When I was growing up in the South, my mother’s black maid was married to a black man who was a tailor at one of the best men’s stores in town.  They had a daughter who lived in Chicago, who turned out to be unable to care for her son, so the grandparents took over raising the child.  When he got older, the father bought him a new, small motorcycle, but told him he could not ride it until his grandfather said that he was responsible enough to do so. 

The grandson wanted to ride it to football game, but his grandfather told him no.  Somewhere he found a gun and shot and killed his grandfather and then rode his new motorcycle to the game. 

My mother’s maid was of course heartbroken.  She had lost two of her closest relatives at the same time, since the grandson went to jail.  It was a tragedy, particularly since both the grandparents were such good people.  But it does show how all of this random killing can come home to roost.