The heat was merciless on an August afternoon the day Artie committed homicide. Artie, his two younger brothers, and baby sister were on their front steps, waiting for their mother to return from work as a housekeeper in Cheviot Hills. Their father was away, which meant he was doing time in Soledad Prison. Artie recalls that he and his siblings were bored, and making up lies about their father, entertaining themselves by pretending he was a larger-than-life outlaw instead of a drunken bully with mild retardation from huffing too much paint thinner and glue. Artie and his siblings had reached a lull in the stories when Lucious Jefferson pedaled past. Artie’s baby sister, Tina, was on his knee when Artie saw Jefferson on the shiny blue bike. Jefferson wasn’t even looking at them. He was pedaling past, taking his time, and for no other reason than the rage in his heart, Artie called out—

“Get off our street, you Crip nigger!”

Jefferson, who, until this time, had paid no attention to the four children on the steps, flashed a gang sign and shouted back.

“Spic beaner! Fuck yo’ pussy ass!”

As Arturo told the story, he flew into a blinding rage that left him alone in the world. His two brothers and sister vanished. Thoughts of his mother, now only moments from home, vanished, and reason as civilized men know reason ceased to exist. He has no memory of pushing his sister from his knee, nor of her screaming when her head split so deeply on the step she would require eight stitches.

Artie ran into his house, snatched his father’s .22-caliber rifle from beneath his mother’s bed, frantically checked to see it was loaded, then crashed out of the house. He caught Lucious Jefferson a block and a half later where Lucious was waiting to cross a busy street, whereupon he pushed the rifle’s muzzle into the older boy’s back and pulled the trigger. Killed him. Murdered him. 187’d his ass.