was being released. No one seemed to know or care why.

Before he knew it, Clayton was standing outside the jailhouse in his black felt hat and dark coat, blinking in the sun, trying to understand what had just happened. He turned to speak to the guard who had let him out, but he was already gone. Stunned, he looked around for someone else to ask when he spotted a familiar face leaning against the sandstone wall nearby as if he'd been waiting for him.

It was the lawyer, the fellow who had been assigned by the court to defend Clayton. They had met only once, here at the jail the day after his interrogation, and their entire conversation had consisted of Clayton recounting all he'd shared with Detective De Lucca and this man shaking his head as if to say,
You told him that?

Now he had a broad smile on his face and a cigarette in his hand. He offered the cigarette to Clayton, who declined.

“Congratulations, Mr. Raber,” the lawyer said, putting the cigarette between his own lips instead. He flicked open a lighter, cupped his hand around his mouth, and lit up.

“Please tell me what's going on,” Clayton said, for some reason sounding angry even though he wasn't.

The lawyer blew out smoke in a long, satisfied stream. “Charges were dropped. Officially speaking, the prosecutor decided there was insufficient evidence to go to trial.”

Clayton blinked. Insufficient evidence? So why had they arrested him in the first place? “I don't understand.”

Another drag, another exhale. A long, heavy pause, and then what almost felt like a secret shared in a low voice. “A credible witness came forward who said they saw the whole thing.”

A witness? But he and Miriam had been alone. Who could possibly have seen them?

“Who?”

“Don't know. The person asked to remain anonymous. But the police must have believed whoever it was, because after taking a statement they decided to drop charges and close the case. You're a free man.”

He took Clayton's elbow as if to usher him forward away from the jail doors, but Clayton would not budge.

“What witness? Who?” he insisted. Theoretically, someone could have observed their encounter from down below in the barn. The hayloft was open, after all, and they were for the most part standing close enough to the edge to have been seen.

But no one had been down there. No one else was in the barn with them.

“Does it matter?” the lawyer asked, seeming vaguely irritated. “The point is you've been released.”

“Why remain anonymous, though? If someone saw what happened, why wouldn't they speak freely?”

The man sighed, impatient with Clayton's persistence. “I don't know, Mr. Raber. But if I were you, I'd just count my blessings and never look back.”

Clayton spent the first few days of his return home in solitude, praying and mourning. Though he had expected to be welcomed back into the bosom of his family and community, he quickly realized that matters were unfolding in the opposite direction. Apparently, not only did the newspapers and
Englischers
who read them believe he'd been guilty and had simply gotten away with it, but everyone in his community—and his family—did too.

Even his mother seemed to have her doubts. She moved over to Maisie's the same day he came home, claiming his sister needed some extra help around the house. But Clayton knew the truth. She thought he was guilty, that he was a killer. And now a part of her was actually afraid of him.

Oddly, the only ones who seemed willing to believe him and move on were the very people who should have harbored the most anger toward him: Miriam's parents. Though he could tell it was hard for them to be with him—to even look at him—at least their words were kind and they made an effort to see that he was fed. In the absence of his mother, Norman brought over a dinner plate each afternoon and left it in the kitchen for when Clayton came home from the shop.

At first, he assumed that the community and his family members needed time. Miriam's death had been a shock, and maybe their consternation was more about that than about some perceived guilt of Clayton's. He hoped things would get better. But even being at worship service was strange, different. Almost as if he were officially shunned, the people wouldn't quite look at him, barely spoke to him. Whispered about him constantly. Even Uriah, his wise bishop, treasured friend, and trusted confidant, now regarded Clayton with a mix of skepticism and mistrust.

Except that he wasn't shunned. He wasn't dealt with by the church in any way at first, almost as if they were still trying to make up their minds about Clayton Raber and the truth of what happened that day.