Between the Lines of Drift The Memoirs of a Militant, Third Edition Eric Rudolph Front cover sketch courtesy of Marla Lawson Georgia Bureau of Investigation Copyright© 2013, 2015 (Holder) Daniel K. Rudolph All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be copied or reproduced without explicit permission of the author. Maps by Google Maps Other Writings by the Author Satires Melvin and Maude The Sentence Essays Abortion: The Irrepressible Conflict Crime and Punishment Feminism Pacifism Pyrrhic Victories Racism SuperMax Prison Issues Tarnished “Heroes” White Lies: Eugenics, Abortion, and Racism Allocution and Statements Allocution (Birmingham court) Eric’s written statement at his sentencing Statement concerning the Centennial Park bombing Writings are available at http://www.armyofgod.com/EricRudolphHomepage.html During the bombings and later as a fugitive, Eric spent most of his time in the extreme south-west corner of North Carolina. See the next page for more detail of that area. CONTENTS 1 Murphy, NC • May 31, 2003 ........................................................................................................ 1 2 Atlanta, GA • 1996 • Olympic Bombing ....................................................................................... 3 3 New Smyrna Beach, FL • 1966-71 • The Early Years .................................................................. 16 4 Vengeance Creek, NC • 1996-97 • More Bombings ................................................................... 20 5 Ft. Lauderdale, FL • Mid-1970s • Growing Up ........................................................................... 32 6 Birmingham, AL • 1998 • New Woman Bombing....................................................................... 36 7 Homestead, FL • 1978-82 • Combat, and Religion ..................................................................... 52 8 Fires Creek • 1998 • Into Hiding ................................................................................................ 57 9 Nantahala, NC • 1974-82 • Lure of the Mountains .................................................................... 77 10 Bateman Gap, NC • 1998 • Finding Food ................................................................................... 85 11 Shell City, MO • 1984 • Church of Israel .................................................................................. 101 Photos ................................................................................................................................... 113 12 Snowbird, NC • 1998-99 • Vexing the Southeast Bomb Task Force .......................................... 121 13 1980s • The Cause .................................................................................................................. 139 14 Andrews, NC • 1999 • Staple Foods ........................................................................................ 146 15 Ft. Benning, GA • 1987-89 • In the Army ................................................................................. 172 16 Seasons and Survival ............................................................................................................... 183 17 Tomotla, NC • 1999-2000 • The Cause Revisited ..................................................................... 200 18 Murphy, NC • 2000-03 • The Written Word ............................................................................ 220 Murphy, NC • May 31, 2003 CHAPTER 1 Murphy, NC • May 31, 2003 I rarely shopped at the Save-A-Lot on the weekend. Although the dumpster was often better stocked, police patrols always increased on the weekend. Every hour a police cruiser would circle behind the Save-A-Lot for a burglary check. And the party crowd came out in full force. One Saturday night, I had to sit in the pasture behind the store while two drunks pounded one another to a pulp in the front parking lot. You never knew what you would run into on the weekend. For the past three summers I‘d been coming into town to gather food for the winter. I had a small temporary camp in the woods outside of Murphy, North Carolina. Late at night, I’d collect discarded fruit and vegetables from the lone dumpster behind the Save-A-Lot grocery store. Back at camp the produce was cleaned, sliced, and put out to dry in the sun. After a couple of months I had enough desiccated onions, tomatoes, green peppers, and strawberries to last me all winter. When I was finished, I backpacked the stuff to my winter camp in the mountains. Saturday, May 31, 2003, was one of those rare occasions. Two nights earlier I‘d found a box of bruised bananas in the dumpster. This was the first sign that the store was preparing to dump its entire inventory of bananas. I’d seen it many times before. If my calculations proved correct, I would find a couple hundred pounds of produce tonight. I’d get a good head start on the summer drying if I got those bananas. “It’s worth the risk,” I told myself. “You have dodged that patrol car a hundred times before. You can do it again.” Rolling out from under my poncho shelter, I wiped the sleep