NRA troubles: A hunter targets the world鈥檚 most powerful gun lobby
| Burkesville, Ky.
In a wooded clearing, David Dell鈥檃quila pulls his dust-caked all-terrain vehicle up to a deer feeder. He climbs atop the ATV and hoists a sack of gray pellets, which he pours into an aluminum hopper, one of three on his ranch.聽
If the deer don鈥檛 eat the feed, the turkeys will. Mr. Dell鈥檃quila would rather shoot deer than turkeys, so he doles out 50 pounds of feed a day, and has cleared land and expanded ponds to attract more of the white-tailed quarry that roam these hills and valleys.聽
He鈥檚 dismissive of local hunters who brag about the young bucks they鈥檝e bagged 鈥� and determined to keep them off his ranch, which is studded with private-property notices and heat-and-motion sensors to monitor wildlife and unbidden humans. 鈥淭hese people in a lifetime never shot a 200-point deer,鈥� he says, referring to a particular scoring system for a rare antler size. 鈥淚鈥檇 like to be the person who shoots one.鈥澛�
Why We Wrote This
What drives a passion for guns? For one man, it started in childhood and continues with loyalty to a cause 鈥� if not to the giant organization he鈥檚 fighting to clean up.
Mr. Dell鈥檃quila stands 6 feet, 6 inches tall and has the girth of a football lineman, which he once was. He has been known to eat two 48-ounce steaks for dinner. He pitches forward with an ursine gait, and when he talks, a low rumble of digressive and didactic points, it鈥檚 the voice of Sylvester Stallone playing Rocky.聽
It鈥檚 90 degrees in the shade as he steers his ATV into a field where he鈥檚 installed solar-powered irrigation for his fledgling fruit trees. A skein of wood ducks crosses the cloudless afternoon sky.聽
A retired millionaire, Mr. Dell鈥檃quila could afford to hire enough workers and equipment to turn his 862-acre ranch into a hunting and fishing redoubt. But that鈥檚 not work, and work 鈥� sweaty, hazardous, dusty outdoor work 鈥� is what makes him tick when he鈥檚 out here. 鈥淭his is where I come up with my best ideas,鈥� he says.聽
Challenging the NRA
Lately those ideas have been targeted at the National Rifle Association, of which Mr. Dell鈥檃quila is a lifetime member and, until recently, a financial supporter. Today he regrets his past generosity to a group whose stated mission 鈥� to defend the right to bear arms 鈥� is one he avows as his own. Mr. Dell鈥檃quila wants to see the NRA鈥檚 scandal-plagued management gone and is putting his broad shoulder to the wheel, using financial and legal pressure to force reform.聽
Forget about Michael Bloomberg, the billionaire who bankrolls gun control initiatives all over the country. Forget about Democratic efforts in Congress to expand background checks. Forget the students of Parkland, Florida, and their earnest anti-gun crusade. The real threat to the NRA 鈥� for decades, one of the most powerful lobbying groups in the United States 鈥� may be from a handful of members who want to blow up the organization from the inside.
In this case, however, they aren鈥檛 trying to make the lobbying group impotent. They want to make it stronger 鈥� and gun rights even more inviolate. Mr. Dell鈥檃quila is one of the most resolute members of this growing internal revolt by gun lovers against the leaders of a nonprofit that is a synecdoche for U.S. civilian firepower and political clout.
鈥淭he organization has political problems, legal problems, and financial problems,鈥� says Robert Spitzer, a political scientist and author of several books on gun rights. 鈥淎nd, ironically, it鈥檚 their own fault.鈥�
Wobbly finances and leadership
The NRA has weathered internal and external crises before, from political controversies to boardroom coups. But its latest fracas may prove existential: Its finances are already listing from mounting legal fees and boycotts by wealthy donors like Mr. Dell鈥檃quila, who accuses chief executive Wayne LaPierre and other officials of reckless spending and self-dealing. At the same time, attorneys general in New York and Washington, D.C., are investigating financial irregularities at the NRA and its charitable foundation that could affect its nonprofit status. 鈥淭hey got polluted. They鈥檙e enriching themselves,鈥� says Mr. Dell鈥檃quila.
