neck appeared to flutter. I remembered Detective Hallam’s one-phrase description of him: lightning in a bottle.
“Money,” Wayne J. said, biting off the word.
“Can you elucidate?” Hilda asked.
He eased himself back into his chair. “Justine had promised to give some money to Culhane House – it’s a prisoners’ support group some of us started up for cons and ex-cons.
“Culhane House, as in Claire Culhane?” I asked.
He gave me a sidelong glance. “She was another classylady,” he said. “Justine suggested the name.” He turned back to Hilda. “Prisoners’ rights aren’t exactly a hot ticket now. Most people seem to think the only choice society should give a con is permanent incarceration or the end of a rope.”
“But Madame Justice Blackwell believed there were more humane alternatives,” Hilda said.
Wayne J. shrugged. “You could say that, but I wouldn’t. I think for Justine it was more a practical thing.”
“Practical in what way?” asked Hilda.
“Like in the way that, most of the time, prisons just don’t do what solid citizens want them to do. All prisons are good for is pissing away lives and pissing away money. You can make semi-good people bad in prison, and you can make bad people worse, but you never make anybody better. And I’ll tell you another thing, Hilda. They may be hellholes, but I’ve never seen a prison yet that made anybody scared to come back. Every time I hear some expert running off at the mouth about that three strikes and you’re out crap, I want to laugh. The only guy who’s scared of going to prison is a guy who’s never been there. Any ex-con knows that he might as well be in prison as anywhere else. Justine finally figured that there was a cheaper, better alternative to prison, and she was prepared to use her chequebook so that other people could figure it out too.”
“But she withdrew her offer of financial support,” Hilda said.
Wayne J. gripped the arms of his chair. Until that moment, I hadn’t noticed how big his hands were. They were huge, and they were taut with the effort to maintain control. “God damn it, she didn’t withdraw the offer,” he said furiously. “She just decided to fucking reconsider.”
The rage in his voice was a shock; so were his eyes, which had darkened terrifyingly. The Old Spice and the self-deprecating chuckle had lulled me, but there was nodisputing the fact that only an act of will was preventing the man in front of me from springing out of my grandmother’s chair and smashing everything in sight. My grandmother would have said I had been six kinds of fool to invite Wayne J. Waters into my house, and she would have been right. I began to run through strategies to get him out of the house. Just when I’d decided that none seemed workable, the storm passed.
Wayne J. hung his head in an attitude of abject apology. “Sorry about the language, ladies,” he said. “It’s just that there were so many people pushing Justine to ‘withdraw’ her offer. Miss McCourt, I don’t know if she had a chance to tell you this the other night, but since Justine decided to support Culhane House, people have been lining up to tell her how crazy she is –
was.”
He made a fist with one hand and pounded it repeatedly into the palm of his other hand. It was the same gesture he’d made when no one answered the door the day he went to Justine’s house on Leopold Crescent. “They tried to tell her she was losing it because she was getting old, but she wasn’t losing it, she was finding it.” He looked at me. His eyes were black and mesmerizing. “Does that make sense?”
Almost against my will, I found myself agreeing. “Yes,” I said. “It makes sense.”
“Good,” he said. “Because no matter what people said, Justine was with the people at Culhane House 110 per cent.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Absolutely trustworthy,” I said.
He didn’t blink. “Except for that last night, absolutely.”
When
“Money,” Wayne J. said, biting off the word.
“Can you elucidate?” Hilda asked.
He eased himself back into his chair. “Justine had promised to give some money to Culhane House – it’s a prisoners’ support group some of us started up for cons and ex-cons.
“Culhane House, as in Claire Culhane?” I asked.
He gave me a sidelong glance. “She was another classylady,” he said. “Justine suggested the name.” He turned back to Hilda. “Prisoners’ rights aren’t exactly a hot ticket now. Most people seem to think the only choice society should give a con is permanent incarceration or the end of a rope.”
“But Madame Justice Blackwell believed there were more humane alternatives,” Hilda said.
Wayne J. shrugged. “You could say that, but I wouldn’t. I think for Justine it was more a practical thing.”
“Practical in what way?” asked Hilda.
“Like in the way that, most of the time, prisons just don’t do what solid citizens want them to do. All prisons are good for is pissing away lives and pissing away money. You can make semi-good people bad in prison, and you can make bad people worse, but you never make anybody better. And I’ll tell you another thing, Hilda. They may be hellholes, but I’ve never seen a prison yet that made anybody scared to come back. Every time I hear some expert running off at the mouth about that three strikes and you’re out crap, I want to laugh. The only guy who’s scared of going to prison is a guy who’s never been there. Any ex-con knows that he might as well be in prison as anywhere else. Justine finally figured that there was a cheaper, better alternative to prison, and she was prepared to use her chequebook so that other people could figure it out too.”
“But she withdrew her offer of financial support,” Hilda said.
Wayne J. gripped the arms of his chair. Until that moment, I hadn’t noticed how big his hands were. They were huge, and they were taut with the effort to maintain control. “God damn it, she didn’t withdraw the offer,” he said furiously. “She just decided to fucking reconsider.”
The rage in his voice was a shock; so were his eyes, which had darkened terrifyingly. The Old Spice and the self-deprecating chuckle had lulled me, but there was nodisputing the fact that only an act of will was preventing the man in front of me from springing out of my grandmother’s chair and smashing everything in sight. My grandmother would have said I had been six kinds of fool to invite Wayne J. Waters into my house, and she would have been right. I began to run through strategies to get him out of the house. Just when I’d decided that none seemed workable, the storm passed.
Wayne J. hung his head in an attitude of abject apology. “Sorry about the language, ladies,” he said. “It’s just that there were so many people pushing Justine to ‘withdraw’ her offer. Miss McCourt, I don’t know if she had a chance to tell you this the other night, but since Justine decided to support Culhane House, people have been lining up to tell her how crazy she is –
was.”
He made a fist with one hand and pounded it repeatedly into the palm of his other hand. It was the same gesture he’d made when no one answered the door the day he went to Justine’s house on Leopold Crescent. “They tried to tell her she was losing it because she was getting old, but she wasn’t losing it, she was finding it.” He looked at me. His eyes were black and mesmerizing. “Does that make sense?”
Almost against my will, I found myself agreeing. “Yes,” I said. “It makes sense.”
“Good,” he said. “Because no matter what people said, Justine was with the people at Culhane House 110 per cent.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Absolutely trustworthy,” I said.
He didn’t blink. “Except for that last night, absolutely.”
When
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