for Bianca Jones, in memoriam, and Wayne County Circuit Judge Vonda Evans, with gratitude
How many times I gotta say it? It’s not my fault Bianca’s gone, just like it’s not my fault she was ever here. I didn’t want Bianca to begin with. I already got enough mouths to feed. When her mother told me she was pregnant, I didn’t slap her like I wanted to. But I let her know that Bianca was her responsibility and told her to keep Bianca quiet when I was sleeping, because I can’t stand a baby that cries all damn night. Look, you need to understand: Bianca was living in my house, and in my house I am king. What I say goes and I ain’t about to let no kid, especially one living under my roof, crimp my style.
Don’t let the handcuffs or this orange jail jumpsuit I’m wearing fool you: I’m still running the show. Look at all the journalists and news cameras in here. They’re here for me. And look at the jury. I can tell they don’t like me, but you think I care? They can’t prove Bianca’s dead without her body. Without her body, they can’t convict me. And those fools will never find her body. I made sure of that. Bianca’s missing. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Think I killed her? You can think whatever the hell you want. The only opinion that matters here is mine.
My lawyer ain’t worth shit. All that talk about how hard it’d be to convict me without Bianca’s body, and the jury still found me guilty. Damn them and their gullible asses. And damn that judge, too. She gave me life in prison, no parole, plus another 11 to 30 years for child abuse. Unbelievable. See, that’s why I always hook up with weak women: women so happy just to see you smile, they don’t question your past or care about your character; women so giddy to say they got a man, they’ll let you slap their kids around, even a two-year-old. Like Bianca. Yeah, man. Only way to keep a woman in check is if she’s weak. Give her too much power, and she starts to think she’s running things. Like that judge. You shoulda seen how prissy she looked up there, talking all those big-ass legal words and looking down on me like she owned me. And the way she kept blabbing about Bianca and how wrong I treated her, you woulda thought Bianca was a saint, instead of a constantly crying toddler who couldn’t learn to keep her diapers dry or her mouth shut.
But that’s all right, Vonda. Go ahead and put me in prison. See if I don’t start running things here, too. Bianca could have told you: Laws don’t stop me. I make my own laws. And anybody who breaks them gets wiped away, just like the blood on Bianca’s car seat.
published 29 April 2013