Sunday nights in Los Angeles always felt heavier than they should.The heat clung to the air long after sunset, and the haze above the freeway smeared the sky into a tired blur of orange and gray. For most people, Sunday meant leftovers and early alarms.
For Michael Stone, it meant inspection.
At exactly 6:55 p.m., he turned his black SUV onto the narrow East Los Angeles street where his son stayed every other week. The cracked sidewalks and sagging fences were a world away from the glass-and-steel home Michael owned in Calabasas.
He never complained about the contrast.