It鈥檚 a comeuppance that has gun control advocates salivating. But the uproar within the NRA doesn鈥檛 signal any retreat by gun owners in the fractious fight over firearm laws. Should the NRA fall on its sword, other pro-gun groups that are more militant in asserting their constitutional rights are ready to step in, including at statehouses where most gun laws are written.聽
鈥淭he gun lobby is not a bunch of overpaid suits in D.C.,鈥� says Jeff Knox, Arizona-based director of The Firearms Coalition. 鈥淭he gun lobby is you and me, gun owners and lovers of liberty around the country who stand up and argue for their rights.鈥� 聽
The NRA, which is headquartered in Fairfax, Virginia, insists it is rooting out waste and that its critics, including ousted former president Oliver North, were blocking reform. It accuses disgruntled donors like Mr. Dell鈥檃quila of abandoning the fight against 鈥渁nti-gun Democrats鈥� in Congress. And even as Mr. LaPierre has become a pincushion for pro-gun critics, he still has a hotline to President Donald Trump, for whom gun owners represent a totemic constituency.聽
This is a war of attrition that will shape the future of the world鈥檚 largest gun lobby. And David Dell鈥檃quila is all in.聽
Guns and childhood
Mr. Dell鈥檃quila grew up in a Pittsburgh suburb, one of four children. His father, Louis Dell鈥檃quila, was a lawyer at the Veterans Administration and an accomplished chef who would invite family and friends over on Christmas Eve for an Italian-style feast.聽
To hear David Dell鈥檃quila tell it, he had an unhappy childhood. He was diagnosed with a speech impediment and didn鈥檛 speak until he was 3. At age 5, in 1966, he was sent to The Pathfinder School, a special education facility where he learned little, except that he didn鈥檛 want to be there.聽
To his father, his social exclusion was a mark of failure, and he would refer to his son as 鈥渄amaged goods,鈥� says Mr. Dell鈥檃quila. In sixth grade he was allowed to transfer to public school and Mr. Dell鈥檃quila began to excel in class, relying on rote memorization to overcome his speech limitations. 鈥淭here are still words I stay away from,鈥� he says, as he reclines on a sofa beneath a mounted boar鈥檚 head at his modest ranch house.
His embrace of guns started early. His father鈥檚 VA buddies taught him to use a shotgun to kill rabbits and squirrels, and he got his hunting safety certificate at age 12. His taste for hunting, combined with a competitive streak, has stayed with him. He鈥檚 shot bears in Quebec and big game in South Africa. He carries a handgun on his ATV in case he runs into snakes.
Mr. Dell鈥檃quila excelled on the gridiron. He turned down several college scholarships, though, and went instead to Princeton University because it was ranked first that year academically, and he liked to be first. He weighed 320 pounds and played football until he injured his back in his sophomore year, but he was never a jock. 鈥淚 always hung out with the weedy 99-pounders,鈥� he says. 鈥淚 would always go for the underdog.鈥� 聽
He graduated in 1984 and pursued a career in technology and financial services, changing jobs frequently, earning high salaries, and investing wisely. At age 46, he figured he had made enough to retire.聽 By then he had married Marita, his second wife, whom he met at Citibank.聽
鈥淲e could鈥檝e retired pretty much anywhere,鈥� he says. Maryland, where they lived at the time on a 13-acre suburban lot, was out. Taxes were too high 鈥� and gun laws too tight. When they shot targets on their property, as they liked to do, the cops often showed up.聽
鈥淗ow about that one time when they asked you, 鈥榃here鈥檚 your wife?鈥� 鈥� interjects Marita Dell鈥檃quila. 鈥淚 had to come out and prove to them that I was all right.鈥澛�
鈥淭hat was a couple of times,鈥� he notes. They considered moving abroad, but Mr. Dell鈥檃quila didn鈥檛 want to be told what guns he could and couldn鈥檛 own. 鈥淲e looked at New Zealand. Even in New Zealand, they don鈥檛 have great gun rights,鈥� he says. 聽
In 2011 they moved to Nashville, Tennessee, and acquired the ranch in southern Kentucky, a two-hour drive. A few years later, in 2015, Mr. Dell鈥檃quila decided to boost his support for the NRA. He and Ms. Dell鈥檃quila donated $100,000 and agreed to change their will to leave several million dollars from their estate to the organization, making them Charlton Heston Society Ambassador Members, part of an inner circle of elite donors.聽
鈥淗ad I known the corruption and graft and everything going on I would never have had anything to do with them,鈥� he says.
