The Right of the People

THE RIGHT OF

THE PEOPLE

Edwin F. Gentry

Copyright © 2005, 2006 by Edwin F. Gentry.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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To my family and friends

each of whom make life worth living.

Inhalt

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

In Memoriam

Harry L. (Lenny) Beasley, Jr.

(1953-1992)

His strength, his smile,

His character, his courage,

His humor, his heart,

There is never a sunrise

Never a sunset

Never a day in the woods

Or on the water

That he is not remembered.

That he is not loved.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

THIS BOOK WOULD not have been possible without the love and understanding of my wife Faye and my son Eddie. Both of them were very understanding of the many hours I spent away from them while writing and re-writing the manuscript. Nor would it have been possible to produce this book without the hard work of both Cathy Jean Andino and Wendy Michelle White Lybrand. They, collectively, spent many hours transcribing the original text of the book from cassette tapes. They, together with the many re-writes of the book done by Ashley Brown, deserve my heart-felt thanks. Thanks also to Dawn Smith of Kerrville, Texas for her time, advice and encouragement to see this book through.

To Lou Messa, Fine Artist, from Madison, Virginia, my gratitude for his wonderful watercolor which appears on the cover. Lou is an extraordinarily talented artist whose work captures the heart and essence of that part of rural America that is today disappearing so rapidly. Thanks also to Robin Smith, my editor, for her help in both substantive and technical areas.

The seeds of this novel were planted early in my life by my father Garland Conrad Gentry. He took the time to show my brother Garland and me the true worth and meaning of the outdoor sports. It was his love of the law and writing that first encouraged me to put pen to paper. And he taught me to follow my heart. There can be no greater love, no greater gift, from a father to his son.

Last but not least, my heart-felt gratitude to my brother Garland, my cousins Fred and Johnnie Gentry in Mountain Park, North Carolina; my great friends Terry Minnick, Steve White, Steve Dudley, Dave Dunwoody, Jim Wynne, Bo Martin, Dave Smith, Paul Walther, Mike Stephenson of Four Oaks, North Carolina, Chris Anthon, T.C. Lea and his sons Davis and Cal, and a host of other family and friends who have, over the years, allowed me to share so many wonderful days in the outdoors. Truly, friends of a lifetime.

INTRODUCTION

WELL, I’LL BE damned, he thought smiling to himself. It’s still up there after all of these years. Looking up between the triangle of trees, he saw the wooden platform now weathered gray with age, nestled comfortably against the oaks about twelve feet off the ground.

Five years, he said aloud, five years since I’ve been here. I can’t believe it’s been that long.

Yet, he thought, it seems in some ways like a lifetime. Wonder if it’ll hold me?

Pulling on the wooden steps he had nailed up almost fifteen years before, he decided that they seemed solid. Well, solid enough. I didn’t come all the way down here not to climb up and see.

Slowly, gingerly, he pulled himself up, testing each step as he went. On the top step, he hugged the tree with his right arm and swung himself up and over the edge of the platform. Ducking under the arm rail, he stood on the deck of the stand that he had hunted from so often in the past.

Brushing the leaves off the platform with the toe of his boot, he pulled a rusty folding chair away from the corner where it had been wedged. The plastic padded seat had long since worn off, the stuffing pulled out by squirrels and mice for nesting material. Pushing and pulling, he slowly opened the chair and placed the four uneven legs in the middle of the platform. Testing it by pushing on its back, he was fairly sure the chair would hold him. As he eased down on the seat, it groaned audibly. But as it had many times in the past, it held his weight comfortably.

Glancing to his right he saw the initials his son Allen had left on the tree over a dozen years ago. The letters ARR were awkwardly-carved, little-boy block letters. John remembered the afternoon well when that was done. A bright, sunny, cold December afternoon he and his son had spent there. Watching, sharing, their faces turned against a cold northeast wind. The laughs and smiles, the anticipation of things to come; a memory of an afternoon in the woods.

Leaning back, his eyes closed, his mind took him swifly back from those pleasant memories to that autumn five years ago. We could have seen it, should have seen it, he said aloud. If I’d paid more attention all of it would have added up. Things could be so different.

CHAPTER ONE

A FEW MILES outside Miami near a gravel road paralleling a canal along the Florida Turnpike, a blindfolded man knelt on the ground that was to become his grave. His hands and arms were tightly bound and bleeding. In the heat and humidity of the spring night, the hard glare of the headlights gleamed off the sweat and blood that ran down his shoulders and arms and dripped from the tips of his fingers onto the dust. A runner who had skimmed both drugs and money from Raphael D’Angelo, his pleas to be spared fell on deaf ears.

