The moonless night of March 1, 1962 was chill and silent in the Arizona desert.
The quiet was broken only by the sound of an aging Studebaker slowly making its way along Rose Garden Lane, a romantically misnamed country road north of Phoenix. The car stopped on a deserted stretch of flat hardpan, screened by a few cacti and greasewood shrubs, and its five occupants got out: four young Negroes and a short, once-paunchy white man in a brown suit that was now much too big. Samuel L. Resnick, 61, a retired jeweler,...
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