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With the greatest love and respect, I dedicate this book to my family.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Cast of Characters
Introduction: Waiting to Die
1. Thrill Killers
2. The Great Titan
3. Laid to Rest
4. A Baby with No Name
5. A Deadly Bug
6. A Friend from the Klan
7. “Lord, I Am Dying”
8. A Strange and Violent Fall
9. Eighty-one Minutes
10. Millionaires in Prison
11. A Bankrupt State
12. The Price of Freedom
13. The Long Way Up
Epilogue
Photographs
Acknowledgments
Bibliography
Notes
Index
About the Author
Copyright
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Eurith Dickenson Rivers: Governor of Georgia (1937–1941).
Eugene Talmadge: Governor of Georgia (1933–1937, 1941–1943).
Ellis Arnall: Georgia attorney general under Governor Rivers, governor of Georgia (1943–1947).
Richard Gray Gallogly: Student at Oglethorpe University in Atlanta, grandson of the owners of the Atlanta Journal newspaper and WSB radio station.
George Harsh: Student at Oglethorpe University, son of a Milwaukee shoe manufacturer.
Hiram Wesley Evans: National leader of the Ku Klux Klan.
The Rev. James Monroe Williams: Methodist minister in Rochelle, Georgia.
Tom Dickinson: Tenant farmer in South Georgia’s Ben Hill County.
Tina Mae Dickerson: Tom Dickerson’s daughter.
Odie Fluker: Alabama upholsterer and union activist.
Arthur Perry: A young black man in Columbus, Georgia.
Ruth Perry: Arthur’s mother.
Arthur Mack: Also a young black man in Columbus, Georgia.
Thurgood Marshall: Attorney for the NAACP, first African American U.S. Supreme Court Justice.
Willie Russell: Cobb County farmworker.
Jim Williams: Alleged member of a Middle Georgia burglary ring.
Charlie Rucker: Another alleged member of the same ring.
Raymond Carter: The burglary’s ring alleged third member.
INTRODUCTION
Waiting to Die
On December 9, 1938, seven men at Georgia’s Tattnall Prison, near Reidsville, were scheduled to die in the electric chair, one after the other.1
This would be the first time Georgia had executed this many prisoners in the electric chair in a single day. This would be a mass execution.
It was somber and rainy the night before they were to all die. The condemned had their last suppers of steak or fried chicken and, for dessert, sweet potato pie. There were ministers there, one of them a life-termer at Tattnall, preaching and praying. And the prison quartet sang spirituals like this:
Steal away, steal away, steal away to Jesus
Steal away, steal away home
I ain’t got long to stay here
My Lord, He calls me.2
One of the men wrote a last letter to his local newspaper begging his children to follow God. “I was misled by The Devil. He led me in the worst of truble and I have no one to blame for being led by Him but myself. God was willing to help me at all times but I did not except of him.”3
That fall had been a strange one in Georgia and a bloody one, too. The authorities had arrested four of these seven men less than two months earlier, then tried, convicted, and sentenced them to death in just a few short weeks.
In those days, you didn’t get an automatic appeal. If you could find a lawyer who would file an appeal, you might be able to buy a year or more of life. Three of the seven condemned men had done just that. If you couldn’t, you would be dead a few weeks after the jury spoke.
Tattnall Prison, about sixty miles from Savannah, was still brand-new, constructed by the federal government. Georgia was too poor at the time to afford a new prison. Before Tattnall was built, there was only one prison in Georgia, at Milledgeville. Most of the prisoners were farmed out to chain gang camps across the state.4
The entire country was still hurting from the Great Depression, but it was far worse in the South and especially in Georgia. The per capita income in Georgia at the time was half the national average, lower even than in many other southern states. Thirty percent of all whites and 58 percent of blacks in Georgia had less than a fifth-grade education.5 It was Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s New Deal, trying to pull the country out of the Great Depression, that put up the $1.5 million for Tattnall Prison. Georgia bought the building from the federal government in June 1937 on an easy and affordable payment plan: fifty years of payments at an interest rate of 4 percent.6
Still, there wasn’t money for much of anything in Georgia, prisons or otherwise. The state could afford to keep its rural schools open only six months a year, and even though it could barely keep one set of schools going, the customs and laws of the state still demanded two sets: one for whites and one for blacks. There were times when the state could barely pay its schoolteachers on time, and there was no money for textbooks. Those were things you had to buy on your own. Sometimes when families didn’t have the money, the children would just drop out of school, too embarrassed to show their faces without books.7
There was a Georgian writer named Erskine Caldwell who embarrassed the state when he wrote a novel called Tobacco Road about the poor and ignorant and comical rural people, and then again when he wrote in the New York Post that those people were so hungry, they would “eat snakes, cow dung and clay,” and that among tenant farmers in Georgia, syphilis was “as common as dandruff” and incest “as prevalent as marriage.”8
Nobody appreciated Caldwell’s spreading such ideas across the world, true or untrue, and he was not welcome back home. But there was some truth in the man’s writings. The truth was that Georgians in 1938 were still dying of malaria, typhoid, diphtheria, and dysentery. They were still dying of a disease called pellagra, caused by a diet that was painfully close to the fare of livestock: little else but corn.9
But the people of Georgia did not give up. If nothing else, they had this new prison down near the coast, Tattnall Prison, and that was a good thing because another writer, this one named Robert Burns, had written a book almost as embarrassing as Tobacco Road. This one was titled I Am a Fugitive from a Georgia Chain Gang!, and it was not fiction.10
Burns was a white man who had been an accountant in New York City until he enlisted in the Army during World War I and served in France. He got back from the war and expected he would find at least respect if not a hero’s welcome. But he couldn’t even find a job. “The wise guys stayed home, landed the good jobs or grew rich on war contracts,” Burns wrote. He became a bitter drifter and in 1922 ended up in Atlanta, where he was arrested for a robbery that netted him only $5.80. For $5.80, Burns was sentenced to six to ten years on the chain gang.11
The prison officers took Burns to the Bellwood chain gang camp in Fulton County, which was just “a few old dilapi
dated wooden buildings.” They made him wear a two-piece striped prison uniform and shoes two sizes too large, no underwear or socks. Then they took him to the blacksmith shop to be fitted with shackles and chains.
