ALL I WANTED WAS A HOME WHERE MY DAUGHTER IVA COULD GROW UP IN NICE SURROUNDINGS
When we returned to Detroit, Gladys and I stayed with her parents on Cairney Street, on the city’s East Side. But it was never meant to be permanent. I wanted something more for my family—a home of our own, where our daughter Iva could grow up in a safe, stable environment. But for Negro families in the 1920s, simply buying a home in a decent neighborhood was a dangerous act of defiance.
You see, several Black families had dared to cross the invisible line into white neighborhoods—and paid a heavy price. Mobs terrorized them, vandalized their homes, and forced them out of the very properties they had legally purchased. My friend and colleague, Dr. Alexander L. Turner, faced such hatred. So did our dear friend and funeral home owner Vollington Britton, and a local waiter named John Fletcher. Each of them, despite their hard work and lawful ownership, were met not with welcome but with mobs and violence. They were chased out of their homes—and out of their dreams.
Still, we believed we could make a different future. So when my friend and fellow Howard alumnus Julian Perry told me about a house for sale on Garland Street, I had to see it. Gladys fell in love with it instantly. The owners agreed to sell it to us on a land contract for $18,500—nearly twice its market value, but we knew our skin color came with a tax. I paid $3,500 down, and just like that, the house was ours.
We had planned to move in early summer, but growing threats and fear of violence forced us to delay until September 8. That day, I moved in with Gladys, my brothers Henry and Otis, my cousin John Latting, and six trusted friends. We brought furniture—and firearms. Not because we wanted a fight, but because history had taught us to expect one.
That night, a crowd gathered. Curious, tense, and watching. No one acted. But we knew it was far from over.
On the evening of September 9, it erupted. Over 500 white men, women, and even children surrounded our home. They hurled stones, smashed windows, and shouted threats and racial slurs. We were terrified. And when the mob pushed too far, we fired—warning shots, we thought, just enough to make them back off.
But when the smoke cleared, a teenager had been shot in the leg, and an adult male—shot in the back—was dead.
The police came, not to stop the mob, but to arrest us. All eleven of us were charged with murder.
It felt like the end—until the NAACP stepped in. Executive Director James Weldon Johnson sent Walter White, the fearless field secretary who risked everything to travel the country exposing racial violence. He came to our jail cell and vowed the NAACP would stand with us.
His promise gave us a flicker of hope. But we knew better than to expect mercy in a courtroom where justice so often bent to the color line.
Behind the cold iron bars, hope came in the form of one of the most famous lawyers in the country—Clarence Darrow—and his colleague, Arthur G. Hays. Standing with them were three Negro attorneys from Detroit: my friend Julian Perry, along with Cecil Rowlette and Charles Mahoney. Their presence gave us something to hold on to. But the times didn’t. In 1925, when a white person was dead and a Negro stood accused, justice didn’t stand a chance. Not a prayer.
A MAN’S HOME IS HIS CASTLE
As the trial started on October 30, our attorneys faced a monumental task—not just defending us against murder charges, but doing so before an all-white, all-male jury in a nation that too often denied Black people the full rights of citizenship. They weren’t only trying to prove our innocence—they were fighting to humanize us. To make the jury, and the broader public, see us as fathers, sons, husbands, and citizens fully protected under the law.
They built our defense on the foundation of the 14th Amendment—the Equal Protection Clause. They argued that we were entitled to the same protections as any American citizen. That the law did not bend based on skin color. Central to their argument was the “castle doctrine,” a principle affirming that a person has the right to use deadly force to defend their home from an intruder, with no duty to retreat. Our lawyers made it clear: that law didn’t just apply to white homeowners—it applied to us, too.
Fortunately, the man overseeing our trial was Judge Frank Murphy. It was fortuitous that he presided. Judge Murphy was fair, firm, and committed to justice. In a time when many judges would have bent to public pressure, Murphy ensured the judicial playing field was level. He upheld the law with integrity and made sure we received a fair trial—an uncommon gift for Negro defendants in 1925.
When it came time for me to testify, Arthur Garfield Hays—one of the most brilliant members of our defense team—guided me through the story of my life. His questions were sharp but compassionate, designed to let the jury see me not as a threat, but as a man. The prosecution objected again and again, trying to stop me from speaking. But Hays pressed forward, and Judge Murphy allowed me to tell my truth.
I told them about my life—growing up in Bartow, Florida, earning my degrees at Wilberforce and Howard, and becoming a doctor in Detroit’s Black Bottom. I spoke about what mobs did to Negroes—the beatings, the burnings, the lynchings—and how we were forced to live with that terror. I shared my dreams, my family, and what that house on Garland Street meant to us. Then I described the night of September 9, 1925—the shatter of glass, the hate thick in the air, and fear tightening around us like a noose.
Through Hays’ careful questions, I was able to paint a full picture—not just of the violence we faced, but of the injustice we had endured for generations. The jury saw not only what happened, but why it mattered. And for a moment, in that courtroom, they saw me.
As the trial neared its end, Clarence Darrow stood to give the closing argument. His words were not only masterful—they were soul-stirring. He reminded the jury that if a white family had fired into a Black mob under the same circumstances, they would have been celebrated as patriots. But because we were Black, we were being prosecuted for defending our lives. Darrow challenged the conscience of the court. He didn’t just make a legal argument—he delivered a moral reckoning. His voice carried the weight of truth and history.
The jury deliberated for 46 long hours. In the end, they could not agree. A mistrial was declared.
Still, the prosecution wasn’t done with us. They chose to retry the case—this time, focusing solely on my brother Henry, who had admitted to firing a shot. Darrow returned, just as fierce, just as unrelenting. He stood once more before a white jury and made them see the man behind the accusation. After only four hours of deliberation, they returned with a verdict: not guilty.
The remaining charges were dropped. And just like that, we were free.
Across the country, from the pulpits to the pressrooms, our victory was celebrated. For many, it felt like the first crack in the wall of injustice—a sign that the law could, perhaps, work for us too.
But the cost was high. My name had been cleared, but my soul carried scars. I returned to a home that no longer felt like a haven and a city that still whispered threats. The future I once saw so clearly had been clouded by smoke, shattered glass, and broken trust.
Still, I would do it all again. Because every man deserves a home. And every family deserves to live free from fear.
And because sometimes, even in the face of hate, you must stand—not just for yourself, but for those who will come after you.