J pressed his face against the Plexiglas window of the box where Phyllis was detained. He watched as tears flowed down her chocolate cheeks. He watched with a sense of compassion that he had never felt before. It didn't matter that she was a whore, a real whore, with a pimp. What mattered was that she made J feel, and feelings were something he had long forgotten how to do. He had torn through life like a stray bullet doing major damage wherever he...