But my grandfather’s harshest abuse fell on the Sixteenth Amendment, which authorized the collection of income taxes: ‘If that damn thing hadn’t been passed, you’d be a rich man, Thomas,’ he used to tell my father, overlooking the fact that his own unskilled investing had been the cause of his misfortune, not the income tax.
What gave him special cause for remorse was the fact that each of these amendments had been passed in his lifetime: ‘If I’d been paying attention, maybe I could have stopped them. Maybe we patriots were caught napping.’ Repeatedly he lectured my father on this point: ‘Thomas, never let them meddle with the Constitution. It’s perfect as it is,’ and he cited the nonsense over how the Eighteenth Amendment tried to stop drinking: ‘We let a lot of do-good women and teary-eyed ministers inflict it on us, and as soon as it came into effect, every sensible person knew it was a monstrous mistake that had to be corrected. Thank God, in due time men like me were able to get rid of it, but it should never have been sneaked into the Constitution in the first place.’
Before I discuss the event which gave my grandfather what he interpreted as a personal victory, I must explain just how deep his loathing of President Roosevelt went. In 1944, when the Twenty-seventh Division was removed from Saipan under humiliating circumstances, my father, Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Starr, lost a leg in the fracas and won himself the Congressional Medal of Honor, than which there is none higher. Grandfather, ecstatic to know that another Starr had behaved with honor, drove about Washington and northern Virginia telling everyone about Tom’s heroism.
He was invited, of course, to the White House to share in his son’s glory when the medal was presented, but when he realized that the conferring would be done by President Roosevelt, he refused to go: ‘Any medal that son-of-a-bitch touched would be contaminated.’ And when my father brought it home, Grandfather wouldn’t touch it. But he did like to point to it when strangers dropped by.
In 1933 and ’34, Grandfather had an especially bad time, for it was in those bleak years, when it looked as if our nation might fall apart, that F.D.R. initiated his radical reforms. Were such swift changes necessary to save our society? Who knows? Had I been living then, I think I might have supported the innovations, but who knows?
Grandfather knew: ‘Roosevelt is a Communist. He’s a worse dictator than Mussolini.’ At one point he bellowed: ‘Someone should shoot that Commie,’ but Grandmother warned him: ‘You say that where people can hear you, you’ll go to jail.’ If he did temper his public threats, he never relaxed his private hatred, and what he seemed to object to most was the intrusive way in which the regulations of Roosevelt’s N.R.A. impinged on his life: ‘National Recovery Act! Leave things alone, they’ll take care of themselves. Meddling into everything, this is dictatorship at its worst.’
There was a popular song at the time, a silly jingle, ‘Sam, You Made the Pants Too Long,’ and one morning Grandfather saw this crazy headline in his newspaper:
Sam, You Can Make the Pants Longer or Shorter but You Better Not Charge More Than $2.50
‘My God,’ Grandfather shouted, slamming his paper to the floor. ‘Now he’s interfering in the work of tailors.’
And then, in his moments of apparent defeat, came triumph. It was a Supreme Court decision handed down in 1935 during the depth of the Depression, and it bore the curious title Schecter Poultry Corporation v. United States, and Grandfather claimed: ‘It’s the greatest case in the history of the United States. Saved this nation.’ And in later years I’ve found others who felt somewhat the same.
The facts were clear. N.R.A. officials appointed by Roosevelt, not Congress, had issued a regulation, not a legally passed law, saying that you could not move sick chickens from one state to sell in another. The Schecter people found the order somehow oppressive and refused to obey. They continued to move chickens, well or sick, from New Jersey and into New York, so they had to be arrested. The case went to the Supreme Court, which declared 9 to 0 that the whole N.R.A. was unconstitutional in that it allowed the President to enact law, rather than Congress.
