Two Teens, One Bus, and a Nation Watching

Hello, and welcome to “The True Crime Reader,” where we dig beneath the headlines to unravel the stories that shape our understanding of crime, justice, and society. Today’s episode takes us to Oakland, California, for the story behind Dashka Slater’s powerful nonfiction book, “The 57 Bus”—a case that stunned the Bay Area and reverberated across the country.

Let’s set the scene. It's November 2013. On an ordinary bus ride home, two teenagers from opposite sides of Oakland who had never spoken before will become forever linked by a single, traumatic act. One, asleep and dressed in a skirt, is suddenly engulfed in flames. The other, a high school junior urged on by friends, flicks a lighter—just for a laugh, he’ll claim, with consequences he never imagined.

What happens next will challenge not just the lives of these two teenagers, Sasha and Richard, but entire communities. It will reveal the complexity of the justice system, the stark realities of race and class, and the shifting landscape for LGBTQ+ youth in America.

Is this a hate crime, or a reckless adolescent prank? Should a teenager be tried as an adult for a single thoughtless act? What does justice look like when both “victim” and “perpetrator” are themselves vulnerable, and whose stories get told?

Stay tuned as we break down the timeline of The 57 Bus, profile Sasha and Richard, and explore the ripple effects of their encounter—through the narrative lens of Dashka Slater, whose book transcends the true crime genre to provoke questions that linger long after the last page.

Let’s begin by reconstructing the critical events that unfolded in the waning daylight of November 4, 2013—a timeline that forever altered the lives of Sasha and Richard and catalyzed a national debate.

On November 4, 2013: at Around 4:30 pm, the 57 bus in Oakland was crowded with students and commuters. Eighteen-year-old Sasha, who identifies as agender, is returning home from Maybeck High School, a small private school in Berkeley. Tired, they sit towards the back, reading, then doze off. Sasha is wearing a silk skirt—something that reflects their gender expression and personal comfort.

Seated nearby is sixteen-year-old Richard Thomas, attending Oakland High School. Richard is with two friends, Lloyd and Jamal. Jamal, seeking mischief, dares Richard to flick a lighter at Sasha’s skirt. Jamal appears ready to film it with his phone. Richard, succumbing to peer pressure and his own need for approval, clicks the lighter once, twice. Suddenly, Sasha’s skirt ignites in a flash.

Panic erupts. Sasha awakes, a ball of flame. Passengers scramble, but two men rush to help, smothering the fire and saving Sasha’s life. Sasha is left with severe second- and third-degree burns.

On November 5, 2013: The Oakland Police Department, reviewing the bus’s surveillance footage, makes a swift arrest at Oakland High. Richard is taken into custody, interrogated, and, without lawyer or parent present, confesses—admitting to lighting the skirt but unsure why.

In the Days That Follow: Media coverage explodes locally and then nationally. Sasha enters intensive care, enduring multiple surgeries and weeks of painful recovery at the burn unit of St. Francis Memorial Hospital.

As the Legal Proceedings Unfold: Richard is initially held in juvenile detention. He is charged as an adult—facing two felony counts (aggravated mayhem and assault with intent to cause great bodily injury), each with hate crime enhancements. The hate crime charge is based, in part, on Richard’s statement during questioning: “I’m homophobic. I don’t like gay people,” though his defenders claim he didn’t fully understand the meaning or implications of this admission.

Weeks and Months Later: Both families are thrust into the spotlight: Sasha, supported by an outpouring of love from the LGBTQ+ community and their school; Richard, isolated and painted as a monster by the media, but defended by teachers, friends, and his mother.

In October 2014: Richard pleads “no contest” to felony assault charges and is sentenced to seven years in prison. After good behavior and further court appeals, the sentence is reduced to five years, served in a juvenile facility.

From August 2014 through Early 2015: Sasha’s life moves forward—they enroll at MIT, seeking independence and healing. Richard enters a period of rehabilitation and reflection in the juvenile system. Letters between the two families, delayed by the legal process, eventually make their way to Sasha, and gestures of forgiveness and empathy begin to take root.

This timeline is remarkable not just for its events, which last mere seconds, but for the long-lasting ripples: for both teens, their families, their schools, and the Bay Area, those eight minutes on the bus will resonate for years.