Please! Please! My wife, my children! Who will take care of them? I will give you the rest of my life… he begged.

Shut the hell up! D’Angelo hissed as he pushed the man over on his stomach with the toe of his boot. The rest of your life already belongs to me!

Madre de Dios! the man whispered, his breath blowing small puffs of dust from the ground.

Here, my friend. You do it, D’Angelo said, handing the semi-automatic pistol to Sterling. You got to start somewhere. And don’t forget to cover the top of the barrel. You don’t want this asshole’s brains all over your face.

No stranger to guns, Sterling liked the feel, the heft of the pistol. He stepped up behind the man, cocked the pistol, and without hesitation, fired a bullet into the man’s brain. It had been easy for him to kill, painless. D’Angelo had seen the dark gleam in Sterling’s eyes as he pulled the trigger and he liked what he saw.

The man’s lifeless body lay still, his tears evaporating in the evening breeze, his blood staining an expanding circle. Raphael put his arm around Sterling’s shoulder. No flinch. I like a man who can kill and not flinch. Now, how about those stone crabs you’ve been wanting?

On their way back to Miami, Sterling was unusually quiet.

Even he was surprised at the depth of his dark side. This seed of evil had developed early in his life and was unknown to almost everyone, even members of his family. Certainly he understood the family business functions of maintaining, strengthening, and expanding the business. But excitement and adventure had been lacking in his life since the beginning. Everyone knew he would succeed. Everyone knew he would continue the good works of the company. What no one could have foreseen was the flaw in his character that had developed because of the certainty with which everyone viewed his life.

He had always been aware there was a part of him no one else could see or understand. He was always testing the system, pushing himself into areas where he knew he shouldn’t be. Indeed, where he had no reason, right, or need to be, yet he had to go there.

Its earliest manifestations were petty thefts from household servants and guests. Taking coins here, a few bills there, something out of a wallet or an unattended purse, always seemed to make his day more memorable. As he grew older and had access to more resources, his forays tended to become more serious and more dangerous. Mindless vandalism and breaking into homes when the residents were there excited him, made him feel more alive. The sheer lawlessness of these acts brought a euphoria he craved. Knowing the exposure of his criminal activity would put an end to his expected lifestyle made these acts even more compelling.

It was not until his college years that this compulsion began to gain prominence. Isolated use of marijuana and then cocaine led him into contact with an element of society he had never met before. While his family’s wealth and position insulated him from fear of capture or conviction for any of these offenses, his contacts with this criminal element were like the first taste of whiskey to a future alcoholic. They provided a thrill which took on a life of its own.

The drugs led to violence and he soon learned the advantages of carrying a weapon and being accompanied by a body guard. He saw his first murder victim at nineteen and had been surprised at the morbid curiosity it had aroused in him. It had happened on a drug deal gone bad and he examined the lifeless victim closely. The two shots to the back of the head had rendered the man unrecognizable. Damn, he thought, what a way to go! Never saw so much blood. Only the approaching police sirens made him leave and even then, reluctantly.

I’m going to do that to somebody sometime! he said to his companion, as they turned to leave. What a rush!

Through his college years, he quietly associated with those who had criminal connections. His weekend trips to New York, Chicago, Washington, and Miami would bring him into casual contact with some of the most infamous underworld figures in the country. He was unerringly discrete about these contacts. Generally they would occur at popular clubs or restaurants and look like chance meetings. However, additional meetings were often arranged at private residences and he soon became an accepted and active member of this underground society.

When he assumed control of the corporation from his father, the business itself stayed free of any infection from this unseen side of its new president. Sterling Enterprises, Inc. was known and well-respected throughout the world. He was so careful that investigation of its business practices, associates, and financial resources would have disclosed no blemishes.

Though only a few years older in experience and viciousness, D’Angelo was ages ahead of Sterling. D’Angelo was a trusted assistant of one of the country’s biggest drug and weapons dealers but he had no intention of remaining an employee any longer then necessary.

This weekend in Miami that led to Sterling’s first killing had been carefully planned by D’Angelo. As smart as he was dangerous, he recognized early that Sterling was the kind of man who could be useful in many ways. He was always glad to see his young, rich friend, and he encouraged Sterling’s sorties into the world of crime, drugs, guns, and death. Sterling usually needed little prodding to participate.

The lights of Miami brought Sterling back to the present and he asked, Where do your friends go when they need to hide out?

