Alice + Freda Forever: A Murder in Memphis

by Alexis Coe

  It was becoming clear to Alice that each passing day brought her closer to the inevitable. Freda would leave for good, and they would never meet again. The Wards were determined to keep the young women apart, to encourage Freda to live a different life, to love another person. Alice had always known that this might happen, and that she would not be able to stand it. She would not stand for it, and had promised Freda as much.

  And so, she carried the razor around every day in her dress pocket, just in case Freda came to town. It was only later that Alice’s father realized, yes, of course, Alice had left the room whenever he asked if anyone had seen it.

  BY DECEMBER, Alice was desperate for news of Freda. No one seemed to have anything new to offer. Jo had also abruptly cut off communication with Lillie, which, because Lillie had been ignorant of Alice and Freda’s engagement, seemed inexplicable to her.

  Lillie was sad to lose the Wards and see their quartet dismantled, but for Alice, the loss was devastating. Eager to lighten her mood, Lillie readily agreed to Alice’s requests, even penning a letter to Ashley Roselle on her behalf. She had been listening to Alice pine about Freda’s silence, never grasping the full meaning of it, but this request, Lillie would later explain, made perfect sense to her. It seemed no different than the inconsequential letters they had sent in the past, to men they had met on the electric car line and found in the pages of the matrimonial paper. But no matter how much Lillie tried, no matter how much she praised and flattered Ashley, Alice seemed unsatisfied with the letters, and soon enough, Lillie was told to stop writing them.

  Alice would write the letters herself. In December, and then again in January, Alice sent the man she considered her romantic nemesis handwritten pages crammed with flattering, amorous sentiments. She confessed feelings for him she did not have, and admired attributes she likely loathed, in order to gauge Ashley’s commitment to Freda. She even requested to meet him in person, on the Rosa Lee, when he came through Memphis. But while he agreed to talk to her on the steamer, it was out of mere civility. When they met, Ashley did not return her affections, or tell her anything of worth about his relationship with Freda.

  And that was how 1892 began for Alice Mitchell.

  The new year had shown little promise when, in January, it finally happened: Freda arrived in Memphis. The news electrified Alice when she happened upon it, and it propelled her into action.

  Of course, Alice knew that Freda could not stay with her. She assumed—with all the confidence of delusion—that Ada’s vigilance was the only reason Freda had not sent word ahead of the visit. But none of that mattered. Alice was overcome by the one fact that did matter: Freda was nearby.

  Alice knew Freda loved to be courted, so she sent not one, but two letters to Mrs. Kimbrough’s house on Hernando Street. As luck would have it, Ada had stayed back in Golddust, which allowed Alice to hope that Jo, who had once been a dear friend to her and Lillie, might allow them to meet.

  Alice longed for a reply, but wasted no time waiting around for one. Whenever she could manage an outing in the increasingly harsh January weather, Alice drove her buggy by Hernando Street. A moment to talk, to be alone, would be ideal, but she would settle for very little at that point.

  Which is probably why she felt oddly encouraged when one of her letters was sent back to the Mitchell household. All it took was Freda’s handwriting, marking the envelope to be returned, for Alice to grow hopeful.

  Finally, after so many failed attempts, she spotted Freda alone on the street. Alice watched her beloved go into a photograph gallery, and waited outside, her heart no doubt pounding, the blood coursing through her veins, the excitement warming her body.

  But when Freda finally exited, she did not stop to speak to Alice, or wink, or give any sign of recognition. Freda walked right past Alice as if she were just another stranger on a busy downtown street, her eyes fixed ahead, and then she disappeared into Mrs. Carroll’s home.

  Alice thrust her trembling hands into her dress pockets, but the shock of the interaction, of having been completely ignored, rendered her fingers too unsteady to retrieve the razor, much less use it. She could have waited for Freda to head back to Mrs. Kimbrough’s house, but she went home instead. Had she misunderstood the encounter? Maybe Freda had not seen her at all, or thought Alice was out of town, and would make contact soon. And then, finally, Freda did just that.

