Each boy received 25 years, with the possibility that, for good behavior, they could get out in about half that time. They would still be young men, but young men who had grown up in prison.  In his case, that means living in a cell with a steel door and bare block walls.

 

His home consists of a mattress on a concrete slab, a small desk and a chair and a window spliced with thick bars. His view is of a small patch of grass, a tall fence and rolling wave of razor sharp concertina wire. Here, in this place, he has grown nearly 3 inches to about 5-foot-8, sprouted peach fuzz, popped his first pimples, had his voice change and -- now -- marked two birthdays.  It is also a place that -- should his lawyer pull off an epic reversal -- he hopes to soon leave.

 

Their trouble begins on a playground.

Three boys -- one of them 15, the other two 12 -- meet in a park in the neighborhood where they live.

They play in the park for a while, then begin talking about a subject they've been discussing for a couple of weeks now -- running away, out west to California. or maybe to Arizona.

The only problem, according to the 15-year-old, is that their stepfather will never allow it. He'll stop them from going. The answer to the problem, the 15 year old says, is simple. They must kill him. 

 

Birthdays in prison are typically low-key affairs. There's one party per month thrown for all the birthday boys, usually featuring cupcakes.

 

Presents -- by regulation books mailed from booksellers -- show up on or around the day. In his case, his mom mailed him an inspirational book. His prison mentor gave him a Bible with multiple versions of the scriptures, even Greek.

Family visits are confined to normal Thursday and Sunday visiting hours. His whole family -- mom, dad and two sisters -- came on Sunday and helped him spend $20 worth of quarters in the visiting room vending machines -- a party featuring personal pepperoni pizzas, egg and sausage hot pockets and popcorn.

 

Yet the best present of all came from the Court of Appeals.

On Feb. 17 -- his birthday -- the court announced it will consider granting the boy what amounts to a legal do-over on the 2010 proceedings that led to his particular sentence.

 

The issue before the court isn't one of guilt, but whether it was appropriate for the County Circuit Judge to move him into adult court at such a young age and to give him an adult's sentence.

In his state, juveniles as young as 10 can be tried as adults. That's younger than many states, but then some states have no age limit. Last year, the County Prosecutor could have moved to adult court the case of an 11-year-old boy who killed his 6-year-old brother. But he decided against it.

 

He was 12 years and 2 months old at the time of the killing. He was a sixth-grader at the Middle School. He had no prior criminal record. A psychiatrist who evaluated him said the boy lacked a basic understanding of the court proceedings, and wasn't competent to stand trial as an adult.

 

Nonetheless, the judge didn't buy the defense's theory that he had been bullied into the crime by his older accomplice. He declared them both fit to stand trial as adults and found them equally culpable.

"The step father is dead," the judge said at the time. "He was, regardless of what we call this crime, murdered."

 

The decision was remarkable in light of the fact that, between 2000 and 2010, only 13 children in the state were sentenced as adults for murder or attempted murder. None of them were younger than 14.

 

HERE IS HOW IT WENT & THE BOYS INVOLVED;

 

After leaving the playground, the boys walk to Colt Lundy's house. Colt goes in alone and finds his step-father there already, in the family room. Colt goes into his bedroom and moves the blinds, signaling for the two 12-year-olds waiting across the street -- Paul and Chase Williams -- to come over.

 

The plan is for either Paul or Chase to join Colt inside and help him carry out the deed. Paul and Chase talk as they cross the street about who should go in. At first, Chase says he will but thinks better of it. Paul will go.

He climbs in through Colt's bedroom window. Inside, Colt is waiting with two guns -- a .40-caliber Glock and a .38-caliber revolver.

 

The two boys move into the living room. They talk about whether they can go through with it. Paul, he would later say, thinks they won't go through with it, and tells Colt he's not sure he can. Then Danner appears in the doorway. He sees Colt, sees the gun. Colt fires. Paul points his gun at the man. He says later that he shuts his eyes. He fires, too.

Danner is hit four times. He falls to the floor in the doorway -- dead.

----

In handing down his sentence to Colt and Paul, Judge Reed said he tried to account for the youth of the two accused boys: He could have given them 45 years.

 

Colt was assigned to the "youthful offender wing" at Wabash Valley Correctional Facility in Carlisle. It's a prison that's home to 2,000 male inmates, including some of the people Foster represents in her death penalty cases. His father declined to comment on his son's case or grant The Star access to him in prison.

 

For a time, it looked like Paul -- 5-foot-2, 80 pounds and sporting a Justin Bieber haircut at the time of this arrest -- would join him there. But corrections officials took one look at the boy and decided he'd never make it.

"He would essentially have to learn survival skills, what it takes to survive in an adult facility," said Mike Dempsey, executive director of youth services with the department of correction.

"And he would clearly be victimized relatively quickly."

 

Paul faces another decade or more in prison.

Joel Schumm, a law professor at the Indiana University Robert H. McKinney School of Law, sees it as throwing away a boy's life.  He was put in a pack of wolves in prison.

----

The two Pauls -- one a well-mannered boy who is a model student, the other a boy who fired two bullets into a man -- are hard to reconcile.  Thouth Paul is a boy who might have fallen under the influence of an older boy, but since he was with the older boy and followed his lead, Paul is as guilty as he is, acording to the law.  Regardless, Paul is a killer who wears on his wrist a plastic prison bracelet given upon his arrival at Pendleton. It bears the words: "Very High Risk."

Standing in front of the judge, crying, Paul Henry Gingerich told the court simply: "I did wrong."

 

His mother, Nicole, said she and her husband, Paul, were in divorce proceedings at the time of the shooting. But she said her son was no trouble at home and his only problems at school were talking in class and missing an occasional assignment.

 

"It was completely out of character for my son to be involved with something like this," she said. "I never imagined that he could ever be involved with it. He's always been a pretty good boy."

 

Paul has said very little about the incident since, in large part because of his appeal.

When Paul arrived, prison officials could barely coax him to speak. He refused class assignments that required him to talk in front of his classmates.

Griffith, the counselor, said his introversion might have been part of problem.

In an interview with The Star in July, he spoke in short phrases, barely above a whisper.

How's it going? "Um, I'm doing alright."

Are you scared? "I was scared when I first got here, but then like a week passed and I started school and it didn't seem so bad."

 

Have you thought about why you're here? "No, I don't like thinking about that."

There are signs, though, that he does. One classroom assignment last summer asked the student inmates to write a letter of advice to their future children. Paul's advice: "To choose friends carefully so they don't fall into bad situations."

When interviewed days before his birthday, Paul still seemed reticent to talk about himself, and his feelings, allowing only: "Usually, I'm in a fair mood. I don't have any problems."

 

But he seems to be finding his voice. In conversations, his voice is now audible more often than not. He has spoken in front of his class. He asks questions of Foster about his case and the appeal. And if you ask him about what he's reading, be prepared for an oral book report.

As for his future and whether he thinks about his chances of freedom, Paul pauses at length. He seems unable to find the words until he says, "Sometimes."

 

As for what he might have done differently two years ago when an afternoon at the playground turned into conspiracy to commit murder, he pauses again. He struggles once more for words. Then speaks.

"Yeah, I think about it sometimes," he said. "I think I should have gone home."