Lets look at Sasha and Richard as individuals.

Sasha Fleischman, born Luke, lived in the Oakland hills in a supportive, middle-class household. Diagnosed with Asperger’s as a child, Sasha was academically brilliant, passionate about language and logic, and, by high school, openly identified as agender—their preference for “they/them” pronouns stemming from a deep personal journey through gender.

At Maybeck High, a tolerant and diverse private school in Berkeley, Sasha found a community accepting of various identities and presentations. Wearing skirts was part of Sasha’s expression, comfort, and intent to refuse the confines of the gender binary. Their parents, while initially apprehensive about Sasha’s safety in public spaces, were supportive and proud.

What stands out about Sasha is a striking resilience and openness to forgiveness. After the attack, even as they endured agonizing surgeries, they expressed a nuanced view on Richard’s fate: “He did something really dangerous and stupid... but he’s a 16-year-old kid, and 16-year-old kids are kind of dumb. It’s really hard to know what I want for him”. Sasha publicly opposed trying Richard as an adult, urging the system toward a more restorative approach.

Sasha’s story is emblematic not just for their survival but also for their role as an activist. In the aftermath, Sasha became a touchstone for LGBTQ+ conversations nationwide, inspiring campaigns for skirt-wearing as acts of solidarity and sparking dialogue on inclusion and support for gender-nonconforming youth.

Richard Thomas grew up in East Oakland’s flatlands—a neighborhood shaped by poverty, violence, and systemic neglect. His family structure was fragile: a hardworking but struggling mother, an absent father, and a personal history containing loss, trauma, and brushes with delinquency. Richard had spent a previous year in group home placement due to school fights and attendance issues, but, by the fall of 2013, had been making strides towards graduation and stability with the help of mentors at school.

Richard was, by many accounts, cheerful, loyal, and well-liked by those who knew him but also susceptible to the influences of friends and the high-risk environment around him. On the day of the incident, peer pressure and the thrill-seeking of adolescence played a substantial role. After his arrest, his family and lawyer adamantly denied that Richard was motivated by genuine hate, citing his own LGBTQ+ friends and a lack of understanding about “homophobia.” Still, in police interviews, Richard participated in language that implicated himself, an outcome that likely changed the course of his prosecution.

Richard’s story, therefore, serves as a window into the vulnerabilities of youth—especially Black youth—navigating disadvantage, racialized policing, and a punitive justice system. His expressions of remorse came through in letters to Sasha, though they were long withheld from the victim’s family due to legal strategy.

Through Dashka Slater’s narrative, Richard is never excused, but is layered: not “a monster,” but a boy whose worst moment was shaped by societal failure as much as individual choice.

Let's look at The Broader Social and Legal Context

Oakland in 2013 was a city of profound contrasts—bustling with tech wealth and gentrification in the hills, mired in poverty, violence, and social neglect in the flatlands. For Sasha, privilege meant access to private education, community support, and a relative sense of safety in exploring identity. For Richard, life was a daily negotiation with adversity: the statistics were stark—only about 17% of Black boys in Oakland’s high schools graduated with the requirements needed for California’s state colleges; the rest faced a much higher likelihood of encountering the criminal justice system.

Slater’s book makes clear these disparities are not just background—they are pivotal in understanding what brought Sasha and Richard’s worlds together in tragedy. The 57 bus’s route cut across these radically different geographies, both literal and metaphorical.

Why was richard tried as an adult instead of a Juvenile

The decision to charge Richard as an adult was enabled by California’s Proposition 21, a law passed in 2000 that dramatically expanded the circumstances under which youth 16 or older could be "direct filed"—transferred to adult court by the discretion of prosecutors, bypassing a judge’s review. This framework was designed during the era of “super-predator” hysteria and disproportionately affects youth of color: Black teens in California are vastly more likely than white teens to be prosecuted as adults and sentenced to state prison.

Adult court strips youth of confidentiality, places them at risk for adult sentences, and undermines the emphasis on rehabilitation. Critics, including researchers and juvenile justice advocates, point to adolescent brain science demonstrating the greater impulsivity, susceptibility to peer influence, and potential for change among teenagers. The Supreme Court has acknowledged these differences, yet the direct-filing structure remains in effect in some cases.

