I. Anti-Hero

Early one morning in 2003, I woke up next to my girlfriend, Ambere, in the Venice Beach apartment that we shared. Sunlight flitted over the Pacific Ocean and into our bedroom. I ate breakfast and worked out. Then I got to business, which, at that time, was dealing marijuana. Ambere, like my parents, wanted me to find a real job, and I planned to. Sometimes I talked about writing a novel or a screenplay. “Sounds great,” Ambere would tell me. “Write it already!”

I drove to Hollywood to make a bulk purchase from a dealer named Earl at his apartment. I owed him some money and had given him my handgun as collateral. But he was no longer happy with the terms of the agreement. We began to argue. I felt like he was trying to outsmart or outtalk me. I grew angry. He was rude, so I ma

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