“Obscenely early. A shooting day, so I headed to the set. As I pulled my Tesla out of the garage, I saw a skinny old dark-skinned Asian guy wearing a plain white tee and cargo pants in my rearview. Had I called the gardener to come early?
But this gardener had the wrong tools. I rolled down my window and asked what he wanted. He didn’t answer. His hands were behind him, like a kung fu master. His hair was cut very short, his face deeply lined. Squinting and blinking, he resembled an Asian Clint Eastwood.
I repeated my question.
‘I’m Herbert Lin’s father.’ He brought forward his hands, one of them gripping a sizable revolver. He pointed it through the window, inches from my face.”