Bad Intent

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I am indebted to so many people. To begin with:

Terry Baker, who offers succor and shares room service.

Beth Caswell, the Frick to my Frack time and again on the rubber chicken circuit.

Jan Burke, for whom there will always be a duck on my bike and Myers at my house (Sedona Sedona).

And my editor, Jennifer Enderlin, who is both patient and wise.

I can't forget Officer Doug Senecal, Metro Division, LAPD, who lent his handsome mug and impressive pecs to the Cause, as well as the ever-ready Dragnet.

Thank you.

It ain’t none of my grandbaby’s fault. He’s a good, Jesus-lovin’ boy. Like I say, it ain’t his fault Kenny Jackson got hisself killed. You ax me, I say it’s the lying police should hang they heads for takin’ away the baby daddy, puttin’ him in that jail for his child’s whole damn life. What’s he suppose’ to do? Fourteen years my grandbaby daddy been in that jail, fourteen years for something he ain’t even done. You lock up an innocent man that way, who’s gonna see to it his boy come up right? He ain’t got no mother. He ain’t got no one but me. I tell you this, for damn sure I ain’t got no help from the lying mothuhfuckin’ poh-lice.

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