More than 400 courageous volunteers went on Freedom Rides during the summer of 1961 most of whom were arrested in Jackson, Mississippi, and incarcerated at Parchman Penitentiary. But CORE’s last ride left Los Angeles by train on August 9, 1961, and arrived in Houston, Texas, two days later. Eleven young Californians and seven members of the Progressive Student Association were remanded to the Harris County Downtown Jail after being arrested and refusing bail. The Texas Court of Criminal Appeals reversed their convictions for unlawful assembly on April 4,1962. It was the first appellate court to legally validate any of the Freedom Rides.
Retired San Francisco attorney Steven McNichols is writing a book titled The Last Freedom Ride based on a detailed oral history project done for UCLA when he returned from Houston. Four unannotated excerpts from his heavily documented work in progress offer a fascinating glimpse of what it meant to be a Freedom Rider.
The Union Station Coffee Shop looked smaller and shabbier than I expected, but it still seemed daunting to me. Two rows of red-vinyl-covered booths flanked an undulating Formica counter. Fat layer cakes and colorful fruit pies decorated cold fluorescent display cases. Half-empty Silex urns sat on stainless steel burners. The proprietor was a big fierce-looking man named James D. Burleson who glared with his arms folded across his chest as we entered and sat down. Several waitresses whispered they would be fired if they served us. “This is a terrible place to work,” an older woman said.
A skinny guy with glasses, finding himself trapped between two Freedom Riders, gulped down his food, slapped some money on the counter, and scurried away. Other customers also finished eating and left while we waited stoically for whatever would happen next like so many young people who sat in at railroad terminals and bus stations throughout the Deep South that summer. A couple of boyish Hispanic faces occasionally peered through two oval windows in the swinging doors that separated the dining room from the kitchen. Television crews arrived, set up their equipment, and began filming this event for the six o’clock news as a restless crowd gathered. Reporters interviewed Kaufman, Burleson, and a few onlookers while men wearing cowboy hats strode back and forth. One approached us shaking his fist. “I’ll throw them out if nobody else will!”
A young neatly dressed black student named Herbert Hamilton sat on a stool next to me. Panic constricted my throat as I asked, “Are you sure we’ll be O.K.?”
“Don’t worry,” he said with a warm, reassuring smile. “I’ve sat in before. Nothing will happen to you.”
I actually felt relieved when four Houston police officers finally showed up. We began singing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” softly at first—then louder—while the cops strolled around the coffee shop filling out stacks of “John Doe” warrants charging us with unlawful assembly. “But nobody asked me to leave, officer,” Steve Sanfield said.
“I’m not a judge,” the cop answered.
One by one we were called forward, frisked, and loaded into small blue-and-white paddy wagons. Another young Texas Southern University student named Eddie Jones faced the crowd and raised his hand until everyone grew quiet. “Make my Coke to go,” he said. Some of those who baited us most laughed hardest in spontaneous admiration for Eddie’s remarkable display of nerve.
We continued singing, “Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! His truth is marching on. . . .” at the top of our voices as the railroad terminal receded through the paddy wagon’s small rear window.
The big sliding door drew back slowly with a loud grinding noise punctuated by a harsh clang as it disappeared into the metal housing. It was about two o’clock in the morning, and the dimly lit corridor stretching before us revealed a row of locked cells on the right. A pale, gaunt prisoner still awake in the first cell eyed me with studied indifference. To the left, a narrow passageway led through a wall of bars into a large area filled with obscure shapes that looked like a distant mountain range on a murky summer evening. When I peered closer, this apparition became a shifting mass of prostrate bodies crammed together on tables, benches, and the floor. The deputy sheriff pointed. “Go in there,” he said. “Tell them your names and why you’re here.” Steve Sanfield, Bob Kaufman, Joe Stevenson, and I looked at each other. “Go in there,” the deputy said again.
Another dark hatchet-faced guard confronted us earlier while we were being photographed and fingerprinted in central booking. “What’s the idea of comin’ down here and stirrin’ things up? What’s wrong with you?”
Our quietly intrepid leader, Bob Kaufman, stepped forward. “Listen, all we did was try to buy a cup of coffee in a restaurant. Now we’re in jail. Does that sound like America to you?”
