“What are you doing?” he demands.

“Hey!” The female slides off the car, her eyes flaring. “You can’t do that.”

I swing around, stick my finger in her face. “You take one step closer to me and you’re going to jail.”

She steps quickly back, as if realizing she’s ventured too close to an animal that bites. “Fine. Whatever.”

I turn back to the man. He glares at me. In a small corner of my mind, I find myself wishing he’d take his best shot so I could deck him.

“Give me back my camcorder,” he says.

“You can pick it up when you pay your citation.” I pull out the pad and start writing.

“Citation?” He gawks at me. “For what? Taking a photo? Ever heard of freedom of expression?”

“This is a no parking, no standing zone.” I motion toward the sign. “Ever heard of that?”

This isn’t the first time some photo-seeking tourist has stopped on this stretch of road to capture an Amish funeral on film. In light of several Amish-English skirmishes in the last few years, the town council petitioned the county to declare the shoulder within one hundred yards of the cemetery driveway a no parking or standing zone. With tourism being a large chunk of the local economy, the county obliged by putting up four signs.

“I didn’t know,” the man says. “I didn’t see the sign!”

“Now you know.” I slap the citation against his chest. “Have a nice day.”

He throws his hands up in the air. “For chrissake!”

“This is a funeral. Show some respect.” Stuffing the pad into an inside pocket, I start toward the Explorer, think better of it and turn to him. “And for your information, most Amish don’t like having their picture taken. Next time, ask their permission before you snap.”

By the time I reach the Explorer, the final buggy has pulled into the gravel driveway.

“I thought you were going to punch him,” T.J. says.

“Too many witnesses.”

He blinks.

I point at him and smile. “Gotcha.”

T.J. smiles back. “So are we just going to surveil?”

I look through the windshield at the ocean of black-clad mourners. “I thought we’d make an appearance, see who’s here.”

We disembark simultaneously and head toward the graveyard, our boots crunching on the gravel. Beyond, a hundred or more plain headstones form neat rows in a meadow that had once been a soybean field. Dozens of black buggies are parked neatly along a lesser used dirt path. Nearer the graves, I see families. Young couples. The elderly. Children. Mothers with babies. All of them standing in the cold drizzle. The community came out in force for the Plank family. But then that is the Amish way.