Alice + Freda Forever: A Murder in Memphis (13 page)

It was one thing to allow women inside the courtroom—seated apart from men, of course—but no individual woman’s place was secure. Judge DuBose took a particular dislike to one Sarah Davis, whom the press quickly nicknamed “Buckskin Lou.” Her greatest transgression seemed to be in occupying a seat between two white women even though she looked “like a Mexican,” and wore a dress with a bright print. Judge DuBose criticized her each day of Lillie’s habeas corpus hearing, until finally, he expelled her. Like everyone else in the courtroom, Sarah Davis had worked hard to secure a seat, showing up early and claiming a spot amid the tussle, and
she was not about to give it up without a fight. After the court adjourned, she waited for the judge, and a heated scene quickly ensued, much to the delight of reporters standing nearby.

“Go away, woman; I don’t want to talk to you,” Dubose said. “I won’t go away. I know my rights. I won’t be ordered out.” “Mr. Officer,” said the judge, “take this woman to jail.”
⁶⁴

Judge DuBose took every opportunity to exercise his authority over the court’s eager spectators, which only deepened the tensions in and around the Criminal Court, and heightened the public’s already anxious anticipation to see defendants and witnesses in person.

And then, it finally happened: Alice Mitchell and Lillie Johnson entered the courtroom, leaning heavily on the strong arms of their escorts, George Mitchell and J.M. Johnson, respectively. Either their older female relatives were absent, or the women had become so skilled in the art of self-effacement that not a single newsman noted their presence.

M
UCH TO THE PUBLIC’S DISAPPOINTMENT
,
Alice did not stay long. Her lawyers, still eager to control her story, would have preferred that she never enter the courthouse at all that day. Gantt and Wright almost certainly forbade Lillie’s attorney, a junior at their own firm, to call Alice to testify at his client’s habeas corpus hearing. Alice’s lawyers hoped to make it to the final verdict without ever having their client utter a word in public.

Unfortunately for them, Alice’s presence in court that day was necessary for the defense’s motion. The Ward family had entrusted Freda’s collection of love letters to the state, and it had become a real point of contention. Gantt and Wright had already sent several requests to the attorney general’s office, but they refused to furnish the letters until the trial. But Alice’s lawyers were desperate to see them now, not when their client’s lunacy inquisition finally arrived. At best, a surprise would leave them scrambling, and at worst, it would determine whether or not their client would hang.

As the
New York Times
predicted, prosecutor George Peters countered the motion by making his own request “for an order requiring the defense
to permit him to inspect certain letters in their possession, which he would very much like to get a peep at.”
⁶⁵
But Peters was not particularly interested in seeing the defense’s letters. He was, in fact, far more concerned by the level of interest the defense had in his letters, which he kept locked away in the attorney general’s office.

Peters was a respected prosecutor with personal experience when it came to crimes of passion: His own father, Dr. George Peters, Sr., had murdered Confederate major Earl Van Dorn for supposedly having an affair with his wife. But nothing in Peters’s background, or the ample evidence he believed proved Alice was sane and should be tried for murder, seemed to help him with this case. He was overextended in his current post, and far too reliant on young, relatively inexperienced assistants.
⁶⁶
The battle for public opinion had already exposed his office’s weaknesses, and so Peters, eager to gain back some advantage, strenuously argued against the defense’s request for the letters. And for once, he was met with some success. Judge DuBose was uncharacteristically swift in granting him the right to keep all letters sealed until Alice’s lunacy inquisition.

After their motion was denied, throngs of disappointed journalists and curious observers watched the entire Mitchell family, including Alice, of course, file out of the newly expanded courtroom. They had come no closer to seeing Freda’s letters, nor had the public seen or heard anything noteworthy from the murderess herself. And it would be months before they would see her again, not until winter and spring had passed, and summer was in full bloom.

C
OMPARED TO THE
M
ITCHELLS
,
the Johnsons were of modest means. But they had the good fortune to live near “one of the most promising young men at the bar,” as the
Commercial
put it. The Johnsons had become
well-acquainted with their young neighbor, Malcolm Rice Patterson, and at just the right time: Had they attempted to procure his services just a few years later, he surely would have been too busy to take on their case.
⁶⁷
Patterson was a Southern Democrat steadily climbing the political ranks; by 1907, he would be the Governor of Tennessee.

Patterson came from an old Memphis family of great prestige. His father, Colonel Josiah Patterson, had been a formidable Confederate commander during the Civil War, and went on to be a representative in the Tennessee State legislature, a candidate for governor, and a member of U.S. Congress. He had joined his father’s law firm, Gantt and Patterson, and it behooved him to work closely with Gantt himself on such a high profile case.