The guard flushed and looked away, his face turbulent, before collecting himself. “In a little while, I’m gonna put you in a tank with over 100 men. They know you’re comin’, they’re waitin’ for you, and they’re pretty tough. So you better watch what you say.”
The heavy steel door banged shut behind us as we entered the large area to the left filled with people. A young pugnacious-looking guy with curly red hair sat up on a table, rubbing his eyes, while other inmates cloistered together on dirty gray mattresses coughed and turned uncomfortably. A few rose and moved forward in the gloom. We told the redheaded guy our names and explained that we were arrested for unlawful assembly, but he just glared at us. “You must be those fuckin’ nigger lovers,” the guy said. Eight or nine prisoners quickly surrounded our dazed little group. Oh, my God.
“Follow me,” another inmate said. They escorted us to the rear of the dining area, ordered several reclining prisoners to move, and pointed at two gray threadbare pallets on the floor.
“Take off your shoes and lie down,” someone else said. We slowly did as we were told. Steve and I lay down on the outside with Bob and Joe between us. I was 22, Bob was 23, and Steve was 24, but Joe was only 18.
The Harris County Downtown Jail’s white male misdemeanor tank in Houston, Texas, was dominated by a small band of hardened criminals who shared common homosexual and sadomasochistic bonds. This clique maintained order, cooperated with authorities, exploited fellow inmates. Their principal weapons were brutality and coercion. The head con—a short emaciated character with pale, almost translucent, skin and a large bulbous nose¾was named Garland although everybody called him “the Commander.” Locked in the first cell for the night, he left another prisoner named Overstreet in charge. “The Lieutenant Commander” was powerfully built with closely cropped steel-gray hair. Both men were older¾more seasoned— than the rest. Overstreet massaged his genitals and pointed at Joe. “He’s good. He’s pussy.”
This observation provoked a litany of obscene racist epithets from the other prisoners looming over us. A tall thin guy with jet black hair crouched beside Steve, tore his glasses off, and started pounding his ribs. My friend screamed and writhed in pain as Joe turned over on his belly and lay still. After a while, the tall guy finished, and the tank became quiet again. Suddenly the same man flew through the air landing on Joe’s back and my chest with both feet. His clenched teeth gleamed in the dim light as he kicked and punched me. Several more inmates joined them. The young guy with curly red hair leaned over, flailing a knotted white towel, while I instinctively covered up and rolled from side to side. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion—like a dream. “Help! Help!” I cried raising myself up on one elbow. Maybe if I run to the front and shout loudly enough, somebody will come. Then I realized it was futile to resist and sank back quietly. When they were done, they stopped. “All right, close your eyes and go to sleep now!” Overstreet yelled.
We lay there frozen with fear—desperately trying to appease him—while our assailants stalked back and forth. They poured some warm liquid on us which trickled down my arm. “You just wanted a cup of coffee?” one said. “Well, here’s your first taste of Texas coffee.”
Time passed with agonizing slowness as the men walked around muttering to each other in the dark and shadowy tank. I thought they were through until I heard a dull metallic thud as Overstreet kicked Bob in the face banging his head against the bars. Blood streamed from behind his right ear. “Are you O.K.?” Joe whispered. Bob nodded and winked while Joe dipped his sleeve into the little red pool gathering between them, but Garland’s chief lieutenant made them both get up and wash their shirts in a nearby sink. Then Steve screamed again when another inmate kicked him in the eye after my friend glanced at him.
“Don’t go wallin’ me!” his assailant shouted. “Keep your eyes shut! Don’t wall-eye me!”
“I wasn’t,” Steve sobbed. “I wasn’t walling you.”
Later I also made the mistake of looking up. “He’s still awake,” someone said.
Overstreet stepped forward, drew back his leg, and kicked me in the face. “Oh, Jesus,” I exclaimed, rolling over on the mattress as warm, acrid-tasting blood seeped into my mouth. I lay motionless while our tormentors paced up and down. What am I doing here?
