![]() ![]() Stephanie was a real friend, maybe even a girlfriend. He got out of his car and inspected the tire. ![]() ![]() Stephanie eventually pulled up behind him and turned on her high beams to give him some light. He was in the Sepulveda Pass, the dark corridor between two sides of the Santa Monica Mountains, the freeway running through it like a river of sequins. He wanted them to understand that there’s a sequence to things, even when nothing seems to make sense. He struggled with dyslexia, and although he could have easily taken a role in his family’s business, he wanted to help children overcome their learning disorders like he had. In fact, he was on holiday break from his graduate studies at the Teachers College of Columbia University. He wasn’t some punk high school kid with a Motorola and a bag of cocaine swishing in his backpack. In 1997, guys as rich as him and from a family as prominent as his didn’t have to worry that someone might see his expensive cell phone and think that he was a drug dealer. He had been on his way to visit his friend, Stephanie Crane, and took out his cellphone to call her for help. The exit had taken him to a small connecting road saddled up against the greenery of a mountain. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |