Balder Ex-Libris

Authors : Jackson Dave - Jackson Neta
Title : No Random Act Behind the murder of Ricky Byrdsong
Year : 2002

Link download : Jackson_Dave_-_Jackson_Neta_-_No_Random_Act.zip

On the day Ricky Byrdsong was shot, he was in the zone. He'd had hints of being in the wne before-when he landed his first head coaching position at Detroit Mercy, when his Northwestern Wildcats broke five hundred for the first time in twenty years, even the night he took his so-called walk on the wild side into the Minnesota stands. But compared to now, those were faint previews. The handsome, six-foot-six black man leaned into the future, beckoned by the cusp of opportunity. His new career as vice president of community affairs at Aon Corporation, the world's second largest insurance holding company, fit like a Campagna suit. He was making a difference for hundreds of kids through his Not-Just-Basketball Camps. His own family thrived. The capital campaign he headed up for his church had shifted into high gear. Best of all, he had just received word that a publisher wanted his book, Coaching Your Kids in the Game of Life. "Hey, Pastor," he grinned at Lyle Foster of The Worship Center in Evanston, Illinois, after hearing the news. ''I'm going to take you all over the country with me when I do my book tour!" But it wasn't even that dream that put Ricky Byrdsong in the zone. Time and again he'd told God, "I want to make a difference. Even if it costs me my life, I'm willing!" Nothing else mattered, and that's what put him in the wne! "We all need to get there," he told his church one Sunday when he had been invited to preach. "Don't you know that I had to come to that point in my own life? Don't you know that they didn't want me talking about God to the basketball team? Don't you know that I had to say, 'But it doesn't matter now'? "Don't you know that they didn't want me having Bible study in my own office with my own staff? But I said, 'It doesn't matter now.' Don't you know that they'd rather that I not quote any Scriptures to the newspaper? I was a coach of a major institution, and my words were going everywhere. They wanted me to keep that kind of talk in the church. But I had to get to the point where I said, 'It doesn't matter now.' "We've all got to get to that point." That's an extreme wne! Go there and someone might try to take you out. Ricky knew this. It made him keyed up about what lay ahead as June turned to July in 1999, the last year of the century. A new millennium was around the corner. Something big was brewing ... he could feel it in his bones. He didn't know exactly what-would his book really get published? Would the capital campaign finally take his church out of a warehouse and into a sanctuary? The previous Saturday at a leaders' meeting, Pastor Lyle had said, "You can't expect the people to move up to a new level if you don't lead the way." Most took it as a general encouragement, but Ricky got serious. On Sunday, Ricky had surprised even himself at the level of commitment he called for from the members ... but deep inside he felt God was on the verge of something big. He had to think big for The Worship Center. He had to think big to finish his book. He had to think big if he wanted God to use him to make a difference. On Tuesday he had felt compelled to go to the church prayer meeting and just lay himself out before God, prostrate on the floor. Use me. I want to make a difference. By the time Friday, July 2, arrived, Ricky's spirit crackled with anticipation. He wasn't sure what all God was doing in his life, but he wanted to be ready. On July 2, 1999, the Reverend Matt Hale, Pontifex Maximus of the World Church of the Creator, pushed his chair back from his desk in the red room, the world headquarters office, an upstairs bedroom in the small, two-story frame house his grandfather built in East Peoria, Illinois, in 1909. At age twenty-seven, Hale still shared the house with his father, a retired police officer who had divorced Hale's mother twenty years before. "They think they can play with us," he muttered as he frowned deeply and tapped the edge of the certified envelope from the Illinois State Bar Association on his knee. The message inside reported the board's decision to deny his appeal for a law license based on character and fitness deficiencies. In spite of the organization's humble facilities, Hale boasted a membership approaching ten thousand, with chapters--or contact points, as he called them-in twenty-one states and twenty-two countries. "By the time all of this is over," he swore, "our enemies will regret their decisions dearly." 