“How long ago did you begin to think irregularities were taking place?”
“Seven months ago, and they’re not irregularities.”
“Why didn’t you report this immediately?”
“I had no proof.”
“Did you report your suspicions to your supervisor?”
“Yes, and it become clear that if I continued to ask questions I would lose my job. He said the main office had a different accounting system.”
“What did you do then?”
“I made copies of the reports and billing sheets. I have them outside in the car.”
“Did you have authorization to make these copies?”
“What do you mean?” asked Cora.
“Were you given permission by the American Milk Cooperative to make copies of their internal records and reports?”
“No.”
“Are you aware that making unauthorized copies of proprietary information and other data can constitute a felony?”
“No, but I have the documents outside in our car.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here,” said a man seated at the table directly behind her. “This agency is not in a position to accept any documents before a review panel can be convened.”
“Nothing was said about this when I called last week.”
“We are bound by law,” said the man seated closest to her, without looking up.
“I talked with Mr. Wolfinger. I told him—”
“I am Mr. Wolfinger and I never told you we could accept your papers before a department review had been convened.”
“Then why am I here?”
“We have begun a preliminary investigation and American Milk has offered to cooperate in providing us with all the information we require.”
“I can’t believe this. I have the documents in my car. They prove everything.”
“During this phase of the investigation it would be improper for us to accept them.”
“I can’t believe this!” shouted Cora, rising to her feet. “Shame on you.”
“Sit back down, Mrs. Shotwell.”
“I will not.”
“Let me assure you, Mrs. Shotwell,” began a very large man seated near her, his silhouette resembling an enormous pile of unfolded laundry. “Let me assure you, Mrs. Shotwell, that we are making a thorough and diligent effort.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Cora. “I don’t believe it.”
“This is only a preliminary hearing,” said the man she thought was a judge. “As we move forward, our own independently verified real documents will be forthcoming under department rules of discovery in compliance with the judicial administrative code. Until that time, I must ask you not to discuss this matter or other issues related to this with anyone.”
“Why not?”
“It may interfere with our investigation.”
When Cora reached Grahm in the waiting room, her face glowed bright red and she was shaking. “Let’s get out of here,” she said. “This is an unholy place.”
“What happened?”
“They insulted me.”
On the way home, Grahm said, “Maybe they didn’t mean to.”
And Cora said, “I guess if that were true you wouldn’t need to do anything about it.”
HIRING HELP
JULY MONTGOMERY AND HIS TWENTY-EIGHT-YEAR-OLD NEIGHBOR Wade Armbuster sat at a round metal table on the front deck of July’s house. They were drinking coffee and eating the last of a peach pie. Despite the cool morning air, a cloudless sky permitted an uncommonly brilliant sun to heat up everything it could reach into, and their clothes and the brick front of the farmhouse were saturated with warm comfort.
Wade wanted to borrow July’s block and tackle to pull the engine out of a car he was fixing up.
July wanted help with his third crop of hay.
The negotiations were complicated. Wade worked at the cheese plant, and his schedule was inflexible yet erratic. He had the strength of two ordinary men and would be good help, but July wasn’t sure he would bring the hoist back.
July forked another piece of pie into his mouth, contemplated the texture with his tongue, and gazed into the shrubs growing along the edge of the house.
“How long you need the hoist?”
“Long enough to trick out the motor—pistons, rings, stroker crank, roller cam, and three-way valves.”
“Sounds expensive.”
“Power costs money,” said Wade.
“Young people get hurt in cars like that.”
“People get hurt doing lots of things,” said Wade, his face thin and intense. The sunlight reflected from the jewelry in his ear and nose. “How much hay you got?”
“Two full days, maybe four. Can’t pay you much.”
“If I can use your shop—here—I’ll work for nothing. You’ve got good tools.”
“Here?”
“That way the folks won’t be nagging me.”
“You still on probation?”
“I guess so.”
“Sounded like a bad deal to me—what I heard,” said July. “Wasn’t entirely your fault. Someone backed you into a corner and you came out of it.”
Wade looked away, following a sound on the road. He admired July but didn’t care for him to know it. The older man lived alone and made his own rules. No one told him what to do and something in his eyes said two things at once: I like you but I don’t compromise on anything important.
Over the eastern horizon, Rusty Smith’s dual-wheeled pickup came toward them, eventually turning like a bloated silver fish into the narrow tributary of the driveway. He stopped at the edge of the yard, then drove another thirty yards to the open machine shed, where he climbed from the cab and stood waiting for July to speak with him in private.
“Here’s the deal,” said July. “You can use my shop, but I don’t want any of my tools disappearing and I’ve got to talk to your parents first. I know you’re old enough to do whatever you want, but that’s just the way it is. I don’t want any trouble with your folks. And I don’t mind if you occasionally drink around here, but I can’t tolerate drunks.”
Wade left.
July swallowed the bottom half of his coffee and joined Rusty in the machine shed. They discussed the weather for several minutes, milk prices and road construction.
“Those Amish,” muttered Rusty. “When you hire them, how do they get back and forth from work—in buggies?”
“That’s right,” said July. “If you want them quicker, pick them up.”
“I’ve got a lot of work to get done. How do you call them?”
“You don’t call them, Rusty. They don’t have phones. You go over. It’s the old way of doing business.”
“I’m not saying I’m going to.”
“Going