Well, when I first heard this story about Grandfather, I could understand little and I suspected my parents might have the facts garbled, but when I later learned the interpretation Grandfather gave the case, I tended to agree with him. He went about Virginia telling everyone: ‘Roosevelt was a dictator, make no mistake about that, and the N.R.A. was his trick for fashioning chains of steel about our necks. Now, the history of the world is filled with cases in which dictators have used a temporary crisis to install illegal, crisis legislation. “The times demand it,” they bellow, but mark my words, when the crisis ends, the dictators never leave office. They hang around until they destroy their countries.
‘The miracle of the United States, we’ve just had our dictator, a dreadful man, but when the crisis was over we had an agency, put in place more than a century before, which could say: “Crisis is over. Hand back the reins. We play by the rules again.” Read about Cromwell in England. He came in just like Roosevelt, had many of the same kinds of laws. To get rid of him, they had to have a civil war. We did it with our Supreme Court.’
Roosevelt, outraged by the Schecter decision, which struck at his effort to restore the nation’s economy, retaliated petulantly. He tried to pack the Supreme Court with additional judges guaranteed to vote his way, and when Grandfather heard of this plot he went berserk. An old man, still living in Virginia when I went off to West Point, told me: ‘Your grandfather, always a patriot, assembled a group of us who knew something about politics, and we toured the South lambasting F.D.R. as a dictator and calling for impeachment. Your grandfather was especially effective, for he could shout at the crowds: “My ancestors signed the Declaration of Independence and helped write the Constitution and fought at the right hand of Robert E. Lee.” The crowds cheered, believe me. And then he shouted: “We must defend the Constitution as written and stop Roosevelt in his tracks!” But when we talked late at night as we drove on to the next town, I found that your grandfather was pretty picky about how much of the Constitution he was willing to defend. He was happy with only the first part. He wasn’t too keen on the Bill of Rights, he distrusted the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Amendments, which gave the colored folk more rights than they needed, and he positively loathed the Sixteenth, Seventeenth and Nineteenth. But with the help of a lot of others, we defeated Roosevelt’s plan and saved the nation.’
Our family has clippings of the time Grandfather hit the headlines in a big way. His wife, that is, my grandmother, was a minor official in the Daughters of the American Revolution, and when someone that Grandfather called ‘a misguided do-gooder and weeping heart’ arranged for the splendid singer Marian Anderson to give a concert in Constitution Hall, my grandmother, who considered the Hall her property, canceled the permission on the grounds that ‘it would be highly improper for a Negress to appear in such a hallowed place.’ When public outrage exploded, Grandfather leaped to his wife’s side, with a pronouncement which hit newspapers and radios across the nation: ‘Constitution Hall is sacred to the memory of those patriots who wrote the Constitution and their descendants, and so far as I know, there were no Negroes in that Convention.’
And finally, my favorite story about the crusty old gentleman. He was born on 12 April 1890, and on that date in 1945—But let my father tell the story, since he was there: ‘Proud of the way I was learning to manipulate my new leg, I was in the garden when I heard the kitchen radio announce that F.D.R. had died. Hobbling to my father’s study, I cried: “Dad, have you heard? F.D.R. just died!”
‘He waved me away: “You’re teasing. Just saying that to make me feel good on my birthday.” ’
Rachel
Denham
Starr
1928–
One of the joys of my life has been that my wife, Nancy, gets on so amiably with my mother, Rachel Starr. Of course, this hasn’t been difficult, because my wife has good sense and my mother by herself would be justification for t
he Nineteenth Amendment, which gave women the vote. She’s one of the all-time winners.
On Sundays it was our custom for Nancy to leave our place in midafternoon, go over to my mother’s, and help prepare a cold supper which all four of us would share at seven. I encouraged this because I found constant joy in talking with both my father and my mother.
So I was alone Sunday afternoon when Zack barged in without phoning first. He was obviously agitated, and quickly told me why: ‘Norman, I’ve been with the big brains of our profession all yesterday afternoon and this morning, and they all think the situation is so clear that it presents no alternative.’ He rose, walked about the room, and came to rest standing over me like an irate father: ‘I said, they all said, there’s no escape.’
