His name was George McFee. As I listened to the story of his life over the next couple of hours, I drew his portrait in my sketchbook. I drew his face, minus the gash in his throat. It took time; he began talking about his family. His daughter Rose, she was only six when he died. His wife Charlotte and how much he missed her. He’d lived in Brooklyn in the 1920’s and had made the mistake of working with the mafia. He told me all the horrible things he did while trying to support his family. Some of it was pretty gruesome. Eventually, he went on the run. They caught up with him here. His own
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