Lester Stokes Does Not Go To Bergdorf’s Camilla made another attempt to fluff her hopelessly limp hair with her fingers. She’d had to wash it with hand soap, and it felt as awful as it looked. She studied her reflection in the metal mirror. The gray image that stared back looked like something undead. “Will you move it, bitch?” said a voice behind her. “You think you’re the only one’s got visitors today?” Camilla stepped aside and let the large black woman have her place at the mirror. The woman’s name was Ronnelle, and she was one of the few prisoners who had ever spoken to her. Ronnelle was accused of killing her drunken husband by drowning him in a toilet bowl. “Sure I flushed him,” she told Camilla. “He was shit, so I flushed him. Nobody beats on my kids.” Now Ronnelle was applying dark make-up to a red scar under her eye. She stopped and held out a tube of fuchsia-colored lipstick. “Here,” she said. “Put this on. You about the whitest white bitch I ever saw.”
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