Free Harmless as Doves by P. L. Gaus Page A

next to Burkholder. Crist was seated on the edge of his bunk, elbows planted on his knees, head cradled in his hands. He did not look up when Cal sat down.
    Dressed in his Amish clothes—blue denim trousers and a blue cotton blouse, but without his black cloth suspenders—Burkholder looked as out of place as a peasant in Tiffany’s. His brown leather work boots, hanging open as if they were three sizes too large, had been stripped of their shoelaces. A blue denim vest with hook and eye closures hung limp from his shoulders, open in front. His black hair was cut to the tops of his ears in Dutch-boy style, and his face and neck were tanned, his forehead showing pale white skin where his straw hat had shaded his eyes through the long summer in open fields. He had started a fancy beard, trimmed thin along the jawline, broadcasting his unmarried status and his spirited personality. But there in his cell, all of Crist Burkholder’s spirit and personality had been quenched, and his fancy beard communicated more bravado than was warranted.
    Cal reached up to lay a hand on Burkholder’s broad shoulders, intending to minister comfort to the lad, but Burkholder pulled back sullenly.
    Removing his hand, Cal said, “I arranged for you to have a lawyer, Crist. To help you navigate the courts.”
    “She’s a woman,” Burkholder said, and stood up to stare down dully at Cal. “I’ve already met my lawyer, and she’s a woman.”
    “Is that going to be a problem?”
    “Doesn’t matter. I’m guilty.”
    “You still need to listen to her advice.”
    “She says I’m going to prison, if I confess in court.”
    “Look, Crist, if she says you shouldn’t confess, then maybe you shouldn’t.”
    “But I already did.”
    Standing, Cal offered, “Maybe she’ll have a way to work around that.”
    “Doesn’t matter. I did it. I killed him.”
    Cal studied Burkholder’s expression for signs of contrition, but all he saw was the self-disgust of a boy who believed wholeheartedly that he was the author of his own disgrace. Thinking Burkholder should have been more concerned about his future, Cal asked, “What does your bishop say, Crist?”
    Burkholder shook his head. “He says I have to take my medicine.”
    “Do you agree?” Cal asked.
    “Sure. I did it. Now I’ll die in prison.”
    “Crist,” Cal asked, “did Glenn Spiegle provoke you?” and laid his hand back on Burkholder’s shoulder.
    Again Burkholder pulled away at Cal’s touch.
    “What’s wrong, Crist? What haven’t you told us?”
    Burkholder offered nothing.
    “You’re upset,” Cal said. “I don’t blame you. I would be upset too, if I were sitting in a jail cell. But people want to help you now, and you need to let them do that.”
    “Why, Mr. Troyer? Why do I have to let anyone help me? I killed a man. I beat him to death with my fist. Now I deserve what I get.”
    “Do you believe that, Crist? That you deserve whatever punishment you get?”
    “Yes!” Burkholder shouted. “I killed a man! Don’t you understand?”
    “OK, Crist, but let some of us try to help you.”
    Burkholder shook his head and turned to face into the corner of the cell. “Please leave me alone.”
    “I will,” Cal said. “But listen, just this once.”
    “What?” Burkholder said, turning back toward Cal. “You think I don’t deserve to go to prison?”
    “Probably you do, Crist.”
    “What can anyone do for me now?” Burkholder asked, facing back into the corner like a chastened youngster.
    Softly Cal said, “Maybe you can get out, someday.”
    Turning around again, Burkholder asked, “How?” eyes cast down with shame.
    “I don’t know. But maybe you don’t need to go to prison for the rest of your life.”
    “I murdered a man,” Burkholder said, turning his gaze up to Cal’s.
    “The law distinguishes between murder and manslaughter, Crist. And manslaughter is not as bad. Maybe you could think about the day when they’ll let you out of