Richard faced a potential life sentence if convicted on all counts (aggravated mayhem and hate crime enhancements). Only after plea negotiations and the continued appeals by Sasha’s family for leniency was the sentence ultimately reduced to years in a juvenile facility rather than permanent incarceration in adult prison.

California’s hate crime statutes in 2013 and today recognize bias-motivated violence based on perceived or actual gender identity or expression, in addition to race, religion, sexual orientation, and other protected statuses. For conduct to be prosecuted as a hate crime, there must be evidence the attack was motivated, even in part, by such animus. Richard’s hurried confession about being “homophobic,” uttered during a high-pressure interrogation, was used to justify hate crime enhancements, though debate raged over whether a 16-year-old’s statement should tip the legal scales so strongly.

This legal frame is significant as anti-LGBTQ+ hate crimes have been sharply increasing, with the most recent FBI data showing a continued spike in violence motivated by bias against sexual orientation or gender identity—even as other forms of crime have declined.

Looking specifically at the book, One reason “The 57 Bus” stands out among true crime narratives is Dashka Slater’s distinctive approach. Having begun as a journalist covering the incident for The New York Times Magazine, Slater brings both investigative rigor and a novelist’s empathy to the book.

Slater breaks the story into short, punchy chapters, interspersing traditional reportage with poetic asides, definitions of queer and legal terminology, and accounts from the perspectives of Sasha, Richard, their families, and their communities. She lets the events unfold in both chronological and thematic order, guiding readers through the lead-up, the incident, the aftermath, and the broader context. The shifting point of view humanizes everyone involved, creating a sense of suspended judgment—a hallmark of well-crafted narrative nonfiction.

Slater draws on a multiplicity of sources: police and court records, interviews with witnesses, statements from both families, psychiatric and educational profiles, and a spectrum of media reports. She is careful to note where her account is based on interviews, court testimony, or the public record, and she highlights moments of ambiguity or contradiction—challenging the neat binaries often favored by crime narratives.

Her writing style is spare but compassionate, honoring the dignity and complexity of real people. Nowhere is this more evident than in sections where she outlines, without embellishment, the pain of Sasha’s physical recovery and the introspection of Richard during his incarceration. Slater also includes context on historical and contemporary hate crimes, linking the 57 bus attack to the larger web of gender-based and anti-LGBTQ+ violence, as well as to recent social justice activism.

The result: A book that forgoes sensationalism for thoughtfulness, inviting readers—not instructing them—to grapple with uncertainty, grief, and the difficulty of judgment. As one notable reviewer observed, “Few readers will traverse this exploration of gender identity, adolescent crime, and penal racism without having a few assumptions challenged. An outstanding book that links the diversity of creed and the impact of impulsive actions to themes of tolerance and forgiveness”.

Looking into the Media Coverage and Public Perception

From the beginning, the story of the 57 bus was marked by a media rush—stories alternating between focusing on the “hate crime” angle, the “tragic prank” defense, and the emerging LGBTQ+ advocacy movement. The dichotomy in coverage shaped public reaction in critical ways.

Many early headlines zeroed in on Sasha’s gender identity, at times misgendering them or defaulting to “gay” (though Sasha is agender) and framing the incident as symptomatic of a broader wave of anti-LGBTQ+ violence. While sympathetic, this sometimes overshadowed the particularities of Sasha’s story, reducing their lived reality to a caricature.

Richard, by contrast, was often labeled as a “monster” or “thug” in the press, reflecting deep-seated racial biases. Slater and other nuanced reporters worked to counter this narrative, highlighting not just his remorse but the structural forces—poverty, trauma, systemic racism—that shaped his life prior to the attack.

Media exposure also spurred both support and backlash. Maybeck High organized “Skirts for Sasha” days and local marches; Oakland High’s basketball team wore “No H8” jerseys and helped fundraise for Sasha’s medical bills. Yet, friends and staff at Oakland High also organized to defend Richard, emphasizing that one act should not define his entire future and questioning whether the legal punishment fit the crime.

The case ignited public discussions about gender expression, victimhood, adolescence, racialized policing, and the goals of the juvenile justice system. Social media amplified debates on restorative vs. punitive justice models—would healing be better served by locking Richard away or by facilitating dialogue and making amends?