‘What’s that mean?’
He walked some more, cleared his throat, then drew up a chair so that he could sit opposite me and very close: ‘Norman, you aren’t going to like this, but tomorrow morning you’ll have to take the Fifth to protect yourself against incriminating yourself.’
I felt dizzy. From the days of the Kefauver Committee, which coincided with my birth, our family had scorned the criminals and spies and shifty ones who ‘took the Fifth,’ and one of my earliest memories is of my irascible grandfather shouting: ‘Only thieves and crooks take the Fifth, so anyone who does should be shot.’ I could not imagine any Starr in the past taking it, and for me to stand up in public and do so was unthinkable.
‘No way I can take the Fifth,’ I said.
I’m sure Zack must have known how I would react, but since he did try to persuade me, we sat in grim silence, neither knowing what to say next. At this moment Nancy returned to fetch something from the kitchen that my mother needed, and as soon as she saw us she cried: ‘You two look like the hearse just passed,’ and it was Zack who blurted out: ‘It did. I just advised Norman that tomorrow in the Senate hearing he must take the Fifth.’
She stood stock-still, framed in the doorway, her pugnacious little chin pointed upward as always, and then she asked a totally unexpected question: ‘Will they have whole batteries of television cameras, Zack?’ And he replied: ‘They will.’
She remained in the doorway, wreathed in sunlight, and I could not guess what she might say next, for she really knew only three things about my work. I was not involved with Iran. I was up to my neck in Nicaragua. And although I was under the command of Rear Admiral John Poindexter, I’d had only minimal contact with Colonel Oliver North. But what exactly I had done, and how much legal danger I might be in, she did not know, nor did any civilian, not even Vice-President Bush, for whose drug task force I had performed various lawful assignments that were on the public record and to the public benefit.
But she had strong opinions, this young housewife and community helper, and I could see that she was about to voice them: ‘This nation has watched a Navy admiral take the Fifth, an Air Force general take the Fifth, and a Marine colonel. And they’re fed up. If one more military man stands there and takes the Fifth, it would sicken them. I do not want my husband to be the hero who finally makes them throw up.’
Zack, having expected such a rejection from me, was not surprised at my wife’s outrage, but he knew how to deal with it: ‘Nancy, sit down and stop the heroics. Your husband can go to prison if we don’t handle this right, and by we, I mean all of us, you included. Now shut up and listen.’
From his papers he extracted his copy of the Fifth Amendment: ‘… nor shall any person be subject for the same offense to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb; nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself … It’s there to protect everyone, innocent and guilty, from what governments used to do to extract testimony.’ And in solemn tones he described the kinds of extracting of information that used to occur: the cutting off of ears, the dislocation of limbs on the rack, the hot oil in the ear, the incarceration in a cell too cramped to permit standing or sleeping. ‘One of the noblest provisions in the Bill of Rights is the Fifth Amendment. And your husband is exactly the kind of person it was intended to protect.’
Stunned by the force of Zack’s description of what trials used to be, even in Colonial America, Nancy took the chair he indicated, and asked: ‘So he gets on the stand like all our other military heroes and crybabies?’
‘No,’ Zack said patiently, ‘he protects himself, as Simon Starr’s Constitution invites him to … no, wants him to.’
‘And then he begs the Senate Committee to grant him immunity?’
‘Not beg. But I will certainly seek it for him … and get it!’
‘Then what?’
‘Well, he’s supposed to tell all he knows, assist the committee.’
‘You mean rat on his associates?’ Nancy has the habit of reducing evasions to basics, and Zack did not like what he heard.
‘Now you must understand …’ he fumbled.