1 It was time for Racial Holy War-RAHOWA! After his first denial in February, Hale gained national attention by appearing on sixteen prominent talk shows and news forums, discussing his racial views and his anger over the board's decision. Should he go back to Today, Monte! Williams, The Leeza Gibbons Show, Politically Incorrect, CBS Evening News, or was there a more powerful response? There was always Brother Benjamin '~ugust" Smith, his frustrated twenty-one-year-old disciple. Smith was a plain-looking young man whose receding hairline and dark eyebrows accentuated his prominent nose and oval face. He had taken the name August in honor of "the great white ruler," Augustus Caesar. When asked publicly, Smith always responded as taught: "We believe we can legally come to power through nonviolence. But Hale says if they try to restrict our legal means, then we have no recourse but to resort to terrorism and violence." That day, while driving in the Chicago area, Benjamin Smith heard Matt Hale's news release announcing that the Illinois state bar's hearing board had unanimously denied him a law license. Smith understood: Their legal means had been restricted again by what white supremacists considered the Jewish Occupational Government, or JOG. What other recourse was there? Before proceeding with his mission, Benjamin Smith had one more detail to clear up. He stopped by the Wilmette post office. This affluent suburb north of Chicago had been home for his family for most of his life. His mother, a high-end real estate agent, had been a member of the village board of trustees. His father had been a physician at Northwestern Memorial Hospital for nineteen years, though now he, too, sold real estate. Inside the post office, Smith purchased a certified-letter card, filled out the form, and wrote on the back in a rough scrawl: Although I have not been a member of the World Church of the Creator since April1999, due to my past public support of that legal religious organization run by Matt Hale, I find it necessary to formerly sic break with the World Church of the Creator because I am unable and unwilling to follow a legal Revolution ofValuesBenjamin N. Smith3 He handed the card to the postal clerk. It would provide Matt Hale and the World Church of the Creator a degree of deniability and protection. Now he was ready. Smith headed south toward the West Rogers Park neighborhood of Chicago, home to thirty-three thousand Jews and twenty synagogues, most of them Orthodox. To August Smith the modest bungalows built in the first half of the century, with their neat lawns and detached garages, must have looked like a shooting gallery. He turned his light blue Ford Taurus onto quiet, tree-lined West Estes Avenue. On the seat beside him were two loaded pistols and boxes of ammunition he had purchased three days before. August glanced at his car clock-8:20. Jews would be walking to and from synagogue at this time of the evening. He snorted his disgust and recalled what Matt Hale had taught him about God: "WC Creators reject all this nonsense about angels and devils and gods and all the rest of this silly spook craft.. . . we do not believe in a world ofspirits and spooks, and we most certainly do not believe in the Bible which was written by a gang of lying, Jewish scriptwriters. "4 There. Two of them, probably father and son, walking down the street wearing their yarmulkes. Smith stopped his car and stepped out, one gun held low to his side as he approached the pair who had turned up the walk to an attractive brick home. They were talking with animated gestures as though this were their holiday instead of a white Independence Day. At fifteen feet, Smith raised his .380 and squeezed off several rounds. The blasts were deafening, and the gun kicked far harder than Smith had expected. He saw the father running up the driveway toward the back of the house as the teenage boy bolted through the front door. Stunned, Smith realized that he hadn't hit either of them. Frustrated, he returned to his car and drove slowly eastward. On the corner was another one, wearing a long black coat and oversized hat-on such a hot evening-with little curls hanging down his cheeks. This time Smith stuck his .22-caliber Ruger out the window and pulled the trigger again and again and again. The man on the sidewalk ducked and ran, then suddenly stumbled and fell to the ground. The Hasidic Jew rocked back and forth, clutching his left arm and shoulder with his right haiid as blood oozed through his fingers. "Wow! Wow! I got him! Wow!" Before Smith left the neighborhood fifteen minutes later, he had wounded six Jews and terrorized several others. ...