A heavy shackle was placed on each ankle and the blacksmith connected those shackles with a heavy “strad” chain. Burns remembered: “There were 13 links to this chain, making it impossible to take a full step.”
In the middle of that strad chain was an “upright” chain about three feet long with an iron ring at the end of it. A prisoner would have to hold the ring in his hands to avoid tripping over the strad chain. At night, for good measure, the prisoners, still wearing their personal sets of chains, were linked with another long chain. It was a system of chains connected to chains connected to chains.
The guards would roust the men at 3:30 a.m. by yanking the chain that connected the prisoners. If you didn’t jump up quickly and grab the ring, you would be dragged across the room. Prisoners ate breakfast by lamplight, and it was almost always bad coffee, a piece of hoecake or fried dough, three small pieces of fried pork, and sorghum molasses. It would be their best meal of the day.12
In the darkness, they were chained together again and loaded onto trucks for a day of manual labor until 6 p.m., taking time out only for a lunch of cowpeas. Supper was corn bread, fried pork fat, and more sorghum syrup.
After the evening meal, the warden would single out prisoners and beat them with a leather strap six feet long and three inches wide, sometimes until a man passed out from the pain. The guards also flogged prisoners with bullwhips, a weapon meant for the thick hide of a horse or a cow. The whips tore through the thin skin and the flesh of a human being and would sometimes kill a man.
“Words or language cannot give an exact presentation of the malicious, cold brutality we encountered,” Burns said.13
It would only get worse. Burns was transferred to a different work camp, in Campbell County, where the inmates didn’t even have a building. They slept in metal cages on wheels just like circus animals. A dozen men slept in each cage. The irony was that for all the brutality of the chain gang, it was not that difficult for a prisoner to escape. You could use a file or other tool to cut through the shackles. Burns escaped twice and from the safety of his home state of New Jersey exacted revenge on Georgia with his book, which later became a major Hollywood film.
In Georgia, they howled about Robert Burns, howled about Erskine Caldwell, howled because they knew there was truth in what these men wrote.
Now, finally, Georgia had a new prison, a real, modern prison, and could start closing down those chain gang camps, the ones Burns had written about, the ones that were causing so much embarrassment, so much ridicule. It was sad that of all things, a single new prison would be a major symbol of progress, but that was the reality in Georgia at the time. That was how far the state had to go. A prison could be a window into the soul of a state. You could see in a prison the true poverty of a people, their violence, racism, and capacity to forgive.
They built Tattnall Prison of concrete and steel. They separated the white prisoners and the black prisoners, whites on the right side of the building, blacks on the left. When you walked into the front entrance of the place, there was a carving over the door by an Atlanta sculptor named Julian Harris showing happy workers busy at their jobs. They called the sculpture Rehabilitation, and it made people forget for a moment at least about all those inmates still out there on the chain gangs, slaving away under the scorching Georgia sun. Tattnall could hold up to two thousand inmates, only a third of all the prisoners in the state, 80 percent of whom were black although blacks accounted for only about a third of Georgia’s three million people. It would be years before chain gangs could be completely eliminated. But it was progress.14
At Tattnall, prisoners worked in modern factories making car tags, shoes, and clothing. They had a modern hospital there, including an X-ray machine and a dentist. About 40 percent of the prisoners had syphilis, and for the first time they would be treated, preventing the further spread of the disease once they had served their sentences and returned home.15
When Tattnall Prison opened, the electric chair was transferred from Milledgeville and placed in a fancy suite on the fifth floor with an open-air cell where prisoners could catch one last breath of fresh air, feel a breeze one last time, before they died. There were three refrigerators to hold bodies of the executed men in case they were not immediately claimed by relatives, though they didn’t stay there long. Many corpses were shipped to the state medical school to serve as cadavers for the students.16
In December 1938, the electric chair was ready in this brand-new prison, connected to power cords dangling from the ceiling, ready to kill those seven men, one after the other.17
There was now only one person who could save those seven men: the governor of Georgia, a small, dark-haired, blue-eyed man named Eurith Dickinson Rivers. E. D. Rivers. Everyone called him Ed. He was still a young man then, only forty-three.
