The New Yorker has devoted itself for 59 years not only to facts and literal accuracy but to truth. And truth begins, journalistically, with the facts.

And in the absence of facts, myth rushes in, the kudzu of history.

Facts are like cows. If you look them in the face long enough, they generally run away.

Facts an' facts, an' t'ings an t'ings: dem's all a lotta fockin' bullshit. Hear me! Dere is no truth but de one truth, an' that is the truth of Jah Rastafari.

The truth of the matter is that facts seldom prove the truth. Why? Because truth is inly found in a journey.

Everybody wanted to know the whole truth based on facts and irrefutable evidence, a truth that would identify and uncover those who masterminded the heinous crime, executed it and supported it,