The night the boy kills the man with his car the air is as oppressive as a fur coat in August, like it always seems to be in Miami. Standing on that causeway, slim newspaper reporter’s notebook cradled in my hand, I hover by the door of my eggplant-colored Ford Contour, staring at the cop on the other side of the road. He is talking to the stocky boy with the thatch of neat black hair on his round head. The boy is 20, maybe 21. My age. Even now, more than ten years later, I can conjure up tha...