In sum, the media both elevated the case’s visibility and contributed to the polarization of narratives: the book’s own legacy lies, in part, in inviting readers to actively reflect on the limits of binary thinking.

True crime has, in recent years, occupied a contentious niche in both journalism and entertainment. Telling real stories about real people—especially those who have experienced trauma—demands careful ethical consideration.

Slater’s narrative is widely praised for earning the trust and cooperation of both the victim’s and perpetrator’s families, striving for fairness without flattening the emotional complexity. She consistently uses Sasha’s pronouns, centers their agency, and documents their parents’ views and involvement in advocacy. While Richard’s missteps are laid plain, the text resists exploitation or caricature.

As the book and its media coverage show, ethical true crime must constantly ask, “What does this narrative mean for those still living with its consequences? Does it invite empathy, or judgment? Action, or passivity?”

Slater’s book, and the families involved, exemplify the arguments for restorative justice—a model that seeks healing, accountability, and transformation over retribution. In the 57 bus case, both Sasha’s and Richard’s families ultimately expressed support for rehabilitation, not lifelong punishment.

Restorative justice relies on bringing together victims, offenders, and community members to share their stories, acknowledge harm, and negotiate paths forward. While not all cases can or should avoid incarceration, research and practitioner experience suggest that, for many juvenile crimes—especially those not premeditated—a restorative approach reduces recidivism and better serves the needs of all involved.

Yet, barriers remain: District attorneys are often reluctant to forgo punitive enhancements, especially when public opinion is inflamed. Funding and implementation of alternatives are uneven. And reforms cannot undo long histories of injustice and distrust.

The 57 bus episode asks us: What kind of justice system do we want for our youth? Is accountability possible without condemnation? These questions are urgent as debates over crime, policing, and youth incarceration continue to animate American politics today.

Sasha’s story is part of a much broader struggle for safety, recognition, and equality among LGBTQ+ and gender nonconforming youth. The incident on the 57 bus is both unique and emblematic—reflecting the vulnerability of those who defy restrictive norms.

Nationally, hate crimes against gender nonconforming and transgender people have been on the rise, even as other forms of crime drop. FBI statistics show that more than one out of every five hate crimes in 2024 was motivated by anti-LGBTQ+ animus, with attacks based on gender identity rising as much as 16% year over year. Nonbinary and gender nonconforming youth are especially targeted in public spaces—even in “progressive” cities like Oakland.

At the same time, visibility and advocacy have grown. The support for Sasha from communities, schools, and strangers worldwide demonstrates the solidarity that can arise in the wake of tragedy, while also pointing to the continuing dangers faced by LGBTQ+ youth—in transit, at school, and online.

Since its publication, “The 57 Bus” has been hailed as a landmark book in young adult nonfiction, true crime, and LGBTQ+ literature. It won honors including the Stonewall Book Award and a spot on TIME’s list of the 100 Best Young Adult Books of All Time2829.

The book’s refusal to reduce its complex story to binaries—good/evil, victim/offender, male/female—challenges readers to think and feel deeply.

Classes, book clubs, and youth groups have used the book to discuss gender, race, class, empathy, and the workings of the justice system, spurring advocacy and reflection.

Both Sasha and Richard are rendered in full complexity, humanizing “the other side,” and prompting readers to advocate for restorative, not punitive, justice.

Notably, “The 57 Bus” has been among the frequently challenged or banned books in U.S. libraries and schools—often because of its frank discussions of gender, sexuality, and race. These bans themselves have become teaching moments, as advocates, including Dashka Slater, argue for the book’s role in engendering difficult but vital conversations.

Thanks for joining us on this journey through the intersecting stories that make “The 57 Bus” such a compelling—if often wrenching—read. From the 57 bus rolling through Oakland, we see a portrait of America in miniature: divided, diverse, wounded, and searching for a more just way forward.

Slater’s book reminds us that every headline is someone’s life, that mere seconds can set destinies on a new trajectory, and that, even in the aftermath of violence, forgiveness and understanding may yet be possible.

If today’s episode moved you, don’t stop with the story. Discuss, reflect, ask yourself: What would I have done? What can I do to build the kind of world where compassion tempers judgment—and where the worst moment of one’s life doesn’t define them forever?

Until next time, stay curious, stay critical, and stay kind.