It had a narrative sense that was second to none, an instinct for how to draw the audience’s attention that was assured to the point of fagrant, to the point of gloating, opening—bam!—with a climax, a literal cut to the chase: an S.U.V. burning rubber on the Santa Ana Freeway, the Artesia Freeway, the Harbor Freeway, and, at last, the San Diego Freeway, 20 or so squad cars in panting pursuit. Actually, at 35 miles an hour, the S.U.V. was less burning rubber than going for a spin, and the squad cars weren’t so much in panting pursuit as serene accompaniment, falling into graceful formation behind their leader, a Ford Bronco, the 1993 model, as white as innocence, as a lie. Above, in the clear blue Southern California sky, a…