Big budget and agenda
In 2018, the NRA reported $360 million in revenue, of which $110 million was contributions from individuals and companies. Another $170 million came from millions of regular members 鈥� the exact number is unknown 鈥� who pay annual dues starting at $45. The organization also raises money separately for its charitable foundation and political action committee.聽
Some NRA donor dollars are used for firearms training and education. But by far the biggest expenses are political lobbying and public relations, which is how most nonmembers encounter the NRA and its agenda: Since the 1980s, the organization has embedded itself in politics and policy to a degree that virtually no other special-interest group can match.聽
The lore surrounding the NRA鈥檚 political clout took root after the 1994 midterm elections, in which Democrats lost control of the House for the first time in a generation. Incumbent lawmakers were defeated in large numbers, including many who had supported a ban on assault weapons. Gun policy wasn鈥檛 the only factor favoring the Republicans, but the takeaway was clear: Cross the NRA at your peril.聽
鈥淭he NRA was an unforgiving master,鈥� President Bill Clinton wrote in 鈥淢y Life,鈥� his 2004 memoir, referring to the midterm defeat. 鈥淥ne strike and you鈥檙e out.鈥澛�
The mythology about the organization remains strong, though doubts have grown over time about the power of the NRA and its members to reward and punish lawmakers on Election Day. 鈥淸The NRA鈥檚] reputation exceeds their actual ability to elect people who wouldn鈥檛 otherwise have been elected,鈥� says Dr. Spitzer, who chairs the political science department at the State University of New York at Cortland. 鈥淭heir bark is worse than their bite.鈥�
Democrats who long avoided gun control as a losing issue have more recently become emboldened: They now trumpet the NRA鈥檚 low public-approval ratings and openly raise money from gun control groups, which for the first time outspent the NRA and other gun rights organizations in the 2018 midterms. Demographics also tell a story worrisome to the NRA. Fifty-one percent of households reported having a firearm in 1980, according to the University of Chicago. By 2018 that share had fallen to 35%; for 18-to-34-year-olds it was 30%.聽
For Republicans in safe seats, though, the calculus is different. Even as polls show considerable bipartisan support for universal background checks and other restrictions, GOP lawmakers who go soft on gun rights are likely to face primary challenges. 鈥淚t鈥檚 a story about intensity,鈥� says Adam Winkler, a professor of constitutional law at the University of California, Los Angeles. 鈥淭here鈥檚 a lot of support for gun control in America. But the pro-gun rights voters are much more dedicated to this issue.鈥澛�
Like many lobbying groups, the NRA often rallies support by stoking fears and invoking dire scenarios. It portrays even the most innocuous gun control measure as a step toward the confiscation of all firearms.
