“Not going to school. Not reading books.” He stood, took a volume from the bottom shelf. Black cardboard covers. Holy Bible in green script.

“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. Sir.”

* * *

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.”

“The sin of murder.”

“Exactly,” he said, taking the Bible from me and closing it softly. “Like Rand. He’s going to hell.”

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 8

I met with both public defenders in a conference room at the jail.

Lauritz Montez was there when I arrived, a slightly built man, thirty or so, with dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. An extravagant waxed mustache overpowered a fuzzy chin-beard. He wore a vintage gray tweed three-piece suit and a skinny blue bow tie that was more like a shoelace.