You will thank me for telling you to run to your nearest newsstand to purchase last week’s New Yorker before it disappears. It contains a remarkable reported story by Nadya Labi about an honor-roll-student turned hitman in Detroit. This is the kind of writing I wish we could all do more of, though it’s expensive and time-consuming; it takes months and years to get the kind of trust Labi did from her subjects.
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