鈥淥ur opponents call themselves gun control advocates. They are not. They ought to call themselves what they really are: the vanguard of the disarm America movement,鈥� Mr. North, then-president of the NRA, told a conservative conference in 2018. 聽
Mr. Dell鈥檃quila broadly shares this Manichaean worldview. He believes an armed citizenry serves as a check against foreign and domestic tyrants, protects people from criminals, and is a fundamental part of American liberty. His answer to issues like school shootings is not to restrict gun sales but to arm teachers. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 see compromise,鈥� he says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 brought up by liberals to get rid of guns or ban guns.鈥澛�
How the curtain came down
The NRA鈥檚 annual convention, held in the spring, is a social gathering, arms fair, and political powwow wrapped into one. It鈥檚 also a window for members into the group鈥檚 governance, as overseen by a 76-member board of directors.聽
In 2016, the NRA went all in for President Trump and at-risk Republican Senate candidates, spending more than $50 million. In battleground states like Pennsylvania and Ohio, it framed Hillary Clinton and Democratic lawmakers as existential threats to Second Amendment rights. Its record outlay on the election paid political dividends 鈥� NRA-opposed legislation was a nonstarter in Washington 鈥� but left it increasingly in the red, unable to cover costs.聽
Internal gripes about these expenditures began to leak out, including details of Mr. LaPierre鈥檚 compensation package, more than $40 million in billings by the NRA鈥檚 longtime advertising agency in Oklahoma City, and monthly payments to a law firm that Mr. North, in a letter to the NRA鈥檚 general counsel, described as 鈥渄raining NRA cash at mind-boggling speed.鈥澛�
So when NRA members gathered in Indianapolis in April, a tussle over expenses had become a power struggle between Mr. North and Mr. LaPierre, who accused his rival of plotting a coup. By the third morning of the convention, the battle was over: Mr. North was resigning as president, a board member informed a stunned audience. 聽
Mr. Dell鈥檃quila sat there and thought, that鈥檚 it. We鈥檙e done here. He wasn鈥檛 surprised 鈥� he had heard the news at a private donors鈥� dinner the previous night 鈥� but he couldn鈥檛 stomach how supine the board was toward Mr. LaPierre amid allegations of fraud and mismanagement. 聽
He walked out of the convention hall and into a hubbub. 鈥淧eople came up to me and my wife and said, 鈥楥an you do something?鈥欌��
A plan to reform
Let鈥檚 write a letter to the board calling for a full investigation, one suggested. Mr. Dell鈥檃quila shook his head. He had read up on how the NRA put down previous revolts and concluded that a resistance campaign had to be done right. 聽
It wasn鈥檛 just the NRA鈥檚 lavish salaries and benefits that riled Mr. Dell鈥檃quila and other members. Executives oversaw payments to related parties, including donations by the NRA Foundation to a charity run by Mr. LaPierre鈥檚 wife, and NRA executives received compensation from outside vendors.
At the Indianapolis convention, Mr. Dell鈥檃quila says he asked Carolyn Meadows, who replaced Mr. North as president, about the NRA鈥檚 expenditures. How can it be ethical, he asked, for NRA executives to own shares in NRA vendors? 鈥淪he said, 鈥楾hat鈥檚 how it鈥檚 done in D.C.,鈥欌�� he says. Ms. Meadows denies she said that.
By July, Mr. Dell鈥檃quila was ready to hit back. He announced that until the NRA replaced its leadership, reformed its board, and audited all its contracts, he and other frustrated donors would stop giving money. It was a calculated blow at the group鈥檚 wobbly finances that added to the tumult among grassroots members who had taken to pro-gun media to vent about the NRA. 聽
He also started grading the directors A through F for their oversight of management. Since April, seven directors have resigned from the board. 鈥淚 have told NRA directors that I can be one of the NRA鈥檚 biggest advocates or worse nightmare, and Mr. LaPierre and his leadership team have chosen the latter,鈥� Mr. Dell鈥檃quila wrote to the board in July.聽
He says he has commitments from NRA supporters to withhold nearly $165 million, including cash donations and estate giving, in order to effect reforms.聽