“Up front, Kaufman!” Garland shouted after dinner two days later. The tank seemed unusually quiet. I could barely make out George Washington, Jr.’s earnest black face peering through a small window in the big sliding door. Our young attorney was the first African-American to graduate from the University of Texas Law School and belonged to a fledgling Houston law firm named Washington, Jefferson & King. None of the messages or “kites” Checkers promised to send were delivered, so George didn’t suspect anything wrong even though other Freedom Riders told him we were threatened in central booking downstairs. He was just getting around to visiting our tank. The Commander eavesdropped from the first cell a few feet away as Bob turned to let Washington see the ugly gash behind his right ear.
“What happened to your head?” George whispered through the tiny ventilation holes in the window.
“Later, later,” Bob whispered back.
Garland burst into the open yelling, “We beat the shit out of ‘em! That’s what happened! And if I say so, we’ll beat the shit out of ‘em again!” All eyes focused on the Commander who began pacing rapidly up and down waving his arms. Garland’s face turned purple as he shook his fist at Washington. “Why don’t you come in here, and we’ll beat the shit out of you!”
George was stunned, but quickly recovered. “Guard! Guard! This man is threatening me!”
“Yeah, I’m threatening you!” Garland dashed into the dining room and started running around in circles waving his arms wildly. “Those fuckin’ nigger lovers deserve everything they get!”
While other inmates drew back, Joe walked over to a nearby bench, sat down, crossed his legs, cupped his chin in one hand, and began studying the Commander as if he were a frog being dissected in biology class. I couldn’t believe it. I huddled in the rear by myself as Washington hurried down the hall toward the jailer’s office. A nervous deputy sheriff met him part way. “You better bail ‘em out or there’s gonna be a riot,” the guard said. “We’ll have to take ‘em to Jefferson Davis Hospital.”
George stared at him. “You’re legally responsible for these young men.”
Moments later, the heavy steel door opened with a loud grinding noise, and the jailer removed Bob. Then the door banged shut while Garland continued to run around the dining room bellowing racist obscenities. The whole tank galvanized as restless clumps of angry prisoners formed. Even inmates we thought were our friends muttered and glared at us along with everybody else. The huge guy who claimed to be an architecture student ambled over with a bemused smile. “Oh, boy.”
“What do you think will happen?” I asked.
“Well, it’s up to the Commander. If he says ‘No’ nothin’ happens, but if he says ‘Go’ I’m gonna enjoy givin’ you a few.” The big man started punching a stack of mattresses.
I saw Jack the Fink sitting on a table by himself smoking a cigarette. We stared at each other for a moment although his battered countenance was inscrutable. Checkers said they kill drunks here for fun. The good-looking blond inmate who seemed so sympathetic passed by with two companions. They were retreating as deep into the tank—and as far away from Garland—as they could. My erstwhile friend averted his gaze when I looked at him. Steve and I now believed that virtually everyone would descend on us and beat us to death. We shrank back against the wall of bars separating the dining area from the inside corridor and braced ourselves. While Joe observed the Commander, my eyes rolled upward in desperation. There was no escape. Then my mother’s image materialized above me. She watched these events unfold with a troubled mien, shook her head, smiled sadly, and said something I couldn’t quite make out. I strained to hear her over the din. What is my little boy Steven doing in this awful place? I didn’t know what to say. I felt lost.
After the dark hatchet-faced deputy threatened us downstairs two nights ago, all of the Freedom Riders were placed in holding pens before being transferred upstairs. Prisoners yelled at each other through the bars. A drunk lurched across the floor of our cell. My head ached, my stomach felt sick, my body was covered with perspiration. I began to panic, but a strange feeling of profound serenity came over me. Why worry about something I can’t control? I lay down on a narrow wooden bench and—using my wet shirt for a pillow—fell asleep. Now that same odd sense of fatalism rekindled itself once more. Whatever happens will happen.
A supervisor appeared in the outside corridor next to the tank and beckoned Garland over. The two men talked quietly while everybody else watched. We couldn’t hear what they said although the guard was obviously trying to mollify his enraged surrogate. “I won’t touch ‘em!” the Commander shouted at last. “If those goddamn Freedom Riders stay outta my way, everything will be all right, but if they come near me—I’ll kill ‘em!”
Overstreet walked up to Joe. “Go sit somewhere else.”
