The gooseneck lamp made a pool of light on my desk about 3 a.m., June 5, 1968, when someone pounded on my apartment door.
Tall skinny Bev, my upstairs neighbor, cried, "You've got to come up! They've shot Bobby Kennedy!"
On Bev's TV, I saw the classic image of that night: Robert Kennedy, dressed in his black campaigning suit, sprawled flat on the kitchen floor, his limbs jutting out as though they didn't belong to him.
"Oh my God!" Bev shook her fist at the TV. "I can't believe this! Martin Luther King only two months dead, and everywhere, rioting, thousands arrested, and who know how many shot! And now this."
Bobby, still alive, asked, "Is everybody okay?" Bev reached for a tissue.
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