“I don’t know what you think you’re proving with this stoic act you’ve started. You’re not doing yourself any good,” Mrs. Eisenhart said. “People look at you and see indifference. You won’t get the death sentence. I’m a better lawyer than that, and, besides, nobody likes to kill kids, but playing Marble Man is hurting you.”

Dylan knew she was right. He was eleven, not stupid. If he let the jury and the judge see his pain, they might take pity on him. Pity might lead to forgiveness. He couldn’t hope for the good Bible kind where the Prodigal Son is loved, but there might be a version of “forgiveness lite,” where they could tell themselves he was redeemable.

“There’s an old Chinese proverb,” Mrs. Eisenhart said. “You keep on the way you’re going, and eventually you’ll get where you’re headed. You’re a smart boy; you know where that is.”

When he didn’t respond, she dug newspapers out of her briefcase and spread them on the table between them. On the front pages there were photos of him locked in his panic catatonia. “Butcher Boy Shows No Remorse.” That was the headline on the tabloid. The respectable paper was more circumspect but the message was the same.

“Have it your way,” Mrs. Eisenhart said abruptly. Leaving the papers for him to enjoy, she snapped her briefcase shut and stalked away, her high-heeled shoes noisy on the linoleum. At the door she turned back and Dylan wondered if she watched that new show Columbo and was doing that almost-gone-wait-one-more-zinger move. “You’re killing me,” she said. She didn’t even see why that was funny.