They were young and in love and pregnant and partial to heroin and living in a Village apartment with a lot of heavy weaponry lying about. What could possibly go wrong?
Aaron Greene is sitting in a white plastic chair in a visiting room at Rikers Island prison. He is lantern-jawed and handsome, with several days of stubble, his long, shaggy brown hair parted down the middle. If it weren't for the beige prison fatigues, he might be anyone on the street. "I have an affliction," he says, fixing his moss-green eyes on me. "I put too much faith in people. Including right now."