It’s a story I hesitate to tell today, because 33 years after the fact, it almost seems surreal. But in 1990, I was doing my job as a crime reporter for the Dallas Times Herald. On a particular Thursday night, I was driving around South Dallas, looking for story material. That part of the city was hopping. Jamaican gangsters ran the crack cocaine trade, and awful stuff was happening all the time. On this night, I got totally lost. I hadn’t lived in Dallas very long, and for some bizarre reason I thought that a church whose name started with
