By Steven Naifeh, Gregory White Smith
On October 15, 1985, pipe bombs shook the calm of Salt Lake urban, Utah, killing humans. the single link-both sufferers belonged to the Mormon Church. the following day, a 3rd bomb used to be detonated within the parked vehicle of church-going relations guy, Mark Hoffman. really, he survived. It wasn't till experts wondered the surprisingly evasive Hoffman that one other, extra stunning hyperlink among the sufferers emerged...
It was once the looks of an alleged ancient rfile that challenged the very bedrock of Mormon educating, puzzled the legitimacy of its founder, and threatened to disillusion thousands of its faithful-unless the Mormon hierarchy buried the facts.
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Out back was a large tree-studded yard. In front of the TV, an undulating waterbed. She was the second daughter of Steven Levin and Ellen Domenitz, whose families were Jewish and who had themselves each been raised in green and homogeneous suburban towns, Steve in Massachusetts, Ellen on Long Island. They’d met in Boston while Ellen was going to a junior college and Steve was attending an acting school. Acting was in Steve’s blood. His grandfather, who’d emigrated to the United States from Russia in the early part of the century, had made his living in the shoe business, just as Steve’s father did after him, but the old man had always wanted to be an actor and toward the end of his life he had even become one, performing with a Yiddish theater group.
Something about how he was having problems with her. “Yeah, well, I guess the best thing is, you never get married,” Sheehan said. Bob nodded, laughed. He’s a really sweet guy, Sheehan thought. Most of the regulars are. And they follow my career as if they’re my fan club. Sheehan had made the regulars real proud this year. 38 in his hand. Sheehan had pulled out his own gun, shoved it at the kid’s face and screamed, “You pull the trigger, I’m gonna blow your fucking head off! ” He’d never been so tough in his life.
That fall—it was 1979—Jennifer, a gangly eleven-year-old with crooked teeth and limp hair that she tucked impatiently behind prominent ears, moved back East. Ellen had soured on California and decided to rent a small house in Manorhaven, a somewhat shabby enclave in the posh Long Island suburb of Port Washington. She enrolled Jennifer in the sixth grade of Manorhaven’s public elementary school. Jennifer barely remembered Long Island, and she wasn’t happy about being a new girl at a new school. But she tried to find friends, flinging herself into the chore by making the first gestures.