Well, I guess that depends on how much money they have and how much trouble they’re in. The members of the organization can usually help, and most everyone has their own thoughts about what they would do and where they would go if things got too hot.

Wouldn’t it be good, Charles thought aloud, to have a safe house—a place you could go and really be comfortable? To wait until things cooled off a bit, to supply your men with hard-to-get items, or a place to help you get out of the country if you needed to?

Sure, all of us know places here and there where we could stay for a few days or a week if we have to. And there are people scattered around who can help you with ID’s, transportation out of the country, and all that. What are you getting at?

I don’t know just yet. But I’ve got a couple of ideas. You guys will be in Miami around Easter, won’t you?

Sure. You know where we’ll be.

O.K. Give me a while to think about it and put something together. If it goes anywhere, I’ll tell you about it then.

Where it went was Rapidan County, Virginia.

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS JUST a slight motion, half-hidden by the scrub oaks, but unmistakable. More motion and, as John squinted through the early light, the entire silhouette of the deer materialized. First the head and neck, graceful, tapered, and still with a hint of that reddish-brown summer coat. It was a small deer and it had moved off before he could see the five-inch spikes which it had grown. He wouldn’t have shot it even if he had seen the horns. He had killed bigger deer in other years and meat wasn’t the reason for this hunt. Besides, it would have been a long drag up out of the river bottom for anything other than a real trophy. One like his friend Roy had taken three years ago.

No, on this day this hunt was for the memories. It was a day to relax, to escape town and family and phone calls—all of those responsibilities that demanded so much. Just as well, he murmured. If I’d shot him I’d have to go look. And at this range it would have been hard to miss. Then all of this fine relaxation would end and all of the hard work would start. Better, he thought, to just ease back, settle in, and hope that no other deer disturbs me.

As the sun rose higher, the temperature reached sixty degrees and the mist burned off the Rapidan River. The few flies that hadn’t been taken away by the recent cold snap in central Virginia droned lethargically around the tree stand. John had built this stand nearly ten years ago and it had been a good one. Sitting twelve feet up between three pin oak trees, he found if he stayed long enough and was quiet enough he would usually take one or two whitetails a year. Not necessarily deer with large antlers but more than enough to supplement the meat supply in the freezer.

Since it was built only fifty or so yards from the Rapidan River, the noise from the rapids upstream were loud enough to hide any small noise he might make, yet not so loud as to let a deer sneak up on him. Besides, even when the deer didn’t cooperate, the timeless movement of the river could hold his attention for hours. It was comforting to him to know the river had been there long before he was born and would survive long after he was gone. To experience a place like this, to share it occasionally, made him feel immortal. As long as he could come to the river, everything would be okay.

Eleven o’clock—damn! he muttered. If he was going to get back to the bank for his one o’clock meeting, he would have to leave. Leaving was always the hardest part; he never knew, with his schedule, when he would get back. Lowering his bow to the ground by a string that stayed tied to a limb at the tree stand, he grabbed his day-pack and climbed slowly down the seven steps to the ground below. All of his tree stands had seven steps; he thought it was lucky for him. At thirty-nine years old, it took him a bit longer than it once did to walk the mile up the ridge and back to his car. Sitting behind a desk five days a week didn’t help either, though he tried to work out at least a couple of times a week. Usually he felt pretty good if he kept the lawn mowed.

Reaching his truck he loaded his gear and again thanked the powers that be that no respectable-sized deer had come by. The morning was perfect just as it was, thank you very much, he thought. If I hurry, I have just enough time to swing by the house, shower, dress and get to my meeting. It was always a shame to have to leave the woods to go to work, but at least his job gave him some flexibility.

Brenda, his wife of seventeen years, taught at the middle school in Rapidan County. They had met in college in Harrisonburg and married soon after he graduated. They had both grown up in Charlottesville, but hadn’t met until his sophomore year at James Madison University.

Like most good relationships, theirs had developed slowly. John couldn’t remember just when he had realized he loved her. The recognition of that love seemed like a slow burning fog lifting off the river; he knew it was there—something was there, but it had taken time and light and a little breeze to make it clear. Brenda had been more sure of her feelings but she’d had the good sense and patience to temper her emotions until his caught up.

A business and finance major, banking seemed like the right route for him to take. He liked working with people, and they, in turn, seemed to respond to his interest in them. Brenda had never wanted to do anything but teach. Since she was from a large family, caring for children came naturally to her and teaching them was an outgrowth of the love she harbored for all the children.