He was tasked with convincing Judge DuBose that Lillie had made the innocent mistake of getting into Alice’s buggy on the wrong day. Lillie had no prior knowledge of Alice’s intention to murder Freda, and she was unaware of what was happening even as the crime was being committed. Lillie’s entire focus that afternoon, Patterson would argue, was not on revenge against Freda or loyalty toward Alice, but most immediately on her young nephew, who was in her care. Lillie was a family-oriented young woman who belonged back at home with her loved ones, not in jail with a murderess who everyone knew—because Patterson’s own law firm repeatedly told them—was insane.

Newspapers tended to portray Lillie as a vulnerable, deferential young woman. There was much talk of her public displays of “nervous prostration.” She was understood to fare poorly under even the slightest emotional strain, and the case was believed to have greatly exacerbated her condition, leaving her visibly pale, exhausted, and physically weak. Her father or brother was usually by her side when she stood or walked, and as close as possible when she sat in court or was returned to her cell, should she be suddenly overcome by these most unfortunate circumstances. It was suggested that she suffered from “female hysteria,” a catchall diagnosis for
women who appeared faint and nervous; symptoms included insomnia, sexual desire, and shortness of breath. This affliction—which is no longer recognized by physicians—was used to describe almost any undesirable emotion. In court, it would work in Lillie’s favor.

And she would need every advantage she could get. The grand jury had, after all, indicted Lillie. Even the press, who doubted her involvement in the murder, remained unsure as to whether or not she was a good, pious girl in the wrong place at the wrong time, or a “fast,” perverse girl who might as well remain in jail with Alice, lest she start consorting with the chaste daughters of Memphis in her friend’s absence.

In the courtroom, the public learned about Lillie’s less than virtuous behavior. The rumors that she flirted with streetcar conductors were not going away, nor was this immodest behavior the end of the story.
⁶⁸
Like Alice, Freda, Jo, and presumably many of the students at Miss Higbee’s, Lillie had answered ads placed by young men in the matrimonial papers. During an era when courting options were limited, there were publications, like San Francisco’s
Matrimonial News
—which had originally catered to lonely men who ventured West during the Gold Rush—that were entirely dedicated to putting single people into direct, and often unsupervised, contact. Although the young ladies of Memphis had access to such periodicals, they were more likely to use the local paper’s classified sections, where bachelors placed advertisements.

Under the pseudonym Jessie Rita James, Lillie exchanged flirtatious letters with, as the
New York Times
called them, “callow youths.” The letters were themselves relatively harmless, but the press and prosecution called her propriety into question. Why, they asked, had she kept her identity a secret? Why had she kept the correspondence hidden? Knowing that her mother would certainly disapprove, Lillie had taken care in concealing her actions, relying on her brother’s downtown office to funnel correspondence. No one was suggesting that Lillie had met these men in person, but the matter was clear. She consistently engaged in an unseemly activity—which could have easily crossed into the realm of true scandal—and she had demonstrated a capacity for subterfuge. Lillie had taken dangerous risks and lied unabashedly. Were those not the traits of a person who acted as an accessory to murder?

Even if Lillie was not
legally
culpable for the bloody events of January 25, in the eyes of the nation, Alice was as a cautionary tale. Freda’s murder
illustrated that any young woman’s misdeeds, no matter how slight, could quickly turn into the worst and most vicious form of immorality.

Lillie’s continued loyalty to Alice only encouraged such speculation. Much was made of the cell Alice and Lillie shared, but no one seemed to care whether or not there was another option. There were only two private rooms in the jail, and the other one was occupied by a man who was also charged with murder; she could have been grouped together in a communal cell with women of ill repute, who were being held on charges like larceny, or far worse. Still, they wondered, why would an innocent woman agree to share a confined space with an admitted murderess, especially one with “unnatural” proclivities?
⁶⁹
If Lillie was engaged in this type of behavior, even under such public scrutiny, then what, the paper insinuated, would she do when nobody was watching?

Her relationship with Alice, one that long predated the murder, was clearly at the heart of the matter. Alice longed for a life outside of what the domestic sphere offered her, and could not be controlled by family or social norms. She had openly rebelled against the rules of society—and Lillie had been just mere feet away during most of it.

The most compelling evidence against Lillie was not her proximity to the crime scene, but rather her assistance on a number of Alice’s prior spy missions, including an expedition just a week before the murder. Alice had asked Lillie to join her in confirming her suspicion that Freda was lying about her departure date, and she had obliged, accompanying Alice onboard a Golddust-bound steamer. This suggested, the prosecution argued, that Lillie knew of Alice’s machinations, and was indeed an active participant.

But, of course, Lillie knew very little about Alice and Freda’s relationship. Yes, she had witnessed the aftermath, when the Wards suddenly and inexplicably severed ties with both Alice and Lillie, but by the time she discovered the case, it was already front page news. When she boarded that steamer, Lillie was working under the mistaken assumption that they were
simply seeking answers about the sudden rupture. In a letter to Jo—which went unanswered—she sought the very information that everyone, the Wards and Alice alike, had been keeping from her.