MY FIRST memory of life in the United States goes back to 1889 or 1890. I was six years old--seven at the most. And tiny. Full grown, I've never reached five foot four. I spoke only a few words of English; I was an immigrant boy.

The memory involves justice and an urchin. I was selling newspapers on the corner of Market and Mulberry Streets in Newark, New Jersey. An older boyperhaps he was twelve--elbowed me off my regular spot. His name was Big Boston, and in my mind he still assumes the shape of a lumbering giant. If Big Boston took over my corner, the day's papers would go unsold. And if they did, my mother and my sisters and I would again have to go without dinner. We were that poor.

Eyes blurred with tears of fury and frustration, I kicked and tore at Big Boston. But Justice, in the form of Officer Tom Moore, wasn't far down the street. He . . .