will outrage any segment of society. In 1913, anyone who dared to make that charge had better have been prepared to die for it.
“Daddy, why did Governor Slaton commute Leo Frank’s sentence?”
“This is one question that our family still asks today. We do not accept Governor Slaton’s explanation in his order. There had to be something else. No man will willingly commit political suicide; but he did just that with the commutation order. I’ve done some research on my own, but I know no more today than my grandmother did back in 1915. I’ve found certain things about Governor Slaton that are hard to accept but are facts.
“The Atlanta newspapers of 1913 show the law firm of Rosser & Brandon, 708 Empire, and the law firm of Slaton & Phillips, 723 Grant Building, as merging. Then the 1914 Atlanta Directory shows the law firm of Rosser, Brandon, Slaton & Phillips, 719-723 Grant Building. They were also listed in the Atlanta Directory in 1915 and 1916. Slaton was a member of the law firm that defended Leo Frank.
“Governor Slaton was a man that Georgia loved and admired until June 21st, 1915. Then love turned to hate. The people believed that Governor Slaton had been bought. His action caused the people of Georgia to take the law into their own hands, to form a vigilante group and seek justice that they believed had been denied them.
“Governor Slaton had Leo Frank moved from Atlanta for his own protection. He was moved to the Milledgeville Prison Farm, just south of Macon. The vigilante group travelled by car, Model T Fords, and removed Frank from prison. All of them were respected citizens. They called themselves the ‘Knights of Mary Phagan’ and this group later became the impetus for the modern Klu Klux Klan.
“Remember, there were no paved roads in those days. This trip was made at night. Not one guard was hurt, not one shot was fired, not one door was forced. The prison was opened to them. Many in Georgia felt that justice was being done! It was the intent of the vigilantes to take Leo Frank to the Marietta Square and hang him there. Dawn caught up with them before they could reach Marietta. They stopped in a grove not far from where little Mary was buried. Then they carried out his original sentence, ‘to be hung by the neck until dead.’”
Shaken, I asked, “Daddy, were there any Phagans at the lynching?”
He gave me a simple answer. “No! And, everyone knew the identity of the lynchers. But not one man was charged with the death of Leo Frank, not one man was ever brought to trial.”
The next question I asked upset him tremendously: “How do you feel about the lynching, Daddy?”
He related to me what his father had felt when he had talked about the lynching. Grandfather felt that justice had been served—and so did the rest of the family.
But I would not let up. “But how do you feel, Daddy?”
“I feel the same way my family did, justice prevailed.” To understand the actions that these men took on August 17, 1915,1 would have to try and transport myself to those times, he said. “You must try to understand what they felt, what would drive them to take the lav/ into their own hands. You must not try to judge yesterday by today’s standards. By doing this, you are second-guessing history and no one, but no one, has ever been able to do that.”
“Daddy, how about Jim Conley? What part did he have in the death of little Mary Phagan?”
My father said that, reportedly, for the first time in the history of the South, a black man’s testimony helped to convict a white man. The best criminal lawyers in the South could not break this semi-literate black man’s story. The circumstantial evidence and Jim Conley’s testimony caused Leo Frank’s conviction for the murder of little Mary Phagan.
“Your grandfather told me—and this can be confirmed by my sister Annabelle—that he had met with Jim Conley in 1934, in our home, to discuss the trial and the part Conley had played in helping Leo Frank dispose of the body of little Mary.” My father became adamant: “There is no way my father would have let Jim Conley live if he believed that he had murdered little Mary.”
My father then related the conversation that my grandfather told him had taken place. He said to Jim Conley, “Let’s sit down and talk awhile, Jim.”
And Jim said, “OK.”
My grandfather then said, “I want to know how you helped Mr. Frank.”
Jim said, “Well, I watched for Mr. Frank like before and then he stomped and whistled which meant for me to unlock the door and then I went up the steps. Mr. Frank looked funny. He told me that he wanted to be with the little girl, she refused and he struck her and she fell. When I saw her, she was dead.”
Grandfather asked, “But why did you help him if you knew it was wrong?”
And Jim said, “I only helped Mr. Frank because he was white and my boss.”
“Were you afraid of Mr. Frank?” my grandfather asked.
Jim answered, “I was afraid if I didn’t do what he told me—him being white and my boss, that I might get hanged. [At that time, it was common for blacks to be hanged.] So, I did as he told me.” Grandfather then asked, “What did you do after you saw that little Mary was dead?”
There are, my father grinned, two versions of that meeting: his sister Annabelle’s and his father’s—my grandfather’s.
The version my Aunt Annabelle told him was that she was coming out of a grocery store and saw their father, William Joshua Phagan, Jr., and a black man walking (she said “nigger”) down Jefferson Street towards the house.
She said to her father:
“Daddy, what are you doing with that nigger man?”
Grandfather said, “Now, don’t you know who this is?
“No, I don’t,” Annabelle said.
And Grandfather said, “This is Jim Conley.”
“Oh, this is the man who helped kill Aunt Mary,” she exclaimed.
Then Jim Conley said, “No, I didn’t kill her but I helped Mr. Frank. I was to burn the body in the furnace but didn’t.”
They went inside the house and talked about an hour in the kitchen.
Annabelle was in the other room watching her brothers (Jack and my father) and her sister Betty.
My father also remembers that his father continually questioned Jim Conley about why he helped Mr. Frank. He recalled that his father got emotional and at times had to hold back the tears.
Jim said, “I got scared. Like I said before, I had to help Mr. Frank—him being white and my boss. Mr. Frank told me to roll her in a cloth and put her on my shoulder, but she was heavy and she fell. Mr. Frank and I picked her up and went to the elevator to the basement. I rolled her out on the floor. Then Mr. Frank went up the ladder and I went on the elevator.”
“Did Mr. Frank tell you to burn little Mary in the furnace?” my grandfather asked.
“Yes, I was to come back later but I drank some and fell asleep,” Jim said.
Then Grandfather said, “Jim, I believe you because if I didn’t I’d kill you myself.” Then, my father recalls clearly, Grandfather