When their son Allen was born in 1987, their life together was on the way to being perfect. They had both agreed to settle in rural Virginia since even Charlottesville had gotten too large, too urban for them. Rapidan County, one of the smallest counties in the state, seemed ideal. Lying on the Rapidan River near its junction with the Rappahannock River, it was located centrally between Frederickburg, Culpeper, Charlottesville, and Orange. If they wanted any big-city entertainment, Richmond was only an hour and fifteen minutes away and Washington only an hour and a half.

Primarily rural, the county had many small and medium-sized farms and a few large dairy farms. There was some light manufacturing, mostly clothing and plumbing supplies. Its county seat, Clarkton, had the usual complement of an Ace Hardware, Revco, Food Lion, and three 7-11’s. The new three-screen theatre was a real leap forward for Clarkton.

With a population of almost 17,000, the county gave a good account of itself and seemed to produce its share of hard-working, solid citizens for the Commonwealth. And it was still small enough so that you were expected to know at least half the people you met on the street by first name and wave at everyone you met on the road, whether you knew them or not.

Driving back to town, John thought he could tell the degree of kinship or affinity one person had for another by the wave they flashed as they passed. For someone who was unknown or a mere acquaintance a stiffening of one or two fingers was sufficient. If it was a business connection or someone called by their first name, all five fingers could come up and the hand might come all the way off the steering wheel.

Now if it was a good friend or someone on whom you relied or to whom you were indebted, or if it was the sheriff or the judge, a full-fledged wave was in order. Something like a salute, only with more feeling. Of course there were special waves for wives, lovers, and hunting buddies. And the teenagers’ waves were a whole different category. Their waves, depending on the degree of hormonal activity associated with the recipient of the wave, varied from the simple raising of an arm to an apparent suicide attempt out the car window at a speed of at least sixty miles an hour.

Entering the bank with only a few minutes to spare, he stopped by Grace’s desk. Any messages?

Only a few—nothing important. Did you get all of your errands done? she asked with a not too subtle wink.

Yes, a real productive morning. If I’d gotten anymore accomplished, I couldn’t have stood it.

Fine, but before you go into the board room, you’d better get the rest of that camouflage paste off your neck. Handing him a handkerchief, she pointed to the bathroom.

Sure can’t fool you, can I?

She smiled, Don’t even try.

CHAPTER THREE

ALLEN WOULD BE seventeen that fall and John didn’t know it was possible to love a child the way he loved his son. An only child himself, he hadn’t grown up with other children. He had good friends in school, but with no siblings, he had missed the closeness that comes with a large family, especially a large family in a rural community.

Allen was the first baby he had ever even held and, quite frankly, the experience had terrified him. The noise, the smell, the dependence of the child on him and Brenda was so foreign to him it was almost overwhelming. He had only gotten up with Allen the first few nights he had been home from the hospital. After that, Allen was Brenda’s responsibility.

Brenda had seen all of this before. Growing up for her included an endless parade of babies being cared for by an equally endless troop of aunts, uncles, boyfriends, girlfriends, and neighbors. She knew, if she trained him right, that John would take to being a father and would probably do well at it. Subtle suggestions, a few hints here and there, a nudge in this direction, a poke in that, and every once in a while, a well-directed and well-deserved tantrum, served to mold her husband into a more than passable father. She took pains at the same time to encourage him to think he had figured out the process all by himself.

I suppose you’re going to teach him how to shoot too? Brenda knew the answer to that question. John and Allen would do those kinds of things together and she wouldn’t have stopped them even if she could have. She knew they would be cautious and careful.

Now, Brenda, you know I grew up hunting and fishing and dad and his brother hunted much more than they fished. We had plenty of rabbits, doves, and squirrels to eat. And after a big game trip to the deep woods for a week or more we’d have venison too. Brenda knew that John loved the outdoors and had a deep respect for nature and all it can provide. And she knew he wanted Allen to be exposed to these same experiences.

Just promise me you won’t push him too much! she said.

I won’t. It’s just really important that Allen realize the value of this part of his world. If we don’t teach him how to value his heritage, who will? Brenda only nodded. It seemed natural for John to want his son to appreciate what he felt was worth having in life.

Seeing the look on Brenda’s face, he said, I know everybody develops different ideas about what’s important. And I know I can’t control what Alan ultimately will want to do. But I am going to see that he gets a good taste of hunting and fishing. Hopefully, he said with a wink, some of that will stick. He knew if it did, Allen would be a better person for it.

