Slavery by Another Name (40 page)

of the peace and sawmil manager who worked for John Pace. He

told the jury that in the previous eight years he had tried some

workers who ended up working for Pace, but Kennedy was evasive

about exactly how many. The handwrit en docket book, in which

the records of the arrests and trials would have been maintained,

had been lost a lit le more than a year earlier, Kennedy testi ed.

His new docket book contained entries relating only to a dozen

His new docket book contained entries relating only to a dozen

black workers—the exact same workers, remarkably, whom federal

agents had interviewed in the previous few weeks.

Kennedy con dently worked through the cases of each African

American, crisply pointing out how the proper procedures had

been fol owed, appropriate charges al eged, and necessary a davits

signed in every instance. He was con dent even about his handling

of the case of Joe Pat erson, who one week earlier told jurors the

harrowing story of his at empted escape from Pace's farm after

being repeatedly beaten. Pat erson was tracked by dogs for miles,

deep into the woods. Trapped on the bank of the Tal apoosa River,

he jumped in a smal boat tied nearby and paddled across the

water. But Pat erson was soon captured by a posse of "man-hunters"

on horseback, yelping dogs, and guards from Pace's farm. Wet and

exhausted, Pat erson was beaten with sts, boots, and sticks. Then

the white men dragged him before Kennedy for a new trial.

Those events were barely two months old when Kennedy

testi ed. He told the jury in dispassionate detail that the

proceedings against Pat erson were handled entirely within the

technicalities of Alabama law. Pat erson was ordered to work out

his original contract with Pace and an additional six months for

at empting to break the rst contract he was coerced into. When

that year of labor was nished Pat erson would be held for a third

six-month period, Kennedy ruled, for "removing a boat from its

moorings."

"Note," Kennedy reminded jurors, lifting an index nger into the

air. "In none of these cases that I have spoken about did I ever

receive one cent of costs, nor was I paid in any other way by Mr.

Pace or anybody else for trying these cases."21

The testimony of the white men in the slavery ring was crisply

consistent: al of the black men and women held to forced labor

were properly convicted of crimes; they freely agreed to be leased

as laborers; and they were never physical y abused. But outside the

courtroom, the men at the center of the investigation hardly

courtroom, the men at the center of the investigation hardly

behaved as if they were innocent. They began a campaign of

witness tampering and intimidation.

Worried that he would be charged, Mayor White in Goodwater

boarded a train in early May to Columbus, Georgia, to warn John

G. Dun-bar, the marshal who had assisted in seizing so many black

men, about the investigation. "White did not want to be indicted,"

Dunbar later testified.22

G. B. Walker, the lawyer who had helped bring at ention to the

slaving operations and set free Caldwel and Pat erson, got an

ominous let er from his cousin in Tal apoosa County. "Those people

there were his fel ow townsmen and his friends, and asked me not

to stir up anything," Walker recal ed the let er saying. "He said …for

his sake not to do anything against these parties."23

Mat Davis—the brother of John Davis—was seized from a train,

locked in the Goodwater jail, and threatened by the brother of

Robert Franklin. The white man warned Davis's father that he

would "shoot you as sure as hel " if the older man interfered.

Released several days later, Mat began hiding in the woods at

night.24

Despite the e orts to frighten the growing number of accusers,

the accounts of kidnappings and violence were making an

impression on the jury in Montgomery. Even Alabama newspaper

editors, embarrassed by national reports about the investigation,

excoriated the accused slave dealers. The ringleaders were growing

nervous. Kennedy began to wonder if he should tel the truth.

After giving testimony on May 15, Kennedy, George Cosby, and

one of the other guards from Pace's farm shared a wagon for a wet

ride back to Tal-lapoosa County. A steady drizzle pelted the men as

the mule strained to drag the hack down a pit ed, red-mud road.

Deep in the bush, the wagon broke down. The men were forced to

walk through the cold springtime muck. Cosby was frantic at the

delay. He said he needed "to be at home and get niggers out of the

way so that no papers could be served on them from the United

States court," Kennedy later testi ed. Cosby hired a horse at the rst

States court," Kennedy later testi ed. Cosby hired a horse at the rst

set lement the men reached and raced ahead. Kennedy and the

guard trudged on in the rain, certain Cosby intended to murder

witnesses.

A week later, the three men nervously sat down to a meal

together. Cosby had lost his nerve and kil ed no one. But suddenly

he reached into his shirt pocket and pul ed out a package of

morphine. Kennedy tried to wrestle it away from him. "It wil come

to this," Cosby shouted. "I am going to be convicted, and before I

wil be convicted I wil destroy myself. It is a heap bet er than to go

to the penitentiary and disgrace my family"25

At the same time, Pace and Turner hastily began freeing forced

laborers on their farms and at the quarry. Some disappeared

entirely, their fates unknown. Other blacks were warned by the

white men—or through other black employees—not to cooperate

with the federal investigation. Indeed, of the dozens of black

workers being held against their wil when Kennedy conducted the

1900 census, almost none could be located by federal agents three

years later.

