Bobby - 7/1/1985, 12:06 p.m.

Earl Brooks was hunched over the engine of his pickup truck when he heard the sound of a car door slam. He straightened himself to look toward the sound, noting how his back hollered and threatened to give out on him.

It was lunchtime and his belly grumbled. The heat of the July sun in the San Fernando Valley was unforgiving, and he used a dirty grease rag to mop his brow, smearing it with engine oil. His white tank top was soaked through already, also smudged.

A man and woman had parked in the driveway of the vacant house next door, and were walking toward the house. Cradled on her hip, the woman carried a small child of no more than two years old.

They were colored.

“Can I help you?” he called over. “House’s already been sold.”

“Yessir,” said the Black man, “We bought it.”

He was approaching Earl—who guarded himself, instinctively. “You?”

“James Allen Bryant,” he extended his hand, then added, “Senior, now that I think about it. That’s my wife Denise and our son, James Junior.”

A woman’s voice called out as she exited the front door. “Earl, your lunch is on the table. I’m ‘bout to put Bobby down for his nap.” She was startled to see the strangers next door.

“Oh, excuse me.” She flashed a nervous look at Earl and backed into the house. “I’ll...put Bobby down.”

Earl stared at the man, his hand still extended.

He walked back into the house.