1. ANGEL AT STARLITE MOTEL - February 2015 I just walked out of a courtroom where a 24-year-old girl received two life sentences, without the possibility of parole. I remember the first night I actually met her, February 7, 2015. I arrived at the Starlite Motel about 30 minutes early. Or at least outside the motel. I didn't know how long it might take to get there on a motorcycle. What I had come to see was hard to believe, and was as likely to be an underage sex sting. I walked up and down the block, to make sure no undercover police were taking up positions. But I also knew she had a pimp. If I got too close I might spook him, and never find out who she was. So I was afraid to go into the motel. I stayed on the other side of the street. She kept texting she was running late. Finally she texted she was at the motel, and to come to room 225. I crossed the street and went in. I had never seen anything like this before. The Starlite was a standard multi-storey open-walkway motel, except it wrapped around the outside of the block and the walkways faced inward with the parking lot in the interior. You had to drive through a door to get inside. It occurs to me today, it was a lot like an apartment building in a far-off place called The Lofts which I also would never know existed but for the unusual habits of a little blonde girl. The Lofts at Uptown is even a faint imitation of the old Miami architecture at Starlite. (A developer bought The Starlite, it looks like the carcassone entrance has since been torn out, and the map shows apartments called "City Heights") The Starlite office was a little island in the middle of the parking lot, like the help desk in the middle of Grand Central Station in Manhattan. You could rent a room for a half hour or an hour, and all the hookers and johns would line up there for sometimes 30 minutes to an hour wait or more. The pimps would wait in cars in the parking lot there in the middle, while the hookers went up the stairways to the rooms around the outside. There were no ordinary customers. I didn't know at the time this was her primary place of business. She and her pimp practically lived there. It was the Grand Central Station of prostitution. I wandered around until I found my way up to room 225 and knocked. She said “That was quick.” I explained I was already here when you texted. A look of terror crossed her face. If I had seen her arrive, I might have seen her pimp. Girls who are “independent” or “drive themselves” command a higher price. But more important, selling underage girls is punishable by life. So girls who start out young are taught the first two rules of Fight Club: You do not talk about your pimp, and you do not talk about your pimp. A girl who puts her pimp at risk of a life sentence by letting on that he exists, is as likely to get taken out to the swamp and shot. She told me she had actually been at the office waiting to get a room, just in case I had seen her there. In the room, things were going as I hoped. No sex. She talked about her dogs, and her cat. She was comfortable telling a middle-aged man she just met about her family, like she was neurologically incapable of being fake. She told me she had just been diagnosed with organ failure and lupus, and doctors told her she had only 10 years to live. At first I suspected this was a sad-little-girl act, to make an old guy like me give her money. But I quickly realized it was just what was on her mind at the moment. She spoke in a matter-of—fact way, with no concept of using words to manipulate me. It was just a day at the office, where for some reason she had to go through this small talk with the guys. Then she told me what I had been waiting to hear: She crashed a motorcycle and a couple racing carts, and had multiple concussions. I later found out she also fell out of a tree as a child. This was the theory I was here to confirm, to explain why a 95-pound teenage blonde girl from Orlando, had no fear to meet with a 43-year-old stranger in a disgusting Miami motel after midnight. She was sexually uninhibited by some variation of orbitofrontal syndrome. Then she said “get comfortable.” Hmm? “GET COMFORTABLE.” She wanted me to take my clothes off. I had psyched myself up to have sex with her if I had to. A few years earlier in a web forum, I told a story about a hooker “Jamie” who invited herself to my house, and I sent her away. A German guy on the forum called me a 1-2