RISING SUN

Reginald Carter, a son of the South, and a child of the racial turmoil of the sixties, builds a media company that serves major urban markets. He and his partners are finalizing the sale of their company to a mainstream conglomerate when Reggie is wounded by police, “walking while black” in New York City.

Escaping death, Reggie awakens with mixed feelings about the sale of his company. His daughter, visiting from Atlanta to help during his convalescence, assists him in crystallizing his position.

 As a potentially explosive incident in the minority community (one that can damage the persona of Mayor “Dan the Man” Ferrara, who aspires to the Governor’s seat), reaction to the shooting is, ironically, diffused by the Reverend Martin Nettles, one of the City’s loudest gadflies. Marty has political aspirations of his own. The intrigue that follows is filled with discovery and unexpected relationships.

CHAPTER 1- Walking While Black in NY City

The City’s streets were sizzling. The drop in temperature that usually accompanied the dimming sky in September was overpowered by the stubborn persistence of a lingering summer heat wave. It had been hot and sticky earlier when Reginald Carter stepped outside of the Hilton to stretch his legs and get a breath of outside air. The all day session with the Colbert Company executives and attorneys had also been muggy and left him feeling like he had just crossed the finish line of a 10K run in the middle of July. Looking forward to the forty-minute ride home, Reggie headed south on Avenue of the Americas. The sun’s rays had burrowed deeply into the concrete and asphalt all day and now the pavement radiated a torrid echo, engulfing him in a sac of heat and humidity when he stepped onto the sidewalk. Drivers, too impatient and in too much of a hurry, sped uptown honking their horns and screeching their tires while weaving in and out, competing for the post position at the next light. The emissions from the swarm of autos left a shroud of exhaust fumes that transformed the air into a translucent grit. The pace of the city seemed hurried. Eleven thirty on a Saturday night is late in most places- it’s early in New York City…