鈥淚鈥檓 not donating another dime to the NRA until Wayne LaPierre and all of his cronies are out of there,鈥� says Randy Luth, a gun industry veteran and NRA donor whose St. Cloud, Minnesota-based company makes accessories for AR-15s. 鈥淣obody is watching the piggy bank. Everyone is getting fat off the hard-earned dollars of NRA members.鈥澛�
Mr. Dell鈥檃quila asks members to make their own pledges on his website. At the ranch house, Ms. Dell鈥檃quila pulls up a spreadsheet on her laptop showing the results. More than 1,000 have responded. Each lists a name, membership number, and the amount to be withheld, ranging from $45 to $3 million, along with a comment. 鈥淒RAIN THE SWAMP!鈥� wrote one.聽
On Aug. 6, Mr. Dell鈥檃quila filed a lawsuit in federal court alleging fraud and misconduct against the NRA, the NRA Foundation, and Mr. LaPierre over their solicitations of his gifts and misuse of funds. He is seeking a class action certification, which would allow other donors to collect from any settlement. In a statement, Ms. Meadows called the suit 鈥渁 misguided and frivolous pursuit.鈥澛�
鈥淒avid has a huge amount of passion to get some change,鈥� says Mr. Luth. 鈥淎 lot of people don鈥檛 necessarily agree with his methods ... [but] he鈥檚 on a mission.鈥�
Groups to take the giant's place聽
The firing range behind Mr. Dell鈥檃quila鈥檚 house lies over a creek that is dust-dry on a hot September afternoon. He backs up his ATV and loads it with boxes of 9 mm and .45-caliber shells for three handguns. His semi-automatic rifles and collectible guns, including a Colt .45 with a handle made from meteorite 鈥� 鈥淚鈥檝e never fired it鈥� 鈥� are stored at the house in Nashville.聽
He drives over the creek and pulls up. 鈥淗oney,鈥� he calls back to Marita. 鈥淭here鈥檚 a dead deer here.鈥� A fawn lies by the grass. Mr. Dell鈥檃quila checks for signs of a coyote attack. 鈥淚t might鈥檝e lost its mother,鈥� he speculates. Rain hasn鈥檛 fallen in weeks; the deer may have died of thirst or stress.聽
On the range, Mr. Dell鈥檃quila loads a pistol and fires in quick succession at a pair of metal targets 30 yards away, hitting nearly every time. When it comes to firearm safety, he鈥檚 a stickler for rules. But cut him loose on the ranch with heavy equipment, and he鈥檚 a daredevil. Two years ago, he was using his bulldozer to clear a path when it slid down a steep hill, tipping upside down and nearly crushing him. 鈥淚 can always tell when something happens,鈥� says Ms. Dell鈥檃quila. He comes home, quiet and subdued. 鈥淭hen he鈥檒l say, 鈥楧on鈥檛 get mad at me, but ...鈥欌�澛�
He nods. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 have a concept of self-preservation.鈥�
It鈥檚 that kind of temerity that could make Mr. Dell鈥檃quila the hunter who delivers a potentially fatal shot to the NRA 鈥� and brings down a pro-gun powerhouse ahead of the 2020 election. Both his boycott campaign and civil suit are frontal attacks on a cash-strapped group whose net assets fell last year to $16 million, from $75 million in 2015. The NRA has frozen its pension fund and borrowed against insurance policies and the deed to its Fairfax headquarters.聽
鈥淭hey鈥檙e not going to have the money to plow into next year鈥檚 elections as they did in 2016,鈥� says Dr. Spitzer.聽
Some activists say a shrunken or shuttered NRA may not be a big loss since other advocacy groups can pick up the baton, shorn of the bloat and bombast. 鈥淚t鈥檚 disingenuous for the NRA to say they鈥檙e the only game in town,鈥� says Rob Pincus, a firearms trainer and gun rights advocate. 鈥淲e鈥檙e waking up from the illusion that we could just be NRA members and that鈥檚 all we need to do鈥� to defend gun rights.
Michael Hammond, the legislative counsel for Gun Owners of America, says its membership has grown from 1.5 million to 2 million over the past year, which he credits to its uncompromising message on gun rights and the NRA鈥檚 reputational hit. 鈥淧eople who used to contribute to the NRA are contributing to us,鈥� he says. He prefers that the NRA stays strong, but believes the gun movement is bigger than a single group.
Mr. Dell鈥檃quila has another trick up his sleeve: He鈥檚 working with Mr. Pincus to organize a Second Amendment rally on Nov. 2 in Washington, D.C., an end run around the NRA鈥檚 claim to speak for all gun owners. 鈥淯ltimately,鈥� he says, 鈥渢he people will have the final say.鈥�
