FOREWORD: Rulers of Evil by F. Tupper Saussy in HTML Web Format: Foreword
Rulers of Evil by F. Tupper Saussy in HTML Web Format
FOREWORD
WHETHER OR NOT it’s appropriate for a literary agent to write his client’s Foreword, I don’t know. If I’m breaking the rules here, well, this is a rule-breaking book. Example. During last spring’s Bookexpo in Los Angeles, I agently introduced my client, Tupper Saussy, to one of New York’s most unshockable publishing executives. As Tupper articulately summarized Rulers of Evil for him, I personally witnessed the brow of this fearless executive develop a twitch. I saw him actually gulp.
With
my own ears I heard him say, “This is a little too extreme for us.”
The twitch developed as Tupper was saying “the Roman Catholic Church
All right, Rulers of Evil is extreme. (Does that frighten you?) It was researched and written during a decade of flight that probably saved the author’s life from vindictive federal authorities. I wanted to represent this book from the moment I read the first draft back in 1993, completely unaware that its author could claim the classic Miracle On Main Street as his own. (Tupper Saussy’s identity was not revealed to me until his capture in 1997. He can keep a secret.)
Like no book I’ve seen in my thirty years of literary-agenting, Rulers of Evil lays out who’s really who in world power, pegs them as evil (about as evil as the rest of us, more or less), and then explains how spiritual wickedness in high places works for the ultimate good of mankind. It’s the book about conspiracies that doesn’t advocate throwing the bums out.
Rulers of Evil is almost a self-help product. The useful knowledge it imparts reveals the world structure as it really is. Once we can see, our choices increase, our pathways widen, and our lives improve.
But don’t expect a breeze. Parts of the book are so rich in historical detail that your brain might feel over-burdened. When that happens, just flip to more readable parts. Or study the pictures. My client doesn’t mind being read casually, back to front, front to back, middle out, a few pages at a time. Enjoy freedom of movement. If a chapter doesn’t fit today’s mood, find another that does. Use a bookmark, or the dustjacket flaps.
Ultimately, you’ll get it all. And when you do, I predict you’ll be a different person. You’ll have a new worldview, one shaped by evidence that has never been assembled quite this way before. I can say this with confidence because Rulers of Evil is still influencing my own life, having begun in me a process of answering many of the heretofore unanswerable questions of our time. — Peter Fleming THE PETER FLEMING AGENCY
ORIENTATION
“The only new thing in this world is the history you don’t know.” — PRESIDENT HARRY S. TRUMAN
ON FRESHMAN ORIENTATION day at the University of the South in Sewanee, Tennessee, I took a seat across the table from my faculty advisor. He was a professor of botany named Edmund Berkeley. Dr. Berkeley studied the tab on my manila file folder as though it were some rare species of leaf. Suddenly his eyes leapt into my face. Giddy eighteen-year-old that I was, I gulped and tried to smile.
‘“Saussy,”’
he mused calmly. “Good Huguenot name.”
The word stumped me. “Huguenot?”
“‘Saussy’ is a French name,” he lectured. “Sewanee is a Protestant university.
Your people must have been Huguenots.”
I silently forgave my father for never having told me our name was French and
that our ancestors might have been something called “Huguenots.”
“What exactly are Huguenots?” I inquired.
“French Protestants,” declared my advisor. “Massacred by soldiers ordered by
Catherine d’Medici in cahoots with the Jesuits.
The survivors were exiled. Some established in England, others in Prussia. Some
came to America, as your people obviously did.”
“Jesuits.” Now that was a familiar word. In Tampa, my hometown, there was a
high school named Jesuit. Jesuit High was greatly esteemed academically and
athletically. I was aware of a connection between the Jesuits and the Roman
Catholic Church, but little else.
“What are Jesuits?” I asked.
“Oh, the Jesuits are members of the Society of Jesus,” he replied. “Excellent
men. Intellectuals. They work exclusively for the Pope, take an oath to him and
him alone. Some people call them the Pope’s private militia. Kind of a
swordless army. Controversial. They’ve gotten into trouble meddling with civil
governments in the past, trying to bring them under the Pope’s dominion, you
know, but in this century they’ve been tamed down considerably. They’re
wonderful educators.”
That night I called my father, who answered Dr. Berkeley’s surmise. Yes, our
people were Huguenots. They arrived at Savannah harbor in the latter half of
the eighteenth century, after a stopover of several generations in Scotland.
They had indeed been run out of their beloved country, the same way the Jews
were run out of Germany. Nazis chased the Jews, Jesuits chased us. Ah, but that
was a long time ago, my father said, and I agreed. Forgiveness is a great
virtue, and it’s best to let bygones be bygones. So I forgot about Huguenots
and Jesuits and plunged into my college career, my future, my life.
I never had occasion to think about my conversation with Edmund Berkeley until
some thirty years later, in August of 1984, during a brief but telling
encounter with an assistant United States attorney by the name of John MacCoon.
