A Matter of Conviction

“That’s your personal affair,” Hank said, “and it doesn’t concern me. I want to know only what happened on the night of July tenth. The night Rafael Morrez was killed.”

“Sí, sí. Pobrecito. He wass a nice kid. I remember once he wass up here when I wass with a frien’. He wass play his music. It wass very dark in the apar’ment, an’ my frien’ an’ me we wass on the bed, an’ Ralphie he wass play his music.” She chuckled. “I think maybe he got a little excited, Ralphie.”

Hank listened and wondered what weight the testimony of an admitted prostitute would carry with a jury.

“I give him one free one time,” Louisa said. “Ralphie, I mean. He wass a good kid. Iss not his fault he wass born blind, verdad?”

“What happened on the night he was killed?”

“Well, we were si’n downstairs on the stoop. Me, an’ Ralphie, an’ this other girl — she’s a hooker, too, her name is Terry. She’s a Spanish girl, too. She’s older than me, abou’ twenty-two, I guess. She wass suppose to meet one of her friens a little later. An’ it looked like it wass rain soon, you know? So we were si’n there, her an’ me, talking. An’ Ralphie was on the bottom step, jus’ listening. He wass a good kid.”

“What were you talking about?”

“Well, Terry wass tellin’ me what happened to her with a cop of the Vice Squad, how that happened that afternoon.”

“What did she say?”

“Well, let me see. I remember the sky wass gettin’ dark all at once...”