On May 23, a few days after Kennedy wrestled the morphine

away from Cosby, Secret Service Agent McAdams stepped o the

rst morning train to arrive in Goodwater. McAdams walked in the

bright sunlight to Robert Franklin's mercantile store, pushed open

the glass-plated door, and informed the constable that the grand

jury had handed up an indictment for holding black workers in

peonage. Franklin, and ve others whom McAdams wouldn't

identify, were named in the indictment. By nightfal , Franklin sat in

a cel at the Montgomery County jail.

Kennedy's anxiety was growing. He had participated in dozens of

bogus trials, though he had never reaped the nancial rewards of

Pace, Turner, and the Cosbys. He was certain the government—and

perhaps his employers— would eventual y try to pin the slave trade

on him. Kennedy told one of the Secret Service agents in Tal apoosa

County he was wil ing to testify again— this time tel ing the truth.

County he was wil ing to testify again— this time tel ing the truth.

A week after Franklin's arrest, Kennedy went back to

Montgomery and stunned the grand jury. He admit ed trying scores

of black laborers to force them to work for Pace, Turner, and Cosby.

He could recal at least thirty cases in which he didn't make any

record of the proceedings or report a verdict to the county judge, as

he was required to do by law. It was clear from Kennedy's

testimony that the tra c in African Americans hadn't been limited

to men. The white landowners sought out nearly half a dozen black

women as wel , Kennedy said, with the clear implication that they

were seized for sexual services. "There were many others, but I can't

remember their names now," Kennedy said.

He claimed to have initial y used his authority as a justice of the

peace properly, but that eventual y the white landowners he

worked for demanded that he convict any black laborer they

desired. "They would send one there and have an a davit made,"

Kennedy said. The black man would be arrested, ned, and sent to

whichever farmer had arranged the arrest.

"The agreement was there was no record to be kept," Kennedy

testified. Nearly every case, he said, "was a trumped up af air."26

Other white men, fearful of the mounting evidence, began

breaking their silence about the truth of the slave farms. Wilburn

Haralson, a young farmer living near the Pace plantation, testi ed

that the Cosbys compel ed him to swear out false charges against

several black men whose sentences to work for them were about to

expire. "I was afraid not to do it, I was afraid of those folks,"

Haralson testi ed. "I was afraid they would get me in some scrape,

swear some lie on me, and get me into it, and I had a wife and

children."

A black woman named Mat ie Turner was held on the farm

inde nitely, falsely accused of prostitution, Haralson swore. The

implication was clear that Turner was held for the sexual

exploitation of the farm. He knew of at least one slave worker who

had been murdered by a relative of the Cosbys. Haralson said few

African Americans ever escaped. George and Burancas Cosby

African Americans ever escaped. George and Burancas Cosby

patrol ed their farms with guns and used special y trained

bloodhounds to track any who tried to take ight. "They had nigger

dogs," he said. "There were two dogs at George Cosby's and two

dogs at Burancas Cosby's house."27

On May 28, U.S. Deputy Marshal A. B. Colquit hauled Francis M.

Pruit , the constable and livery stable keeper in Goodwater, to

Montgomery to hear his indictment read aloud. A total of six

indictments were handed up against Pruit and two justices of the

peace, outlining for the rst time publicly how Pace's slaving

network operated.28

The indictment charged Pruit with "forcibly seizing the body of

Ed Moody, a negro," in Coosa County and sel ing him on April 3,

1903, to Pace, who had held him against his wil since then. At the

courthouse on the day of his indictment, Pruit claimed he had

never seen Moody and didn't know Pace. Appointed to his position

as a constable by former Alabama governor Wil iam Jelks, Pruit

stoutly defended his county, claiming that Coosa citizens are "as

good as any in the State." The town of Goodwater was an

"especial y law-abiding community," he added. Without qualms,

Pruit told a newspaper reporter that as a constable he had

"frequently" arrested African Americans who then were ned by a

local magistrate and "paid out" by local white farmers. But he

insisted this was entirely within the law. The Montgomery

Advertiser reported that his claim had "an honest ring."

The fol owing day, Pace returned to Montgomery. This time, he

was accompanied from Dadevil e by U.S. marshal A. B. Colquit .

The men arrived at Union Station at dusk and headed directly to

the courtroom of Judge Jones. Pace was informed he had been

named in eight indictments as the buyer of black men seized by

local constables. Reese recounted key evidence gathered against

Pace—maintaining that one Negro woman had been kil ed on his

farm, that men and women had been forced to work nude for lack

of clothing, and that the laborers were mercilessly beaten.

of clothing, and that the laborers were mercilessly beaten.

Pace brought with him to the courtroom a bond posted by

Wil iam Gray, the Dadevil e banker who at Pace's direction had

paid out the cash used to purchase most of the enslaved black

workers.29 When the bond turned out to be insu cient, Jones

al owed Pace to travel back home with the marshal in tow to make

new arrangements to avoid jail. Pace expressed his appreciation

and retired to a Montgomery hotel to await the next morning's train

to Tal apoosa County.

Outside the courthouse that night, Pace insisted to a newspaper

reporter that he was innocent of any wrongdoing, even as he

conceded without hesitation that he had purchased men from Coosa

County o cials and worked them on his farm. He said the African

Americans were put into the prison maintained on his property,

where they and the convicts were watched over by hired guards and

hound dogs trained to track men.

He described buying John Davis from Robert Franklin for $70,

but said Davis begged to be left at the farm. Pace said he explained

to Davis that he would be held with the county convicts and treated