The Betrayal of Michael Levine

By Mark Kram Esquire, March 1991 With eyes closed, no chop and plenty of silk, Michael Levine plays late at night on his tenor sax, the counterpoint of distant car horns and sudden voices trading muffugs while passing beneath the open window. Curious, how the sound of...

Big Shot

By Peter Richmond GQ, August 2002 He steers the van over the rolling folds of county Route 579, a two-lane road flanked by fields once neatly tilled and sown, now increasingly given over to development. But the landscape still carries the flavor of open country in the...

Reasonable Doubt

By Scott Raab GQ, March 1994 Robeson County Sheriff Hubert Stone knows who killed James Jordan; he knows how, where and why. Sheriff Stone says James Jordan grew tired in the middle of one hot July night and, two hours from home, pulled the $46,000 red Lexus Michael...

Flesh and Blood

By Peter Richmond GQ, May 2001 One by one, day by day, they’d glide to the witness stand, this procession of improbable women, a spangled harem of them, drifting into the courtroom and out again, leaving the scent of their perfume and the shadow of their glitter and...

Fallen Angel

By Loren Feldman GQ, February 1990 First, he pointed the gun at his own head. “What? In front of your kids?” she said. Then, he pointed it at her head. “You’re not going to do that,” she said. The first shot went through her neck. She tried to run, but he pursued her...

The Lynching of Leo Frank

By Steve Oney, Esquire, September, 1985 Under the cover of the lengthening shadows of a sleepy August afternoon in 1915, five Model T’s loaded with armed men quietly departed the northwest Atlanta suburb of Marietta. The men had told their wives they were going...

Why Has the Fun Fled Fun City?

By Joe Flaherty The Village Voice, October 27, 1966 They all stood there waiting for the helicopter to come down. You had the feeling some of them wouldn’t have minded if it didn’t make it on its own power. Up in the sky was the mayor of New York, John V. Lindsay. He...

The Land of the Permanent Wave

By Edwin Shrake Harper’s Magazine, February 1970 For about five hours I had been drinking Scotch whiskey and arguing with a rather nice, sometimes funny old fellow named Arch, who was so offended by my moderately long hair that he had demanded to know if I weren’t...

Who Killed Jaco Pastorius?

By Pat Jordan GQ, April 1988 He was just another bum bleeding to death in an alleyway at four o’clock in the morning. He lay motionless on the concrete, as if sleeping, his tangled shoulder-length hair ringed by a halo of blood. He lay there peacefully for a while, in...