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13 John Wormell had been dead less than eight hours, his body still lying at the Merchant Funeral Parlor when farmers, merchants, and reporters from Lewiston, Spokane, Reno, and Boise began to fill the courthouse. They gathered in amazement around the door and gazed at the boy, curled across two chairs, sound asleep. He looked more like eight than twelve, with his delicate face, long eyelashes, and very thin frame. “Is he the one?” It was the question all the reporters, including J. F. Anderson from the LewistonMorningTribune, wanted to know. Anderson had seen murderers in his day. They were cold, steely eyed, and ruthless, not pretty children with curling lashes. Hearing voices, the boy finally stirred, opened his eyes and blinked, unsure of where he was. A reporter smiled and the boy smiled back, and then stretched and rose. Then it all came back to him. Anderson said good morning and asked the boy if he could tell him Chapter 2 14 what had happened the night before. The boy looked around at the faces. Anderson had a kind face, ready to listen to every word. So the boy began telling the crowd about how he wanted to go to Canada to be an adventurer. He also said that he wanted to be away from his grandmother because she whipped him. When the reporters asked what for, he replied, “For doing things I’m not supposed to.” Then he told them how Bill Robinson had said he’d give him $2 and a ticket to Canada if he robbed the store. The recitation came matter-of-fact. He told the reporters that he and Robinson had the whole robbery planned for days and that he was at Robinson’s house the night before making the final arrangements. He said they had walked into town the back way so nobody would see them, following the creek and then cutting through a field until they were almost to the bridge. There were two women and eight children all having dinner at the park. That’s when Bill laid low. The boy said they hid out at Hen Lee’s old shack until it was time. Anyone in those parts of the territory knew Hen Lee, the old Chinese man who had been a cook at the hotel. He always cooked for friends. Murphy Watkins had told Junior that Hen Lee would give children who fished near his place plates of fried chicken and chocolate-chip cookies. Junior wanted more than anything to meet him. Gentle Hen Lee. Generous Hen Lee. Hen Lee, the God of Fried Chicken. Then Murphy had spoiled it all and told him Hen Lee was dead. Anderson asked where the boy got the gun. He said that Robinson bought it secondhand in Lewiston and took him out to the fields to teach him how to shoot. At his desk behind the wall of reporters, Bezona listened intently. The story fit the one the boy had told the night before almost word for word. He had taken the boy through town, made the boy show him exactly where he and Robinson had stopped. He was unwavering as he told it, looking you straight in the eye. The only problem was that when they had arrested Bill Robinson, he had clearly been asleep in bed. With Bezona’s tolerance for reporters over, he rose to usher them outside. Anderson then turned to the boy and asked if he was sorry. Chapter 2 15 “If I didn’t get him, he would have gotten me!” Junior said. “Bill said if anyone came in before we were done to shoot to kill.” Before Anderson left, he took the boy outside. Already it was a searing hot day under a pale layer of clouds. The sky was white and blank like the paper the boy had rolled his ink-blackened fingertips onto last night. The boy stood erect, his arms at his side, gazing into a camera lens. Suddenly, he wasn’t a cherub-faced child, but a young man in tattered overalls that were worn thin as tissue in places, and his gaze, some would believe, was cool and calculating. At that moment, he seemed not only capable of one murder but also a second. With a snap of the shutter it was over and Bezona took the boy by the arm and led him to jail, a small square building with barred windows, a dirt floor, and an iron ring...

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