Brenda had known for a long time, even before they were married, that a son of hers and John’s would be introduced to all of this at an early age. She accepted that as part of life with John. She had even gone hunting and fishing with him a few times early in their relationship, but the thrill of these pursuits eluded her.

Growing up on a farm, she had become a more than adequate pistol shot. If she was going to be home by herself, she was going to be able to protect herself. She and John agreed this was especially important in rural areas where the police could be half an hour away when an emergency occurred. The Ruger .357 Magnum and the extra twelve-gauge shotgun were out of sight but never far away. Their presence was a comfort to her especially when John and Allen were away overnight.

John and Allen went on their first hunting trip when Allen was three. While he had only an air gun that fired no projectile at all, Allen was proud to be included and dutifully held the muzzle of the rifle toward the ground as he had been instructed. They hunted and fished together more and more as Allen grew older and he had progressed easily from his first lessons with a .410 to shooting uncommonly well with the .22 single-shot Winchester. This old rifle was one his grandfather had owned and had put more squirrels in the stew pot when John was growing up than he could remember. In the hands of his grandfather, had it done more than a little to see the family through the Great Depression. It helped John learn the art of the long shot many years go and it now was teaching its third generation of Richters.

Allen had killed his first deer when he was twelve, taking a nice four-point buck over the Thanksgiving holiday with one shot from his grandfather’s old double-barrel sixteen-gauge Sterlingworth Fox. He was very proud of that hunt and had helped with the field dressing, dragging, skinning, and butchering. They had fried some of the tenderloin that night with some green peppers and onions, and, with hot biscuits, gravy and mashed potatoes, it was a meal to be remembered. At nearly seventeen, he had taken two more whitetail deer last season with the Winchester Model 70 John had given him for his sixteenth birthday.

John was proud of his son’s ability and skill with firearms. Not because that proved him a competent teacher, but because it made Allen more confident, more self-assured, and brought him one step closer to being able to care for himself. And he was proud Allen understood and appreciated the sense of tradition that hunting with these firearms brought.

But tradition only held water for so long, and, with the opening day of the firearm season for deer fast approaching, Allen had made a request.

Dad, Allen said, not quite able to look his father in the eye because he knew of his father’s affinity for the bolt-action rifle, can I trade my .270 in on another rifle?

John took a quick look in Allen’s direction. Why would you want to do that? We just got that new scope on and got it sighted in good.

Well, it takes so long to get off a second shot, I thought one of those new five-shot semi-automatics would be better. I’d be less likely to miss if I could get off two or three shots instead of one.

You really think so? Well, John thought to himself, I guess I should have expected this. He’s grown up with all these Rambo, Chuck Norris, Matrix, and Uzi-toting, automatic-weapon action movies. He’d believe the more shots you can get off in a second the more likely that you are to hit something. This needs to be nipped in the bud.

Do you remember all we talked about back when you were first starting this shooting business?

Sure, but I’ve learned all that and know how to get off a good first shot. I just thought…

If you get off a good first shot, John interrupted, "most of the time you won’t need a second and third shot. For hundreds of years single-shot rifles were all people had to use. Then, whether it was for food or protection, if you missed with your first shot you went hungry or got shot by someone who was a little better and more patient than you.

"Now modern semi-automatics are excellent weapons and probably just as accurate as most bolt-actions. But you don’t need anything else just now. Any fool can spray the woods with bullets. Better to stick right now with a rifle that makes you a better marksman.

Besides, semi-automatics can be real expensive to shoot. You’ve heard Grandpa talk about going to the store in the late 1920’s and 1930’s to buy five twelve-gauge shells for a quarter and how stingy he had to be with those. Twenty-five cents was a powerful lot of money in those days, especially for a boy. He had the privilege of doing that because, of all his brothers, he was the best shot. With any luck he’d take those five shells and parlay them onto a week’s worth of groceries.

How could he do that? I don’t think I’ve heard this one yet. Allen realized he had opened the flood gates and he might as well sit back and listen. He was going to get a lesson whether he wanted one or not.

But that lesson would be delayed. I’ll let Grandpa tell you all about that at Thanksgiving. Okay? But let’s keep the .270 for now.

Sure, said Allen, glad to have escaped with only a five or ten minute lecture on the advantages of bolt-action rifles. Besides, they would be at the hunting camp all next week and he’d have plenty of time to make his arguments then.

