By David Hariman He’d promised Jack Borger’s widow he’d “stop by some day” to pay his respects. At the time, he never could have foreseen that a flight of steps would make that a physical impossibility. Gordon Zane looked across…

By: David Hariman Her makeup was garishly overdone. There was too much eye shadow, eyeliner and mascara. Her lips glared in fire-engine red lip gloss. Her fingers were tipped in acrylic French nails. Her hair, well, her hair was to…

By David Hariman It was uncomfortably hot in Sierra Leone this time of year; the cooling, sometimes torrential, rains wouldn’t come for four months. The taxi jolted, hitting yet another pothole. The lone passenger in the front seat, unfazed by…