Garland returned to his cell and—almost as quickly as the atmosphere ignited—the tank calmed down again. Men stopped milling around and resumed whatever they were doing before the Commander exploded. Steve and I stared at each other in stunned disbelief. We’re still alive. Joe sauntered over. “Why’d you sit next to Garland?” we hissed.
“I was curious,” Joe said with a grin before we separated again.
“Hey, college boy.” Three prisoners including the good-looking blond guy and a man in his late thirties were parked at a nearby table. The older inmate smiled. “Ever play dominoes?” I shook my head. “Sit down,” he said. There’s always a first time.”
“Why him?” the blond guy asked.
The older man laughed. “Ahhhh, I need a partner.” He turned and gestured again. “Come on, have a seat.”
They explained the rudiments of straight dominoes to me. Four players draw seven pieces each whose faces are split into halves marked with up to six dots. You match the end of a domino you hold with the end of another already deployed—say three points against three points. Players are awarded the total number of dots they align together as black and white tiles snake across the table. The first team to score 250 points wins. I was having such a hard time concentrating that my partner and I fell behind.
“Goes to college, but can’t play dominoes,” our adversaries chided. I settled down and began studying the small dappled pieces spread out before me. Although I’m no good at board games, a discernable pattern gradually emerged. Plunking down domino after domino, we pulled even. Then I ripped off three consecutive streaks of 25S35 points each to run out the match.
My older partner laughed again. “So the college boy can’t play.”
More than two hours had passed since Bob left, but nobody inside the tank knew where he was. “Maybe your buddy bailed out on you,” several prisoners suggested. Steve, Joe, and I just shrugged. Our friend wouldn’t desert us.
I approached the Lieutenant Commander while he distributed mattresses before bedtime. “What size shoes do you wear?” I asked.
“Nine and a half D.”
“You got ‘em.”
Overstreet beamed. “O.K., good.” He told Joe, Steve, and me to lie in the rear as usual. The tall thin guy with jet black hair stood nearby staring at us silently again.
A new inmate who had only been there a few hours apparently didn’t appreciate how primitive our living conditions were. “Don’t I get a mattress, too?” he whined.
“You want a whole fuckin’ mattress when everyone else has to share!” Garland’s chief lieutenant shouted. Several ruling clique members rushed up and began punching the hapless prisoner who staggered away and stumbled over me with blood trickling down his cheek. I started to rise, lost my balance, and fell back awkwardly against the bars. Then I noticed the night supervisor standing in the outside corridor next to the tank. I turned and stared at him.
“Hey, take it easy,” he told Overstreet.
“Well, sir, this man wanted an entire mattress for himself. We can’t just let people do whatever they damn please.”
“That’s true,” the guard said to the whole tank through the bars. “Nobody asked you to be in jail.”
Five minutes after curfew, Garland called out, “Sanfield, McNichols, Stevenson—come here!” We jumped up and ran to the heart of the dining area where the pasty little man stood holding three printed bail bond forms. A single light bulb glowing dimly above us transformed everything into the same shadowy tableau I first saw when we entered the tank almost 48 hours earlier. The Commander looked at the forms and cackled. “Listen, boys, their lawyer is named George Washington, Jr.” The whole tank roared. He shoved the papers at us. “Sign here.” We nervously did as we were told. “Now go lie down.”
When the Commander summoned us again, we flew through the dining area, into the passageway, and up to the big sliding door. Garland’s toothless old consort in cell number one slapped Joe’s leg through the bars as he dashed by. The door cranked open, a deputy sheriff outside beckoned, and my eyes blinked as I entered the bright hallway. “Good luck,” several disembodied voices cried softly from the dark, gloomy cavern behind us.
“Hey!” the Commander yelled. We turned around. The steel portal dwarfed his pale emaciated body. “I don’t want to see your faces again. You better not come back here!” Garland added some scurrilous comments about having sex with black men. For almost two days I had struggled constantly to suppress my feelings, but I just couldn’t help it anymore, I glared at him. The Commander planted his feet, cocked his fist, and shoved his ugly, twisted, demonic face into mine. “I’m a seven-time loser! I’ve been to the penitentiary farm! Don’t wall-eye me, you son of a bitch or I’ll kick your ass!” My eyes lowered, Garland turned away, and the big sliding door clanged shut behind him.
The End