permit it. Honey had a secret P.O. box, though, and if a sincere man was willing to be a little patient, well . . .
I screened the letters. Michelle answered them. We had a few dozen different photos we used. All Polaroids ('That's the only kind they let us take here, darling'). Whatever the suckers wanted, that's what they got. Honey could be a nineteen-year-old victimized by a cruel pimp. A lesbian whose lover informed on her in a drug deal. A car thief. Anything but a scam artist. She could be the answer to an old man's prayer or the bottom of a minister's ugly fantasy. A very flexible girl, this Honey. All it took was Michelle's never-miss instincts and some creative writing. Honey would play the sucker, work the hook in deep, turning up the heat to full boil. Then the poor girl would start to have problems: a bull dyke hitting on her, demanding her body or her life; a threatened transfer to another section of the prison, where she wouldn't be able to correspond. Overdue rent on the P.O. box. A nice piece of cash needed to bribe the Parole Board. Gate money. And the money orders would start to come in.
After a while, the sucker would get his last letter returned. Unopened. An official prison stamp on the outside. Black-bordered. 'Return to sender. Inmate deceased.' The suckers always bought it - if it was a scam, why wouldn't sweet Honey have cashed the last money order?
H. Blaine, #86-B-9757, wasn't allowed visitors. Good thing. The name and the number were legit, but Hortense Blaine is a fifty-five-year-old, three-hundred-pound black woman. She raised three generations of foster kids. From babies dropped down incinerators who didn't die, to kiddie prostitutes who never lived. She never had a kid of her own, but she was mother to dozens. Her boyfriend raped one of the kids. A twelve-year-old girl named Princess.
I have a copy of the trial transcript. I got it from the lawyer who's working on the appeal. A hard-blues lyric they'll never put to music.
DIRECT EXAMINATION BY MR. DAVIDSON:
Q: What, if anything, did you do after Princess told you about the rape?
A: I told the child he was never going to hurt her again. I carried her into my room. Put her in my hed.
Q: The same bed you shared with Mr. Jackson?
A: He wasn't going to be using it no more.
Q: And then?
A: I waited for Jackson to come home. He was out gambling someplace. He comes in the door, sits at the kitchen table. Tells me to get him a beer.
Q: Did you get him a beer?
A: Yeah.
Q: Tell the jury what happened next.
A: I asked him why he did this. I said . . .
Q: Excuse me for interrupting you, Mrs. Blaine. You asked him
A: There was blood in the child's bed.
Q: I see. Please continue.
A: I asked him why he did what he did. He tells me Princess going to be a woman soon. Won't hurt her none. Get her ready for what life's all about, he said. He said she was walking around in her nightgown when I was out working. Said she asked for it.
Q: Did you see the expression on his face when he said this?
MR. HAYNES: Objection. Calls for a conclusion of the witness.
MR. DAVIDSON: An observation of demeanor is not a conclusion, Judge.
MR. HAYNES: Your Honor, counsel for the defense is trying to introduce blatant hearsay. This is an attempt to impugn the character of a dead man.
MR. DAVIDSON: This Court has already heard the testimony of the child Princess. The character of this rapist is already in evidence.
MR. HAYNES: Objection! Mr. Jackson is not on trial.
MR. DAVIDSON: That's right. He's already been tried.
THE COURT: Gentlemen, that will be quite enough. The objection is overruled.
Q: I ask you again, Mrs. Blame. Did you see the expression on his face when he admitted to you that he raped Princess?
A: Yeah. He was smiling. Like it was nothing.
MR. HAYNES: Objection.
THE COURT: Overruled.
Q: Did he say anything else?
A: He said the little bitch got what she deserved.
Q: What happened then?
A: I picked up the kitchen knife and I stabbed him in his heart.
Q: Did you mean to kill him?
A: Yes.
Q: Why?
A: So he'd never hurt my baby no more.
MR. DAVIDSON: Your witness.
Defending a murder charge wasn't a job for a courthouse gonif. Too many of our people had spent time with Hortense when we were coming up. Like the Prof. Short for 'Professor.' Or 'Prophet.' A tiny black omen-master who'd been on the hustle since before I was born, he talked rhyme and he walked crime. The Prof only stood as high as my chest, but he always stood up.
'Cutting up slime ain't no crime,' was all he said, dealing himself in on whatever we had to do to raise the cash.
Davidson was the man for the job. A husky guy with a full beard, he plays the game hard. I first heard about him when he defended one of the UGL gunmen years ago. Davidson told us the only way to roll on this one was to do what he called a 'psychiatric autopsy' on the dead man.
And he pulled it off. When he was finished, the jury knew Jackson had been a piece of living scum before he died. They came back with a verdict of Manslaughter, Second Degree. You could feel the weight lift - murder carries a twenty-five-to-life top in this state. But Davidson slammed his fist down on the defense table hard enough to break it. He never raised his eyes.
One of the jurors walked over to him. A fat guy in a brown suit. Said Davidson did a great job, asked him for his card. Davidson raised his face to look at the juror. His eyes were wet. 'I'm particular about who I defend,' he said, turning his back on the juror's outstretched hand.
The judge hit Hortense with two-to-six upstate. Only child molesters get probation in New York. One of her foster sons stood next to her when she got the sentence. All grown up now, he works in a bank, lives in the suburbs. When he heard she was going down, he started to cry. Hortense put a big hand on his shoulder. She had to reach up to do it.
'Be a man,' she told him. Not giving an inch.
She gave Davidson a kiss on the cheek and held out her hands for the cuffs.
Davidson's working on the appeal. Working hard, the way he always does. While he's working on the appeal, we're working on putting together some cash for when Hortense walks out. Once a month, the Prof visits her at the prison, bringing a batch of money orders for her to sign. There's a check-cashing joint in the Bronx that doesn't ask a lot of questions. Hortense gets half the money; Michelle and I split the rest. It was supposed to be a four-way split, but the Prof gives his piece to Hortense. 'Not all payback's a bitch,' he said when we asked him.
Michelle doesn't work the streets anymore. I thought it was AIDS, but she said she couldn't risk a bust now.
