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For more than a decade they toiled in the strange, boxy-looking building on the hill above the municipal airport, the building with no windows (except in the cafeteria), the building filled with secrets.
He's a mathematician, a minister, a former radio talk show host and pizza magnate. But most of all, Herman Cain is a salesman.
Julie Widner was terrified — afraid her husband would do something reckless, even disfigure himself.
People grabbed their children when Bryon Widner swaggered into a store, lowered their voices when he entered a restaurant, sidled away when he strode up to a bar.
Seventy-year-old Phyllis Coelho plunged her blue gloved hands into a plastic sink of gray soapy water and spent an afternoon last week cheerfully washing dishes "to support the revolution." The retired social worker had traveled from Belfast, Maine, the day before with her 78-year-old friend and fellow dishwasher, Jane Sanford.
As a child, Adrian McLemore was a troubled little soul who spent much of his time exploding in confusion and rage — acting up in school, running away from home.
In his tiny dorm room, Nelson Hebo keeps an envelope containing a few tattered photographs of his family. His mother, Maria, gazes distantly from a black-and-white passport photo. His father, Francisco, stands on a patch of dirt outside their house in Angola clutching his young nephew, Fabio, and holding a Bible. Scribbled on the back, in Portuguese, are the words, "remember your father."
The crackle of gunfire shattered the lunchtime chatter at Frank's Deli, as customers ducked and bullets flew across the street outside.
An Argentine restaurant owner who worked for years as an undercover informant for U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement in a deal to gain citizenship, only to face deportation, is fighting for a reprieve once again.
On a crisp November day in 2009, the cemetery on the hill received its first guest — a 28-year-old stonemason killed in a car accident two days earlier.
The cemetery lies beneath a grove of maples on a hill overlooking the farm. On a crisp November day in 2009, it received its first guest — a 28-year old stonemason killed in a car accident two days earlier.
In an uptown bistro, not far from the studio where as a child he watched his father paint bold abstract masterpieces, Earl Davis contemplates the greatest loss of his life.
In a clattery, uptown bistro, not far from the studio where he once watched his father paint bold abstract masterpieces, Earl Davis contemplates the greatest loss of his life.
Gary White Deer has spent a lifetime wrestling with his identity, his history, his sense of belonging.
Joyce Johnson remembers the drums beating slowly as she walked with her girls from the Old Post Chapel, behind the horse-drawn caisson carrying the flag-draped casket of her husband.
An Argentine man who worked for years as an undercover informant for U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, only to be detained by his handlers and face imminent deportation as an illegal immigrant, has been granted a reprieve.
Only a few years ago Emilio and Analia Maya's lives brimmed with possibility, their little cafe thrived, and their hard-fought dream of life in America seemed enticingly within reach.
Only a few years ago the lives of Emilio and Analia Maya brimmed with possibility, their little cafe thrived, and their hard-fought dream of life in America seemed enticingly within reach.
There was a time, just a few years ago, when Emilio and Analia Maya's lives brimmed with possibility, when their little Main Street cafe thrived and their hard-fought dream of life in America seemed enticingly within reach.
Skipping noisily through the museum, rambunctious as any normal 9-year-olds, the children suddenly stop in their tracks. Before them is a sight so strange they have no idea how to respond.
The children skip noisily through the museum, rambunctious as any normal 9-year-olds on a field trip from school. Suddenly they stop in their tracks, startled by a sight so strange they have no idea how to respond.
The "pot-hunting" culture of the Southwest dates back to the 1800s, when a Colorado ranching family began exploring and excavating the ruined cliff dwellings of the Anasazi, an ancient civilization that flourished centuries ago.
High above the spiky sandstone spine known as Comb Ridge that snakes for 120 miles through the desert, archaeologist Winston Hurst treads carefully through a cave of ruins.
He was born on the Fourth of July, an irony he would only appreciate later, during the dark period of his life, when liberty and freedom became far more than mere words in his high school history book.
He was born on the Fourth of July, an irony he would only appreciate later, during the dark period of his life, when liberty and freedom became far more than mere words in his high school history book.
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