  Alice must have been brimming with hope when the envelope arrived, to see Freda’s own handwriting intended for her, after so many months of absolute silence. She probably felt relief, and took the unopened letter as confirmation that they were still in love, and always would be.

  But the letter conveyed a disquieting message. Freda intended to obey Ada. She was choosing to follow rules set by another. This was exactly the kind of obedience Alice had repeatedly demanded of Freda, but never fully received. It seemed to suggest that she had not been Freda’s true love at all, but rather just another suitor to trifle with, and then discard as easily as the others. How could Freda have so dismissively referred to their engagement as “last summer’s business?” Freda was ashamed. She truly wanted their history to be erased, as if it had never happened.

  However, Alice saw a glimmer of hope, a hint at the end of the letter. Surely Freda would not have divulged her departure had she not wanted Alice to see her off. Still, it seemed odd. Everyone knew the steamers had altered their schedule on account of the inclement weather; the ship Freda claimed to be leaving on was no longer scheduled to leave that night. Was it possible that Freda did not know that, even though she was staying at the widow Kimbrough’s house, so close to the waterfront? The comings and goings of ships were conspicuous enough that any aberration in the schedule became the subject of small talk in town. Even Alice, who hardly spoke to anyone anymore, knew the next departure was not for days.

  Nonetheless, when the next departure time did arrive, Alice picked up Lillie in the buggy, and went down to the dock. Lillie believed they were saying good-bye, that there had been some kind of reconciliation, and thought nothing of boarding the boat and helping Alice search for the Wards.

  They walked the length of the steamer, making inquiries all along the way. But the sisters were nowhere to be found. As the ship departed, leaving the Wards behind in Memphis, everything became clear.

  Alice’s message to Freda seemed clear: You may try to deceive me by switching steamers, but I will haunt the docks until I find you. The final lines are mysterious, but may be an allusion to their last meeting on the street, when Alice’s ex-fiancé had walked right past her.

  It would be the last letter she ever sent Freda, and she had already received the last one Freda would ever send to her. Alice was carrying it around in her dress pocket, where it would remain until January 25, 1892. By the time the police took it from her, it was covered in the writer’s own blood.

  EROTOMANIA

  LESS THAN AN HOUR AFTER THE MURDER, Memphis’s Chief of Police knocked on the front door of the Mitchell’s fashionable home on Union Street. Chief Davis was sorry to disturb “Uncle George,” as the retired salesman was affectionately called, and sorrier still for the decidedly unpleasant nature of the call. He had come to arrest George Mitchell’s youngest daughter for the murder of Freda Ward.

  George had been expecting him. He readied himself and Alice for a trip to the jailhouse, just a few minute’s walk from the scene of the crime. He waited patiently as Davis booked his nineteen-year-old daughter on the charge of murder, amiably chatting with jailers, all sympathetic friends who promised to look after Alice while he sought legal representation.

  By eight o’clock that evening, George returned with two of the most prominent, expensive attorneys in Eastern Tennessee, if not the entire state. Both Colonel George Gantt and General Luke Wright were affluent, respectable Memphians from old, Southern families. They had emerged as community leaders after a series of yellow fever outbreaks in the 1870s all but ruined the city; Memphis’s charter was revoked, the economy
stalled, and its population dwindled, with thousands buried and many more having fled, never to return.13

  Col. Gantt was considered Memphis’s preeminent litigator, peerless in legal research and unrivaled in courtroom debate. The firm that bore his name was a breeding ground for high level political and business leaders, whose power and wealth gave them an extraordinary degree of influence in the South.

  Gen. Wright, son of a Tennessee Supreme Court Justice, had a distinct advantage in the case. His title was honorific, bestowed upon him for a commendable job as attorney general in Shelby County, where the Mitchell-Ward case would be heard. He would go on to collect far more titles in his career, serving as the first United States Ambassador to Japan, and then as Secretary of War under President Theodore Roosevelt.

