The scene is South Central Los Angeles, but it could as easily be Detroit, Grand Rapids or Kansas City. A young white male driving a 1989 Thunderbird slowly circles one of the worst blocks in the city. He nods toward a group of blacks hanging out at a corner. As his smartly dressed date whirs up her electric window, a clamoring pack of drug dealers surrounds the car. Money is hastily exchanged for a tiny cellophane bag of off-white crystals. The car peels away, fleeing the inner city, headed toward suburban safety. But the driver of the Thunderbird, his supply exhausted,...
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