The Frank Case, Atlanta 1913

⁣Three men from the Atlanta Police Department rescued Newt Lee from the night shift by giving the watch a tour of the factory building. It was a typical night for police reporters. Restful nights make tiring nights, but welcome hours mean the big office presses churn out paper to help pass the time for the villagers before breakfast and Sunday services begin.

Good night, boss. They ran up the stone steps of the station building, screaming. Good night. They gathered on the streets of Decatur in the evening fog, filled with the cheerful, smiling black people who surrounded them that day. The stench of hot dogs and fried fish was all that remained of the crowds that once filled the streets from sidewalk to sidewalk. One person said: "Where's Britt at?" he asked. Another person replied: "I think they took Boots Rogers' car," making the pair laugh. Accordingly, the second reporter remained in the car and returned to the officer's place in the station building to continue reporting until dawn. A thin line of light appeared on the smoky eastern horizon.

The station clock read 3 o'clock as the street lights glowed blue. That evening, the officer charged with disorderly conduct heard someone crying somewhere in a cell behind the station. She screamed and cried all night and those painful cries were only because she was exhausted. At the door, an old man with a chevron hat indicating he was in charge of the department called out, "Sergeant." "Make sure he keeps his mouth shut," said the sergeant, sighing and swaying, waving the keys. Deputy Boots was about to begin another crack at the Grace case when Rogers' phone rang.

"That's great." Officer ⁣W.T. Anderson said. Curious to know who was ringing the doorbell at this time of night, I sleepily walked over to the public phone booth door and opened it. His fellow officers looked at him before taking their seats. Mom, come. "Hello" came from the booth. Yes, the police station is here. Please speak slowly, senior. You confuse me. Then he heard from a black man who stood anxiously in the shade of a pencil factory a few blocks away that a dead girl had been found in the basement of the National Pencil Factory on Forsyth Street. When Officer Anderson, who had been awakened by an emergency, came out of the public phone booth with the news, the sleeping police jumped to their feet. "My car is in front." cried Rogers. We come together. A moment later he was standing in the doorway, followed by Anderson. They jumped into the car together and woke up a sleeping reporter, and the three stood on the side of the road, spraying water and covering the floor as other policemen left a trail behind the dust and flashing red lights.

As the car approached, two men were seen at the corner of Prior and Decatur streets. The officers were Brown and Dobbs. The car started shaking and all cried. Rogers, and the big car barely swayed toward Marietta Street, then swerved forward and came to a screeching halt in a black pile of what he recognized as the National Pencil Company. Four people got out of the car.

Officer Anderson pounded on the door and everyone gasped with excitement. Quiet footsteps were heard inside. Newt Lee's horrified face looked up at them as the lock shook furiously. Teeth chatter and the whites of the eyes roll. They shot him and entered the dark gates of the factory. Lee was in the lead, followed by Anderson. Before either officer could say anything, "Horrible picture," "Where's the body?" he believed. One by one the men moved towards the hook, clutching their revolvers tightly. Newt Lee pointed to an object in the corner with a worried look and led the group into the shadows, up the stairs. he grumbled. "This is. The officers knelt down and examined the girl's horribly mutilated body.


He stood motionless in the sawdust, his legs crossed and his head turned forward. The face is facing the wall, unkempt and bruised with dirt. The men knelt down to take a closer look, and as they did so the severity of their injuries became clear. They confirmed that the young white woman's hair had been pulled out and she was covered in blood after an aggressive blow to the back of the head. The little white slipper still hung from her right foot, and the blue ribbon she had casually tied a few hours ago was now faded and dirty. The lavender silk dress was stained with blood. A thick cord with deep holes in the leather wraps around the neck. Rough fabric torn from his shirt wrapped around his head. The body is upside down. My pants are torn.


The stocking holder is broken. The white stockings hung down to my knees by themselves. "Oh my God, he's just a kid." Sergeant Brown said, throwing his head back. Sergeant Dobbs looked around the basement as they stood. He found the girl's other slippers nearby. His thin hat is near the elevator shaft.

Then he discovered something. When he turned to the candlestick, he was holding two dirty yellow pieces of paper with ugly writing on them. Officers reviewed the records. She said she loved me and lay down like a night witch. But the tall, thin black man did it alone. Another reader here who hired a black person had a mother who did.

When I went to draw water, he pushed me out of this hole. Black black tall, tall, awake. He was black, tall and thin. While my friends play, I write. The moment of doubt that any white person would have turned to Mr. Lee, a black man. What was that? What does it mean? Did the author of this post commit this heinous act? Anderson suddenly turns to guard and throws a rough hand on his shoulder. He said, "Hey, you did it." I didn't do it because of God. Moments later, white men saw Anderson cuffing Newt Lee's wrists and arrested him for the murder.