  Despite the defense’s legal prowess, it was George Mitchell, and not the lawyers he hired, who determined Alice’s plea. It was not the first time he had peremptorily imposed a diagnosis in his family. George had placed his wife, Isabella in the hospital after she gave birth at home—three times—deeming what was likely postpartum depression as behavior unsuitable for a wife and mother.14

  On the very night Alice had slashed a seventeen-year-old woman’s throat, her father convinced two formidable lawyers that his daughter could not be tried for murder. There was no denying that she had killed Freda—Alice had already confessed, and there were plenty of witnesses—but in 1892, her motive was utterly inconceivable to them. Alice’s insistence that she killed Freda because she loved her and could not stand the idea of anyone else having her, and that the young women had planned to marry, seemed nothing short of insane.

  BY THE TIME GANTT AND WRIGHT EMERGED from Alice’s cell that evening, they had an interview in hand and a plan of action.

  No one outside of the judicial system would be allowed to speak to Alice, and those within it would be closely supervised. By denying access to their client, Gantt and Wright could carefully manage Alice’s story, since any reports disseminated through the press could possibly set the tone for the entire trial.

  Their first opportunity to steer the public narrative presented itself the moment Alice’s newly formed defense team exited the jailhouse. News of a well-to-do white woman turned murderess were rapidly circulating through Memphis. Gawkers and journalists alike had already begun swarming outside of the building, desperate for any information about what was rumored to have been—to use what would become one of their favorite words for the case—an unnatural crime. They were desperate to hear Alice’s side of the story, and happy to accept the version Gantt and Wright were peddling. And the defense was more than happy to see the press and spectators repeat what they had heard as if it were firsthand account, as if they had heard the words spoken by Alice herself.

  But Gantt and Wright had no intention of giving them the whole statement that night. Borrowing from a publishing format usually reserved for works of fiction, they serialized Alice’s interview, releasing it in bits and pieces over the next few days, keeping reporters and readers tantalized and hungry for more. The defense made good use of the time in-between the daily publication, seeking out a team of medical experts to add weight to the plea they hoped to file—present insanity—and all in time to be printed in the next installment.

  Gantt and Wright were no strangers to mass media. They understood the public’s bottomless desire for sensational news stories, especially for crimes of passion. They correctly anticipated that the Mitchell case, a cornucopia of scandalous detail, would attract unprecedented attention. The inescapable din of news reports, gossip, and fervent speculation would surely reach the ears of potential jurors.

  Steering the press’s narrative was also the quickest way to get to Judge Julius DuBose, who presided over all the cases in the jailhouse. It was easy enough to predict he would turn to the Memphis Public Ledger first. Not only had he started his career as an editor at the Public Ledger, but the paper had the clear advantage over all the other outlets: It was the first, longest running, and most popular evening paper in Memphis. If any newspapers were going to influence the judge, it would be the Public Ledger. The reports and editorials in the paper not only had the potential to spin their own version of the latest details in the case, but more importantly, serve as a daily performance review of the judge himself. It was possible that, after reading the nightly paper, Judge DuBose would take its opinions into consideration as much as the evidence presented in court.

  In 1892, there were more than a dozen papers in Memphis, all of which were owned by local white men who wielded power in various realms.15 This was business as usual in the press; even Wright, just a few years earlier, had gladly stepped up as one of the first investors in the Memphis Commercial. Powerful Memphians backed their pet publications in order to further their business, personal, and political agendas. These competing factions modeled themselves after New York’s lucrative, mass circulation papers, where advertisers paid top dollar to appear next to a sensational story, in turn sending the newspapers’ circulations soaring.16

  This was certainly the practice of the Public Ledger and the Commercial. But to be truly successful in shaping opinions statewide—and as it would turn out, around the nation—Gantt and Wright would have to win over the Memphis Appeal Avalanche.

