When I was just 14, photographs of a boy only a few years older than I were in all the magazines and newspapers. Robert F. Kennedy had been shot in a hotel in Los Angeles, and this skinny boy in a white uniform was leaning over him trying to help.
Thirty years have vanished since then, but that image has not. It seems even starker with age. The busboy was almost angelic in that white service coat, his eyes drained of innocence, the background a dark blur.
This is the story of what happened to him.
The very first thing Juan...