It’s a small town, so everyone knows. There was a trial and national press, but a couple loud conversations at the bank spread the word just as well.
Walking through the courthouse, Newman felt like an alumnus on a campus visit. Both at home and out of place. A collision of past and present.
An 18-wheeler carrying ten thousand kilos of watermelons had wrecked spectacularly, spilling its cargo from a height of two kilometers, near the peak of the Tu-Ashu mountain pass that looms over the cold northern provinces of Kyrgyzstan.
It was the fall of 1960, the smell of burning leaves was in the air, and Jack Kennedy was beginning to look like he might beat Richard Nixon.
Apparently my father, in his later years, developed a taste for being penetrated rectally by young boys.