We were standing a few paces apart in the marble hallway outside a federal
courtroom in Chattanooga, waiting for the morning session to be called. I was
on the docket, scheduled to be arraigned on charges of willful failure to file
income tax returns for the years 1977, 1978, and 1979.
I had no doubt that the charges would be dropped. The statute I had supposedly
run afoul of applied to persons “required” to file returns. Yet I possessed a
letter signed by the IRS District Director stating that a diligent search of
IRS files had failed to disclose any tax liability in my name for those years.
People who have no tax liability are not required to file returns. Why was I
there?
The booming voice of a lawyer friend broke my concentration. “Tupper,” he said,
guiding me over to John MacCoon, “have you met your prosecutor?”
He introduced us in a jovial fashion and then rushed off to a huddle of other
litigants.
MacCoon and I shook hands. “John,” I asked, feeling the need to make small
talk, “are you from Chattanooga?”
“No,” he replied, “I came from Washington.”
Something inside told me to press. “So you’re originally from Washington?”
“No, originally I’m from New Orleans.”
“I have lots of cousins in New Orleans,” I beamed. He seemed to get a little
edgy.
“Well, the name Saussy is not unknown there,” he said.
“One of my favorite cousins lives in New Orleans,” I said, and named my cousin.
“He’s your cousin? Why, he and I were ordained together.”
“Ordained?” I asked. “My cousin is a Jesuit priest. Are you a Jesuit?”
“Yes,” said my prosecutor, now visibly agitated. “You know, I might have to
recuse myself….”
“I’ve got a better idea, drop the charges.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t do that.”
The dialogue ended suddenly with the hoarse drawl of a bailiff announcing that
court was now in session.
So John MacCoon was a Jesuit! The media, spoonfed by his offices, had already
branded me a “tax protestor.” What was going on? Were the Jesuits chasing
Protestants again? Actually, I had not protested any taxes at all. I had merely
discovered some truths about the tax and monetary laws and had dared to stand
on them. As with the Huguenots and the truths they’d discovered about
Christianity, authorities were offended. Wasn’t it interesting that both of us
– my ancestors and me – were branded as antisocial, repugnant, as people who
disturb good order by daring to “protest”? Was this a religious persecution
here? Was my stand on Truth somehow so offensive that the Pope had dispatched
one of his swordless warriors to do me in? And then there was the date. The
charges against me were filed on July 31st. That happens to be the Feast Day of
St. Ignatius Loyola, the founding father of the Society of Jesus. According to
the dogma of the Roman Liturgical Calendar, any cause initiated on a saint’s
feast day is especially worthy of the saint’s attention.
A bizarre series of furtive proceedings occurred over the next eleven months.
Exculpatory evidence was ignored or suppressed. There were prosecutorial
improprieties, which the court excused. When I attempted to avoid the
consequences of the improprieties, I was punished. Few precedents for such
judicial steam-rolling could be found outside the annals of the Roman
Inquisition, which I learned had been administered since 1542 by the Jesuits.
What was this – the American Inquisition? All the while, the IRS, John MacCoon,
and the media kept labeling me “tax protestor.” Sometimes they would slip and
call me a “tax evader,” even though I had never been accused of the much more
serious crime of tax evasion.
Ultimately, a jury acquitted me of willfully failing to file income tax returns
for 1978 and 1979. But for 1977 they found willfulness, and the higher courts
upheld their verdict. It was only a misdemeanor. The last defendant in my
district to be convicted on the same count had been sentenced to six weeks. But
the court sentenced me to a full year, the maximum allowed by statute. This was
due to what the prosecutor called my “unrepentance.” Some say I should have
wept crocodile tears and promised to mend my ways. But that would be
gameplaying. How can you repent of willfully failing to do something that was
never required in the first place?
WHEN I soberly reviewed the long list of prosecutorial absurdities, I decided
that I was being punished for something not remotely connected to willfulness
in filing tax returns. I was being punished for mobilizing what turned out to
be the only constitutional issue no court in the United States will fully
entertain – the money issue.
Back in the late seventies, I discovered that constitutional government was
contravening every American’s right to an economy free of fluctuating monetary
values. I wrote a book The Miracle On Main Street: Saving Yourself and America
from Financial Ruin (1980), in which I compared American money as mandated by
the Constitution – gold and silver coin – with American money currently in use
– notes, computer entries, and base-metal tokens. Not only was the money in use
inferior to constitutional money, but also it had been introduced without a
constitutional amendment. Since our values were denominated in units of lawless
money, we had become a lawless nation. Quality of life follows quality of
money. I urged the people to take the initiative in nudging government
officials to restore the kind of monetary system established by the
Constitution. The ultimate payoff would be a wholesome society. Main Street
activism would have worked a miracle.
MOMS caught on very quickly. Activists began asserting economic rights in many
creative ways. To assist and document their work, I launched “The Main Street
Journal.” Published more or less monthly, the MSJ reported in detail the
interesting, sometimes frightening consequences of economic rights activism.