  The Appeal Avalanche was the largest morning paper in the city, and made bold claims on the entire state of Tennessee. Though just a couple of years old, it possessed two things no other paper in Memphis had: a linotype machine and an exclusive deal with the Associated Press.17 The linotype produced an entire line of metal type at once, a far more efficient and faster means of publishing than the old industry standard, the manual process of setting type letter-by-letter. The Associated Press was around forty years old by the time the Appeal Avalanche joined, and the news cooperative had enjoyed a legendary reputation for dramatically increasing the transmission of news across the country since the Civil War.

  Just before midnight, local papers sent what little information they had about the murder of Freda Ward through the wire, and by morning, big urban dailies in major cities were already desperate for more. Nothing in Memphis had ever attracted such national interest, and thus none of the national, mass circulation papers had reporters stationed in the vicinity. As they scrambled to tap local journalists, the largest, most far-flung American newspapers, including the New York World and the San Francisco Chronicle, ordered their staff writers to board the next train to Tennessee.

  IN THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED THE MURDER, nearly every newspaper in the country eagerly printed fact alongside fiction, eschewing even the most basic research efforts in favor of speedy transmission. The out-of-towners were exempt from local redress, and those newspapers took liberties with even the smallest details. The North American of Philadelphia aged seventeen-year-old Freda to nineteen, and reported that the young women’s estrangement began because “Freda’s friends considered Miss Mitchell ‘too fast.’”

  The New York Times misspelled Lillie Johnson’s first and last name, identifying her as “Lizzie Johnston,” and offered a muddled timeline in which Alice first murdered Freda, and then cut Jo.18 Memphis readers would have immediately questioned the article’s sub-headline, in which the paper of record erroneously identified Alice as a “society girl.” In the social hierarchy of the South, slave-owning families who had made millions in cotton and horse breeding were “familiar figures in society,” not a merchant’s daughter. Similarly, Freda, the daughter of a machinist who had sought greater prospects up river in Golddust—and came from a family that was far less well-to-do than the Mitchells—was not a member of Tennessee’s semi-aristocratic class. Neither girl had made the guest lists at parties the Memphis elite staged on their sprawling estates, many of which still operated as plantations.

  But local newspapers specialized in their own brand of creative reporting, including embellishments that read more like popular fiction than true crime. Judge DuBose’s former employer, the Public Ledger, described the mur
der scene with flourish:

  Grasping her by the hair Miss Mitchell pulled her head back, exposing the round, white throat. Again the keen razor was brought into play, and this time it did its work with frightful completeness. The girl was almost beheaded, and fell fainting to the ground, which was soon drenched with her rushing blood.19

  The racial identifiers—the New York Times emphasized Freda’s “white bosom” and the Public Ledger spoke of her “white throat”—were visceral scare tactics used to remind readers that these were the kind of people they knew and cared about.20 Journalists knew that the story would be far less consequential to readers if the murderer and victim had been male, not white, or of lesser economic means. And if they could punctuate the scene with a subtly sexualized near-beheading, all the better.

  TO AMERICAN READERS IN THE 1890S, the most confusing part of the Mitchell case had little to do with inconsistent reporting. The early headlines emphasized how confounding the very idea of same-sex love was in the first place. Reporters relied heavily on words like “unnatural,” “strange,” and “perverted.”

  When all else failed, reporters attempted to explain that Alice was “a man” in the relationship. Though, they conceded, not masculine in her dress or countenance, her supposedly hidden proclivity toward all things male was yet another way reporters could contrast Alice with “normal” young women. In an interview with the Appeal Avalanche, Gantt explained that Alice had quietly, but consistently, defied gender norms her entire life:

  . . . everything she has done, her peculiarities, whether during her infancy she played with dolls or other such toys in which the average female delights, whether she had a fondness for those of her own or the opposite sex, all of these will be circumstances going to show the state and quality of her mind.21