from my eyes and donned my garbage clothes: fatigue jacket, stained paints, a pair of rotten Adidas tennis shoes. There was little moonlight. In the darkness, my feet remembered the trail down the ridge. At the bottom, an overgrown access road led out to the four-lane highway. Murphy was on the far side of the bridge that spanned the Valley River. I looked both ways, watching for headlights, then sprinted across the bridge. Dropping below the bridge, I followed a rutted path to the back of the Save-A-Lot. Halfway to the dumpster I heard the whoosh of car tires on the asphalt and looked up to see a police cruiser rounding the corner of the building. His headlights were turned off. I was caught in the open. Sprinting for the loading dock, I ducked behind a stack of milk crates, hoping he hadn’t seen me. But once I reached the crates I realized that there was no way that he could have missed me. To make matters worse, I had foolishly trapped myself against the building when I should have run the other way toward the pasture and the river. He quickly positioned his cruiser in front of the crates, blocking off my escape route. He began probing for me with his spotlight. The bright beam of light spilled through the crates. “Come out and show me your hands!” he yelled. Pinned against the building, I searched for a way out. I had no weapons on me, so resistance was not an option. There was an opening — off the far end of the loading dock. If I ran now I could beat him to the pasture. But something inside me said to stay put: “Stop running,” the voice said. “You can take whatever they throw at you.” Instantly I felt an incredible calm. I stepped out from behind the crates. A second patrol car roared up, followed by a third. Pretty soon the alley behind Save-A-Lot was jammed with police cars. Two cops converged on me with their guns drawn; one applied handcuffs. Questions were asked. I gave them a false name and social security number. I said I was homeless and searching the dumpster for food. While one cop went on the radio to check out the information that I gave him, another one held a flashlight in my face. 1 Between the Lines of Drift After keeping the flashlight beam on my face for ten seconds, he turned and hurried over to the gaggle of cops. They huddled together speaking in excited tones. “Safe-keeping,” the cop said. “We’re going to take you in for some safe-keeping . Get you some food . See if you need some medical attention.” Safe-keeping was one of those new devices cops were using to detain people without having to go through the formality of arresting them. Having no weapons or drugs on me, there was no probable cause for an arrest. But I knew why they wanted to take me in, and it had nothing to do with “safe-keeping.” They wanted my fingerprints. Once those fingerprints were put into the system, the FBI would be along shortly. The jig was up. It had ended pretty much as I always thought it would. The cop did a Crazy Ivan on me. I had watched him pass behind Save-A-Lot on my way across the pasture. It looked like a routine patrol. Usually I’d sit in the tall grass for a few minutes, just in case he came back around, as he sometimes did. But that night I didn’t wait. I hopped the pasture fence and started across the pavement. Meanwhile, the cop had circled around the front of the Save-A-Lot, and then drove back through the alley, this time with his lights out. I never saw him coming. He was on top of me before I knew it. The convoy of cop cars drove me to the Cherokee County Courthouse in downtown Murphy. At 4:00 a.m. the streets were deserted. The stoplights flashed yellow. I used to wear a handcuff key around my neck for just such an occasion. But that was a long time ago; seemed like ages almost. Attached to the rear of the courthouse was the county jail. It was a red brick box with rusted iron bars over the windows. Built in the 1920s, the ancient jail looked its age. If not for the police vehicles parked out front you would have thought it was a condemned building. A dented metal door buzzed open and the cops led me into the booking area where they sat me down in one of the black plastic bus station seats that lined the wall. Three cops stood guard in front of me while the others disappeared into a side room. It was quiet as a cave in there. The cop in front of me had a big smile on his over-sized face. Then, like a jury returning to render its verdict, the little procession of cops emerged from the side room to congregate in front of me. The congregation slowly parted like the Red Sea to let one of the officers through. In his hand he held a sheet of paper. “Who’s that?” he asked, thrusting the sheet of paper into my face. It was an FBI Ten Most Wanted poster with my name and picture on it. I recognized the photograph as one I had taken with my mother in Times Square back in 1997. The cop grinned real big; black flecks of Copenhagen snuff were wedged between his front teeth, making him look like a shit-eating dog. Looking at the poster, then back at the cop, I pretended not to understand. “Who does it say I am?” I asked.