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A recent college graduate, she was jailed briefly for trying to skip out on her dinner tab in Malibu, then freed in the middle of the night in a neighborhood far from home. She had no car, no ride, no phone, and no money.
When the end finally came, it came fast. Spotting Steve’s red BMW convertible parked in the driveway, Culver City police in tactical vests and armed with assault weapons quickly deployed, swarming the front and rear entrances.
It was only a few hours ago that attorney Gloria Allred summoned these several dozen reporters, bloggers, and cameramen to the Milton Berle Room of the New York Friars Club, but in reality they’ve been waiting days and days for her to materialize. A week has gone by since Politico reported allegations of sexual harassment against Herman Cain on its Web site.
There was something wrong with the baby from the beginning. Randolph Clifton Kling’s head looked too big, and he would bang it on his playpen until it bled. Oxygen deprived at birth and aggressive since kindergarten, he was nonetheless very bright; officials at his elementary school noted he was “far ahead of everybody else in his age range” but that disciplining Kling proved “nearly impossible.
Ron Iseli decided to kill himself on December 14, 2010. He left his Mid City apartment that day wearing bright yellow Converse high-tops and jeans, a leather jacket covering his sleeveless T-shirt. Gray haired and blue eyed, the East Coast native seemed cheery as he spent the morning drinking bourbon and chatting with friends at the Spotlight bar in Hollywood.
Moments earlier he had pulled up to the couple’s Van Nuys condominium after returning home from work. The garage door for Unit 205 was open, and Sherri Rasmussen’s 1985 BMW—Ruetten’s engagement gift to her—was gone. Glass fragments glittered on the asphalt. Ruetten’s mind filled with questions, but he figured that his wife was away and perhaps had done something to her car backing out. Nor did he panic when he found the upstairs door ajar. At each step Ruetten seems to have been oblivious to the gathering signs of tragedy.
Last spring Jake Gyllenhaal showed up at the Silver Lake offices of writer-director David Ayer to pitch himself for the lead role in End of Watch—a cop movie whose $8 million budget was less than what the actor reportedly took home for starring in the Prince of Persia. “I told Dave I was ready to devote my life to this,” Gyllenhaal says. “I’ve said in the past I’ve wanted to devote myself to a project, but I’ve never done that in a way that I did for this movie.
ON A SLEEPLESS NIGHT LAST JULY—one of dozens I’ve powered through during the months I’ve spent tracking him down—I Googled a description of a pair of cuff links he stole in the midst of a home invasion in Stockton in September 1977. At that time the Golden State Killer, as I’ve recently come to call him, hadn’t yet graduated to murder. He was a serial rapist who was attacking women in their bedrooms from Sacramento to San Ramon, targeting those who lived in quiet upper-middle-class suburban neighborhoods.

I cannot believe the density in the San Gabriel Valley,” Gary Cliser says as he looks toward the mountains from a country club terrace. “The smog isn’t as bad as it was in the ’50s, though.” The brassy fits and starts of Saturday afternoon band practice drift across the fairway from South Hills High School.

The walls of Father Gregory Boyle’s office at Homeboy Industries are encrusted with family photos. Somewhere there’s a snapshot of his 88-year-old mother, Kay, though she’s all but lost among the scores of young men with shaved heads and gang tattoos. The Jesuit priest has welcomed generations of these gang members like prodigal sons into Homeboy, which he launched 25 years ago and has built into the most successful gang rehabilitation and reentry program in the world.

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