Son of a country doctor in Arkansas, the dapper Rivers had been a lawyer, a banker, a newspaper publisher, and a schoolteacher. He was married to a schoolteacher, and they had lived in the tiny moss-draped town of Lakeland near the Florida line, where he had been both the mayor and a member of the state legislature. He owned the eleven-thousand-acre Banks Lake, the centerpiece of Lakeland. On the shores of that black-water lake, Rivers and his wife, Lucille, energetic entrepreneurs, owned and operated a lodge for fishermen that they also lived in until it burned in 1935.18
Rivers, like nearly all Georgia politicians at the time, was a white Democrat. He constantly smoked cigars. He could not hold his liquor well, and it was said that he would get drunk on a spoonful of liquor.19 He sang hymns at funerals. In public, Rivers always wore black bow ties. Rivers was a man who loved the ladies—more than seventy years later, a woman who had known him remembered: “He was always, ‘Hey honey, hey good-looking’ to all the women.”20
In 1936, Ed Rivers ran for governor on a platform of total, unequivocal support for FDR and the New Deal.21
Rivers’s predecessor as governor, a populist farmer and race baiter named Eugene Talmadge, had opposed the New Deal at almost every turn, and had even ridiculed FDR’s polio paralysis, saying in 1935, “The next president who goes into the White House will be a man who knows what it is to work in the sun 14 hours a day. That man will be able to walk a two-by-four plank, too.”22 Talmadge, nicknamed the “Wild Man from Sugar Creek,” always wore his signature red suspenders at campaign rallies. He believed in low taxes and small government.
Despite this, Talmage did not block all New Deal programs. The Works Progress Administration jobs program and rural electrification projects proceeded, and Talmadge himself had asked the federal government to build Georgia a new prison. But Talmadge vetoed state enabling legislation for a key program, Social Security or the old-age pension as it was first called, which was to be administered by state governments in the early years.
Talmadge told voters that he opposed Social Security because blacks would receive all the government checks, while white people would pay all the taxes. And if blacks were allowed to retire at age sixty-five with a government pension, he argued, that would threaten Georgia’s supply of cheap black labor.23
So Georgians, white and black, paid taxes to the federal government, but thanks to Talmadge they could not draw the checks when retirement day arrived at age sixty-five. And that meant that old Georgians would still be dying in the poorhouses, where people were sent as a last resort when they were too old, too tired, or too sick to work.24
Rivers had been a Talmadge supporter and a onetime critic of the New Deal. Yet, he had run for governor twice before and lost and now sensed correctly that the people of Georgia really were desperate for the New Deal, desperate for Social Security and the many other programs Roosevelt offered, programs that Talmadge tried to stop.
And the New Deal was not charity, Rivers told twenty thousand Georgians as he
spoke on the state capitol steps on the frigid morning of his inauguration, January 12, 1937. The New Deal cash amounted to war reparations.25 The North had wrecked the South’s economy during the “War Between the States,” Rivers argued. It had reconstructed the South politically, at the point of bayonets, but had left the region impoverished. Now FDR had “done more to right the wrongs to the people of Georgia and the South than all the administrations from that day to this.”26
So Rivers accepted the New Deal cash under the name of reparations, and tried to rebuild Georgia. He would get Social Security checks for the elderly and welfare checks for the poor, would build a public health system to treat those horrible diseases like malaria and pellagra and syphilis. He would upgrade the prisons, taking over the deed to Tattnall Prison from the federal government about six months after he took office, and he would also improve Georgia’s mental hospital in Milledgeville, and its schools for the blind, deaf, and “feeble minded.”
When the Social Security checks began to arrive in the mailboxes of Georgia’s citizens in late 1937, there was an outpouring of gratification, even poetry, for Rivers, the governor who had made that happen. The phrase “divine providence” was used. The checks might be only $7 a month, but for people who had toiled all their lives and believed that the system had always been stacked against them, the money felt like a fortune. More important, the government finally cared about these people. And the letter writers said so, in no uncertain terms.
“Congratulations, Gov. E. D. Rivers, the first governor since the Civil War that has ever looked back on the old worn and helpless people and sympathized with them,” Mitchel Westberry of Echols County wrote the governor.27
It was the same admiration that FDR inspired among the downtrodden in Georgia and nationally. But Rivers wanted still more. He would match FDR and raise him. Ed Rivers wanted free schoolbooks and a longer school year. He would raise teacher pay.28
It could be said that on education, Rivers, the former schoolteacher, was something of a visionary. He understood that education was the key to ending poverty, saying, “A person can earn very little if he is ignorant.”29
Without Mercy: The Stunning True Story of Race, Crime, and Corruption in the Deep South Page 1
