PROLOGUE
Sometime after 2pm Sunday, February 21, 1965: Malcolm X shot Malcolm, hands-on the dais before him, stared into the many faces looking into his. The numerous looks as if pleading with him to continue speaking, absorbing his every word. Every person felt he was talking only to them; a personal conversation. Removing his glasses, he cleans them with a small cloth and replaced them. A symbolic gesture. Clean lens meant a fresh focus, especially with what he had to say next. He paused glancing down at a brother suddenly standing in front of the stage. For a moment the great, charismatic leader smiled directly at the enthusiastic man. He still smiled as the brother unfurled a double-barrelled shotgun from under his raincoat. He still smiled as the room reverberated from loud explosions. And was still smiling when he was thrown back away from the dias, his chest peppered at point-blank range. Malcolm X was dead long before the other two brothers jumped onto the stage and filled him w...