Nancy cut him short. Folding her hands in her lap and smiling warmly, she said: ‘Zack, you’ve known us a long time without really knowing us. It’s clear you don’t understand Norman and me. He will not evade responsibility, never. And if facing up to the truth gets him in trouble, I can always go back to that data-processing I did when we got married. So if you think my husband, to save his own neck, would …’
It was a brave speech, but it did not impress Zack. He was a fighting redhead and he had coddled us long enough. Standing over us, he said: ‘Yesterday morning, before I had the all-day session with our top lawyers, who know more about Washington than I ever will, I was one kind of guy and you were two ordinary people. Well, compadres, that’s changed.’
‘How?’ Nancy asked, always ready for a fight.
‘Because at the meeting this morning a man from one of the top law firms informed us that he had certain proof that the Senate panel had someone who was going to blab about an affair in Nicaragua … maybe just over the border in Honduras, called Tres Toros.’
I remained perfectly calm, but both Zack and Nancy had to see that my knuckles had whitened. To Zack it was what he had expected, but to Nancy it was like a fire bell clanging at night. It terrified her, and suddenly the pugnacious battler became a trembling wife eager to protect her husband. She did not ask what Tres Toros was or what it signified; in a low voice she asked: ‘What are we to do, Zack?’
He smiled at her as if he loved her, and said: ‘We stay calm, all of us. Your husband takes the Fifth, and for one very good reason that supersedes all others.’ And here his voice rose almost to a shout: ‘To save his goddamned ass.’ Then he sat down, wiped his forehead, and said quietly: ‘There is no other way, Nancy. And with luck, I think I can bring this off. But Norman and I must have your support.’
I shivered, because when he had talked with me only that morning, he had said: ‘I’m sure I can save your neck.’ But after Nancy’s outburst and the surfacing of the Tres Toros, his boast had been downgraded to: ‘I think I can …’
It was a chastened pair of Starrs who drove to my parents’ home for Sunday-night supper. Since Nancy was driving, I sat hunched in the shotgun seat pondering gloomily the things that faced me tomorrow. We rode in silence, through snow-plowed streets, for this was the time of year when Eastern states and especially Washington were hit by tremendous snowfalls, and the white icy night meshed neatly with my personal storms.
When we reached a place in the streets where a wide swath had been plowed. Nancy slowed, turned toward me, and said: ‘Okay. What was Tres Toros?’
I remained silent for some time, then reminded her of the family rule we had agreed upon at marriage: ‘The house is your domain. The Army is mine.’ But then, like a clever lawyer, she cited the elaboration which she had insisted on: ‘I can ask two questions in the area of the subject, and you must answer them unless they touch too close to secret matters. Do you agree that I’m entitled to my two questions?’
‘I do.’
‘Were you authorized to do whatever you did?’
‘I play by the book. You k
now that.’ But after reflection, I added: ‘Zack thinks I’m in trouble mainly because those who gave the authorization have already publicly denied it.’
‘Was money involved?’
‘A great deal. But I don’t have to tell you that none stuck to my fingers.’
‘Did the money come from the Iran caper?’
This question I was not allowed to answer, so I merely said: ‘That’s three strikes, and you’re out.’
Suddenly she pulled the car over to the side of a snowbank, stopped it, turned toward me, and flung her arms about my neck. After kissing me, she whispered: ‘Oh, Norman, I love you so much. You’ve always been so damned decent.’ We sat there for some minutes, each aware of how tremendously important the other was, and my storm subsided.
Our gesture of mutual reassurance was rudely broken by two burly men who flashed bright lights into our car and growled: ‘What’s going on in there?’ They were police, and to them we were suspicious prowlers in a residential district.
On the spur of the moment I said: ‘My wife felt a little faint,’ and after inspecting us closely, the older cop asked: ‘Well, if she’s dizzy, shouldn’t you be driving?’ and I had to agree, so I got out in the snow, walked around the car, and started to get in the driver’s side while she scrunched over to mine without leaving the car.
‘I’m sure you have a driver’s license,’ the lead cop said. ‘And your registration.’ Couples our age stopped in a snowbank at dusk aren’t too common, so I brought out my license, and when they saw my address they whistled.
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