Friday, August 15

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Two days in crisis.

At that moment, I didn’t feel like a journalist. There was nothing about this event that I felt the need to chronicle. There was no time to find out what the bombs actually were and what was actually coming out of the guns and what type of gas was coming out of the canisters. In this moment, there was nothing I felt the need to broadcast to the world. I didn’t even have the desire to communicate my safety or lack thereof.

I was just a black man in Ferguson.

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Pitcairn Island is impossibly remote, populated by descendants of a ship of British mutineers. Revelations that child molestation and rape had been a way of life for generations exposed them to the outside world.

Thursday, August 14

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“What transpired in the streets appeared to be a kind of municipal version of shock and awe.”

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This is what happens when you concoct game-fixing allegations against a Major League pitcher because of a perceived slight on Facebook.

Tuesday, August 12

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An experiment in public defense.

Monday, August 11

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They thought that they’d found the perfect New York apartment. They weren’t alone.

Sunday, August 10

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The story of a naïve fisherman, a boat headed for Spain and 1.5 tons of cocaine.

Friday, August 8

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Sandra Bridewell, a Dallas socialite, and the people around her who keep dying.

Wednesday, August 6

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On the private, for-profit probation industry.

Tuesday, August 5

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“I write this with a baseball bat by the bed.”

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Louis Scarcella was a star New York City detective in the ’80s and ’90s, cracking cases no one else could. Now it appears that many of the people he put away were innocent, forced into false confessions and convicted with testimony from flimsy witnesses. Scarcella maintains that he did nothing wrong, despite evidence against him much stronger than in many of his cases.