CHAPTER FOUR

SOME PEOPLE ARE like a cancer within a community. Most are open, obvious, and dangerous. Usually the criminal justice system removes them from society. But some of the deadliest are hidden, seemingly benign. These are the worst kind because the injury they cause and the damage they do isn’t apparent and they grow, become more dangerous, more lethal every day they go undetected. So it would be with Charles Foster Sterling, III.

Born in Georgia fifty-one years ago into a well-respected, successful, and wealthy family, he was polished, well-educated, progressive, and seemed genuinely interested in the welfare of his adopted communities. The apparent epitome of an economic and social blessing on any city or community into which he came.

Mr. Sterling, your three o’clock appointment is here—the reporter from the Washington paper.

Thank you, Melinda, Sterling responded. I’ll be out in just a minute. Damn, he thought, don’t these groups ever get enough? Oh well, he muttered out loud, free publicity—I’ll take all I can get!

Come in, Mr. Baker. Thanks for being on time. Showing the reporter to a comfortable chair in the corner of his spacious thirty-fourth floor suite near 10th and K streets in downtown D.C., he turned on the Sterling charm for what he hoped would be an important interview for his company. Sitting comfortably next to the reporter, he smiled and said, Fire away.

Thanks, Mr. Sterling. I appreciate your time. I’d like to get some background information first, before we get to the future plans of the company. Can you start with your grandfather? I understand he’s the one who began the company.

"That’s right. You’ve done your homework. I like that. Charles Foster Sterling immigrated to the United States from England just after the turn of the century. He didn’t have much formal education, but he did have an innate sense of timing and an uncanny ability to be at the right place at the right time with the right materials. Using those abilities, he created an international building supply empire by the late 1920’s.

He realized early that the devastation caused in Europe by World War I would require huge amounts of raw building materials, so he organized investors to control the supply of these materials. His intuition was correct and the European demand for those products materialized. In the 1920’s, Sterling Enterprises, Inc. became one of the world’s leading suppliers of American building materials. It not only met European needs but gained inroads into the development of the last American frontiers as well as the fledgling Asian and African markets. I’ve never known a man with a better vision of the future than my grandfather.

But your company is much more than just building supplies now. Isn’t that correct? Baker interrupted.

Of course. Sterling continued, Our expansion into transportation industries was a natural by-product of the need to move these goods to and from all points of the globe. We concentrated primarily on providing these materials and on international maritime shipping and did that in a cautious, pay-as-you-go manner. Granddad was a really smart man, and, contrary to the excesses indulged in by many of his competitors in the 1920’s and the euphoria which infected many businesses, he remained conservative and well-positioned, and the company stayed profitable. He made sure that we were one of the few international American industries not seriously harmed by the 1929 crash of the stock market and world-wide depression which followed.

Do you think that was one of his greatest achievements? Baker asked.

Absolutely, Sterling agreed. His vision and tight rein on the company enabled it to survive the depression and be well poised to respond to the world-wide demands for raw materials during the 1930’s. By this time we had expanded the business to provide the raw materials to the European markets for the production of the weapons of war.

And that brings us to a point I wanted to cover. What about the allegations that your company supplied raw materials to the Third Reich? Materials that were ultimately turned into weapons that were used to kill Americans? Baker knew the danger of asking that question and looked curiously over his half-frame glasses to see Sterling’s reaction.

Sterling too knew this issue would surface and kept his anger and temper where he always did, hidden from view. Leaning forward and staring intently at the reporter, very much like a fox would look a cornered rabbit, Sterling replied. My grandfather knew the export of such materials to the German government was prohibited and he obeyed the law! He couldn’t help it if many of the materials shipped to other countries ultimately found their way to the factories supplying weapons to Germany. Was it true that in the first years of the war many of the weapons aimed at each other across battle lines were there because of materials supplied by Sterling Enterprises? Yes, but we weren’t responsible for those materials after they left our hands. We weren’t responsible for where they ended up!

That’s a convenient explanation, Mr. Sterling, but isn’t that a little like an ostrich sticking its head in the sand? Your grandfather had to know.

Just a damn minute! Sterling interrupted. There hasn’t ever been any proof, any evidence whatever, that there was any intentional wrong-doing on this company’s part before or during the war. And if this is where this interview is going, it’s over! Sterling knew the value of showing some anger at the appropriate time, and as he reached for the phone to call his assistant to have the reporter escorted out, his anger had the desired effect.

Wait, said Baker. I know that question was out of line. Can we continue?

Relaxing, Sterling pulled his hand away from the phone. He nodded regally and continued, "We were heavily involved in the war effort in the United States