I told him that I needed to know who else knew about the flag and our deal. This was important, I explained, because I needed to protect myself and my buyer. The fewer people who knew about the deal the better. This was a trick question, of course. Almost any answer would be incriminating. He might say “no one knows” because he didn’t trust anyone enough to join this illegal conspiracy. Or he might start naming names, vouching for them, not realizing he’d just outed them. He might even give up the name of a big fish, a dealer or broker not yet on the FBI’s radar. Either way, the question would get him talking.
Wilhite unfolded a long tale about buying the flag from some guy on the side at a Civil War show in Chicago, a cash deal consummated in his car in a city parking garage. When he finished, I changed tactics, trying to get him to admit he knew he was peddling a piece of African American history, that men died carrying this flag in battle. “Charlie,” I said, “you know much about the flag?”
“I’ve been told there are only five of these in existence, for colored troops.”
“Colored troops? Is that the same as Corps d’Afrique?”
“Yeah, they mustered in Louisiana and saw distinguished service in Tennessee. You can look it up.”
I had. “Did they have a lot of losses?”
“They had a lot of losses, yeah. They saw combat. They wasn’t just scrubbing pots, whatever, like the colored troop they made a movie on, the Massachusetts group. That’s what makes the piece for me.”
Incredible. A lot of losses. That’s what makes the piece for me. I masked my anger with a laugh and a swig of Coke. How far would this guy go? Wilhite seemed content, one of those people soothed by the sound of his own voice. He was tipping back in the chair now, one boot on the table, hands clasped behind his head. I said, “When you heard the history, you didn’t have any problem keeping it, as far as that’s concerned?”
“Me? No. I paid a lot of money for it. My buddy suggested maybe donating it to a museum and taking a tax write-off. I didn’t want to do that and thought about it for a while. This friend of mine said he had connections.” Wilhite pointed a bony finger at me. “Now, how you handle and market it is your business. But you want to be discreet. I don’t advise you to take it to a show. You may never have a problem, but I want to level with you.”
“Right, because we could get in a lot of trouble.”
“Right, we could.”
I had more than enough on him now. “Twenty-eight thousand. Cash, OK?”
“Yeah, if I had a cashier’s check, I’ve got to show that to Uncle Sam and I’d like to see if I can get around that.” I started to get up, thinking, I’ll be sure to let the IRS boys know.
Wilhite said, “Isn’t it a great piece? I told you it was.”
“It is,” I said, twisting my nose with my thumb and forefinger—the go-sign. “It could only come from a museum.”
“Yes, sir—” Wilhite’s head snapped to the right as three agents in FBI raid gear opened the adjoining door and told him to put his hands on his head. Stupidly, he jumped up, ignoring the agents, and began yelling at me. “Who are you? Who are you?”
He took an awkward step toward me, and the agents pinned him to the floor.
I’VE FOUND THAT I can read up on a stolen artifact, talk to experts about it, even hold it in my hands as the bad guys explain its black market value. But I know I won’t truly appreciate an object’s deeper meaning until I’m finally able to return it to its rightful owner.
And, as it was with Alva and the backflap, so it was with a group of black Civil War re-enactors and the Army’s chief historian.
A few weeks after the Wilhite arrest and battle flag seizure, we convened in Washington for a remarkable ceremony in which the FBI formally returned the flag to the Army. It was February and so the return was hastily inserted into the bureau’s annual Black History Month program at headquarters.
I rode to Washington with Vizi, the agent who handled the press, and the agent-in-charge of the Philadelphia office, Bob Conforti. Once inside the auditorium, they took seats of honor near the stage. Mindful of the cameras, I lingered in the back.
The long-ago-invited keynote speaker, an African American space shuttle astronaut, wowed everyone with tales from outer space, but the flag, a last-minute addition, stole the show. Flanked by an honor guard of African American re-enactors from Philadelphia, the flag loomed over the seated dignitaries, the astronaut, FBI Director Louis Freeh, and a pair of Army generals.
Joseph Lee, who leads the Philadelphia-based re-enactors group, took the podium in the Union blue full replica regalia of the United States Colored Troops, Third Regiment. He opened by describing his experience the previous month, when I had invited him to see the rescued battle flag in our Philadelphia office. “I was admonished not to touch it,” Lee recalled. “And having served in the United States Marines and Air Force, and being the sergeant major of our group, I knew how to follow an order.” He paused, wiping his lower lip with a white dress glove. “But that was one order I could not follow. Touching that flag sent chills through my body. Even thinking about it now, tears well in my eyes. They cause my heart to palpitate. Because this was true, living African American history. I had heard about it, read about it, dreamt about it, but now I was part of it.” Lee saluted the flag. “The dead still lie in shallow graves along the field of battle, where they fought and died. This flag honors them all.” Lee removed his hat and held it to his breast. “God have mercy for the deeds committed there, and the souls of those poor victims, sent to thee without a prayer. All hail, all honor, the gallant soldiers who fought for Uncle Sam.”
Even the stone-faced Freeh seemed moved. I now realized our case had handed Freeh and the FBI a remarkable public relations coup—not only the rescue of a significant historical artifact, but an opportunity to help improve the bureau’s poor record on race relations. It certainly didn’t hurt my quiet aspirations to expand my art crime horizons beyond Philadelphia to the national and international stage.
Before I got too carried away with such grandiose thoughts, the Army’s chief of military history, General John Brown, took to the microphone.Think of the stress of combat that was on the soldiers of the Twelfth. They could not see the faces of their loved ones; they couldn’t see the monuments that made this city great. They couldn’t see purple mountain majesties or fruited plain. But what they could see above the smoke and din of battle was the flag. And for soldiers always, the flag has captured the essence of everything that they are fighting for. It is all that is on the battlefield with them when they face death. I think it’s particularly fitting that this flag represents men who rose to fight against slavery for themselves and their families and in the course of contributing to the Union Army did in fact secure their freedom and all their descendants’ for all the generations to come. It was the first in many steps of trying to affirm the American dream that all people are equal.
As he spoke, I couldn’t help thinking about my parents, the soldier and the Japanese bride.
Chapter 11
BEFRIEND AND BETRAY
Santa Fe, 1999.
THE PALACE OF THE GOVERNORS ON THE SANTA FE Plaza is said to be the oldest continuously used public building in the United States, and it is a must-see stop for any visitor. Built by the Spaniards in 1610 as the northern seat of power for New Spain, the low-slung, block-long adobe and timber structure remains the gravitational center of Santa Fe culture. The Palace houses the popular Museum of New Mexico and, outside, along the balustrade that overlooks the Plaza, Native American craftsmen peddle handmade jewelry to tourists.