I was only a boy then, working as an office assistant at the National Pencil Company. I’d started on April 1, 1913, handling small errands for the staff and for Mr. Leo Frank, the superintendent. Most days, I stayed in the outer office or hallway, carrying notes and running messages. I remember April 26 vividly—it was Confederate Memorial Day, and the factory was quieter than usual.
That morning, I left the building around 11:30 a.m. Before going, I saw Miss Hall, the stenographer from Montag’s, talking with Mr. Frank. He asked me to telephone Mr. Schiff, but when I called, a woman answered and said he was still asleep. Nothing about that seemed unusual to me at the time.
From what I’d seen in my short weeks there, Mr. Frank often worked through Saturday afternoons, sometimes staying late after the rest of us had gone. I never once saw him behave improperly, drink, or bring women into the factory. That day, he arrived as usual, went straight to his office, and stayed there for most of the morning, stepping out only now and then. I noticed some employees, missed others—but nothing struck me as strange.
Months later, when I testified at his trial in August, I simply told what I knew—my routine that morning and what I had witnessed. The courtroom was packed, reporters everywhere. It felt as though all of Atlanta had gathered to watch. After weeks of arguments and testimony, the jury found Mr. Frank guilty on August 25. The next day, Judge Leonard Roan sentenced him to hang.
The appeals dragged on for months, but each was denied. Every day, The Atlanta Journal printed new stories, shaping public opinion long before the courts could. I was just a boy trying to tell the truth, but even then I knew the case had grown much larger than anything that had actually happened inside that courtroom.
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