BERTIE COUNTY – Windsor N.C. Sunday, June 6, 1993. The citizens of the quaint quiet town of Windsor, North Carolina were winding down a lazy Spring Sunday afternoon that was quietly slipping into a sleepy Sunday evening.
A Sunday evening that would leave the citizens of this town of 4000, shocked, scared, and in a state of disbelief. ASunday evening that would flow blood and claim lives.
After a Sunday of nothing unusual happening most folks were at home relaxing after attending church and consuming one of those legendary southern Sunday dinners.
There was the occasional vehicles going through the one stoplight town and a few people out and about on foot.
This is not really a surprise to anyone. I lived on the street. And I worked on the street.
Wall Street starts at broadway and continues down to Water Street. Along the way, it gets crooked.Right around Broad Street it starts to curve. If you are standing at one end of Wall Street and try to look at the other end, you won’t see it.
It’s crooked. It jags.
It turns a little.
People walk back and forth daydreaming about getting rich. Others are crying because they couldn’t make it. And if you can’t make it there, as the song sort of goes, you can’t make it anywhere.Which is really true.
Because “there” is where the money is. And people get desperate around money. So desperate they will do anything to get it.
At one point I invested in a dozen hedge funds. Eleven of them ended up being caught doing illegal activity. I think a few people are in jail.
Every night I was scared because I started to see what was going on until eventually I shut the whole thing down.
THE SHOTGUN WAS BROUGHT OUT and the empty bottle of Van Winkle Special Reserve 12-Year-Old bourbon was placed on a fencepost some fifty feet away from the fire pit. It was a hot summer night at a cabin in rural Georgia, and Blake Riber and his buddies had just polished off the bottle of coveted booze.
Someone had the smart idea to not pull the trigger—their wives and children were sleeping inside just a few yards away, after all.
Instead, Riber walked to the fence, grabbed the bottle, and slam-dunked it into a nearby trashcan, making sure it shattered into countless shards.
He may have been a little buzzed, but he had a sober rationale.
“There’s a crazy problem right now,” Riber, a senior accountant in Jacksonville and the author of Bourbonr blog, told me over the phone.
“And you just know it’s going on when you’re seeing empty Pappy bottles selling for 100, 200 bucks online.”
In September 2015, India Kager, a 27-year-old Navy veteran and a postal employee from College Park, Md., was sitting in a car in a Virginia Beach, Virgina’s 7-11 parking lot, with her boyfriend, Angelo Perry. Seated in the back of the vehicle was their 4-month-old son, Roman. The occupants of the vehicle were about to find themselves the target of 30 rounds of ammunition fired from the weapons of police.