“Real guilty, sir.”
“About what?”
“Not stopping it, sir. It’s gonna delay my life.”
“Delay it, how?”
“I was gonna be rich soon, now it’s gonna be later.”
“Why?”
“ ’Cause they’re gonna lock me up somewhere.”
“In jail.”
Shrug.
“How long do you think they’ll lock you up?”
“You could tell them the truth, sir, and maybe it wouldn’t have to be so long.” He cocked his head, almost girlishly. His smile had a feminine cast to it, too. He had a dozen smiles; first time I’d seen this variant.
“You think that if I tell them the truth, your sentence could be shorter.”
“The judge likes you.”
“Someone tell you that?”
“Nope.”
When most people lie they give off a “tell”- a shift in posture, subtle changes in eye movement, tone of voice. This kid could fabricate so coolly I was willing to bet he’d fool the polygraph.
“Troy, do you ever get scared?”
“Of what?”
“Anything?”
He thought. “I get scared of doing bad things.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t want to be bad.”
“Are you ever bad?”
“Sometimes. Like everyone.”
“Everyone’s bad sometimes.”
“No one’s perfect,” he said. “Except God.”
“Are you religious?”
“Drew and Cherish say I am, sir.”
“Who’re Drew and Cherish?”
“Ministers.”
“They visit you?”
“Yup. Sir.”
“Do you find that helpful?”
“Yessir. Very helpful.”
“How do Drew and Cherish help you?”
“Tell me I’m gonna be okay. Tell me everyone makes mistakes.”
“So,” I said, “you think sometimes you’re bad. Like how?”
“Not going to school. Not reading books.” He stood, took a volume from the bottom shelf. Black cardboard covers.
“Drew and Cherish give you that?”
“Yessir. And I read it.”
“What are you reading about.”
A second’s pause. “Day Two.”
“Of creation?”
“Yessir. God made heaven.”
“What does heaven mean to you?”
“A good place.”
“What’s good about it?”
“You’re rich and you get cool stuff.”
“What kind of cool stuff?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Who goes to heaven?”
“Good people.”
“People who don’t do really bad things.”
“No one’s perfect,” he said and his voice tightened.
“That’s for sure,” I said.
“I’m going to heaven,” he said.
“After you’re delayed.”
“Yessir.”
“You talked before about getting rich. How’re you planning to do that?” I said.
Rebirth of the smirk. This time it endured, and his eyes drilled into mine and his delicate little hands became bony little fists.
“ ’Cause I’m smart,” he said. “Can I go to sleep, now? ’Cause I’m tired.
The rest of the sessions were unproductive, as he wavered between claims of fatigue and feeling “sick.” My attempts to elicit specific symptoms were fruitless. A physical by a jail doctor had produced nothing. The last time I saw him, he was reading the Bible and ignored me as I sat down.
“Interesting?” I said.
“Yup.”
“What are you up to?”
He put the book facedown on the cot and stared past me.
“Troy?”
“I’m feeling sick.”
“Where?”
“All over.”
“Dr. Bronsky checked you out and said you’re fine.”
“I’m sick.”
“This may be the last time I come to see you,” I said. “Anything you want to tell me?”
“What are you gonna tell the judge?”
“I’ll just report what we talked about.”
He smiled.
“You’re happy about that.”
“You’re a good person, sir. You like to help people.”
I got up and picked up the Bible. Small gray smudges marked his place. Genesis, chapter four. Cain and Abel.
“Quite a story,” I said.
“Yessir.”
“What do you think of it?”
“Of what?”
“Cain killing his brother, getting cursed.”
“He deserved it.”
“Cain did?”
“Yessir.”
“Why’s that?”
“He did sin.”