By July 1984, my book and my journal had expanded into a growing bibliography
of historic and legal materials related to the money issue. I was speaking all
over the country, and holding well- attended seminars in Tennessee. We had
history on our side. The Framers of the Constitution had unanimously voted down
the kind of monetary system that was destroying modern America, and had unanimously
voted for the system we were advocating. We had the law on our side. The
Supreme Court had never ruled that America’s lawless monetary system was
constitutional. What we didn’t have on our side was the entity having most to
gain from lawless money – the governing bodies. We were deeply offending their
appearance of legitimacy. As one Tennessee village lawyer said, in returning
Miracle On Main Street to the friend who’d loaned it to him, “This book won’t
get Saussy killed, but they’ll figure out a humane way of shutting him up.”
THERE was an interval of two years between my trial and the Supreme Court’s
decision on it. About midway during that interval, I received a postcard from
the most famous prisoner in Tennessee, James Earl Ray. Mr. Ray, the self-convicted
assassin of Dr. Martin Luther King, wanted me to help him write his
autobiography. I interviewed him personally, examined his manuscript, and
conducted some research of my own. The evidence persuaded me that Mr. Ray did
not deserve to be called, in Life Magazine’s words, “the world’s most hated
man.” He had been tortured into pleading guilty. Far from punishment for
murder, his confinement was the government’s way of concealing the true
assassins, and at the Tennessee taxpayers’ expense. I felt that he, like
myself, was being maliciously used by governing bodies for the purpose of
deceiving the public.
I worked closely with Mr. Ray, publishing his autobiography under the title
Tennessee Waltz: The Making of A Political Prisoner. I included an epilogue of
my own, “The Politics of Witchcraft,” in which I discussed how Dr. King’s
murder benefitted no one as much as it did the economic powers of government.
About a month before Tennessee Waltz would be coming off the press, I was
notified that the U.S. Supreme Court had denied my appeal. Then the District
Judge ordered me to surrender myself to Atlanta Federal Prison Camp on or
before April 10, 1987. A friend happened to say, “You know, if your previous
writings brought about the tax prosecution, think what Tennessee Waltz might
provoke them to, with you in custody….”
And so, when the moment came for me to pass through the Prison Camp gates,
something got in the way. I can only call it a spirit, an irresistible spirit.
It was the same spirit that had directed me to stand on the truth in my writing
and speaking. It was the same spirit that had led me to interrogate John
MacCoon at our first encounter in that marble hallway back in 1984, the same
spirit that had moved him to tell me he was a Jesuit. This spirit turned me
away from the prison gate and led me into a fugitive lifestyle.
I felt an overwhelming obligation to love my enemies by studying them in
intricate detail. I wanted to know the extent of Jesuit involvement in United
States government, presently and historically. What I discovered was a vast
Roman Catholic substratum to American history, especially the Revolution that
produced the constitutional republic. I found that Jesuits played eminent and
under-appreciated roles in moving the complacent New Englanders to rebel
against their mother country. I discovered facts and motives strongly
suggesting that events that made Great Britain divide in 1776 were the
outworkings of an ingenious Jesuit strategy. This strategy appears to have been
single-handedly designed and supervised by a true founding father few Americans
have ever heard of – Lorenzo Ricci (known to British Jesuits as Laurence
Richey). In fact, investigating Jesuit involvement in the formation of the
United States turned up a whole host of hitherto little- known names, such as
Robert Bellarmine, Joseph Amiot, the Dukes of Norfolk, Daniel Coxe, Sun-Tzu,
Lord Bute, Francis Thorpe, Nikolaus von Hontheim, and the Carrolls, Daniel,
Charles, and John. In their way, these men were as essential to our
constitutional origins as Jefferson, Paine, Adams, Washington, Locke, and
George III.
My investigation began in 1987. It coursed ten years, and ranged – with the
help of our Lord and many courageous friends, to whom this book is dedicated –
from the Florida Keys to Puget Sound, from the District of Columbia to southern
California. The mounting evidence inexorably changed the way I perceived
constituted authority, and my relationship to it. Finally, on the thirteenth
minute of the thirteenth hour of the thirteenth day of November, 1997, the
journey that had begun with the filing of charges against me thirteen years
earlier reached its destination. I was captured without violence by three U.S.
Marshals outside my office on the canals in Venice, California. A valuable
personhood I was prepared to deny forever was given back to me. For sixteen
months, the Bureau of Prisons afforded me the opportunity to discuss the fruits
of my investigation with intelligent prisoners in California, Georgia,
Tennessee, Oklahoma, and Mississippi. Their straightforward questions,
comments, insights, and criticisms helped further prepare my manuscript for a
general audience.
Now that my liberties are fully restored, I am able finally to relate my
findings to you in my own true voice, tried in adversity, seasoned by time.
F. Tupper Saussy
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