Memphis World
Memphis World Publishing Co.
1960-12-31
Stanley S. Scott

MEMPHIS WORLD
The South's Oldest and Leading Colored Semi-Weekly Newspaper
Published by MEMPHIS WORLD PUBLISHING CO.
Every WEDNESDAY and SATURDAY at 546 BEALE—Ph. JA. 6-4030
Member of SCOTT NEWSPAPER SYNDICATE
W. A. Scott, II, Founder; C. A. Scott, General Manager
Entered in the Post Office at Memphis, Tenn. as second-class mail under
the Act of Congress, March 1, 1870
STANLEY S. SCOTT Managing Editor
ROBERT MORRIS Circulation Manager
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The MEMPHIS WORLD is an independent newspaper — non-sectarian
and non-partisan printing news unbiasedly and supporting those things
it believes to be of interest of its readers and opposing those things
against the interest of its readers.

Getting Ready For A New Year
As an individual everyone would like to do better—next
time; the errors made, he would wish to make them no more,
and that the hope that burns in the bosom of the future would
beam forth in a more radiant glow.
So, as a nation, a state, a race, all look back across the
lanes of the record. We are willing to admit our errors, our
failings and those things and thoughts which we would not
like to live over again.
Therefore—we are near the crossroads of a new beginning;
we can there resolve from the mistakes of the past, to go on
and do a better job, whether in the home, the church, the factory, 
the office, the school, or what not.
This is a great age in which we live; on every hand modern
improvements are being made. Time marches on and we must
keep the pace.
None should be so dishonest as to try to overlook those
things which have obviously worked handicaps and defeated
the purposes for which they were designed and undertaken.
If you have striven and have not won; if it has occurred to you
that you probably detoured your objective, have the native
honesty to make an impartial examination of your patterns and
prowess. You cannot find an earlier time to make reforms, redress 
and catch the proper step toward your goal.
There is no essential harm in trying and failing, but one
should not continue at such a practice. Once too many might
prove fatal; try not to live over again your mistakes and blunders. 

This is a friendly moral lecture to which not even the world
nor the nation should feel immune.
Get ready—and get right for a New Year that "fateful"
day will surely come.

Living In Moderation
No word better expresses the proper philosophy of life
than the word moderation. We do not mean to suggest that
moderation can be applied to any practice, since many practice's
are bad even when practiced in the slightest degree.
However, in living one's life, moderation is a general guide
which can be used to solve most of life's problems concerning
Habits, work, play and other activities. It is difficult for anyone, 
whether he is a teacher, or preacher, or parent, to outline 
a flat rule of conduct which covers all students, all members 
of a church, or all children. In each case, the answer may
differ slightly.
The individual must learn to think for himself and exercise
self-discipline. He cannot rely upon ironclad rules to guide him
through life, and become his philosophy of substitute for commonsense 
and the ability to make decisions in life. Each individual, 
must live his own life, and must decide, as best he can,
what is best for him.
Jesus Himself, believed in moderation, as any student of the
Bible knows, and laid down comparatively few arbitrary rules
of conduct for his followers. Rather he taught that man should
believe in God, and dedicate his life to Christian living, and helping 
his fellow man.
The great strength of many of our religions is that they
encourage the thinking process and discourage fossilized, mummified 
doctrine and dogma, which no longer makes sense in
the light of modern science and human progress. While religious 
principles never change, human being should continue to
seek enlightenment, and the true spirit of Christian living, in
the hope that further progress can be made.
While blind disobedience to a set of rules may be in the
best interest of many, it is not necessarily in the best interest
of Christian Progress and enlightenment. Civilization's greatest
leaders have been thinkers, and many of them have been
branded as radicals or revolutionaries in their day. Nevertheless, 
they refused to blindly conform to the demands of the
narrow-minded of their time.

Rockefeller Announces for Re-Election
If anyone ever doubted that Governor Nelson Rockefeller,
of New York, had his eye on the presidential nomination in 1964,
the last doubts should be resolved by the announcement of
Governor Rockefeller that he will run for re-election as Governor 
of New York in 1962.
The announcement, at this early date, is obviously intended
to head off Nixon "at the pass." When Rockefeller got into the
race for the G.O.P nomination in 1960 he was too late and
Vice President Nixon had the delegates from the various states
already committed to his cause.
Now, it seems apparent, Rockefeller wants to keep as many
Republican leaders and delegate-prospects from committing themselves 
as to the party's 1964 nominee as possible.
Of course, Rockefeller must get elected in 1962 or his
chances will go out the window. Meanwhile, Vice President
Nixon is expected to run for the governorship of California, in
1962. If he does run, he must win this election or find himself
greatly damaged as a result.
But even if Mr. Nixon does not run for the governorship
of California in 1962, the fact that he received almost half of
the popular vote in the presidential election makes him a strong
contender for the Republican nomination in 1964.
With Governor Rockefeller's expressed continued interest in
public affairs and Mr. Nixon's high popularity with the voters,
it is logical to assume there will be plenty of political activity
during the next four years. This will be good for the Republican
Party and the country in general. It is good for government to
have an active opposition front to the party in power.

Vote Wise

places to live.
Canvas tents were springing up
on a section of a 200-acre Negroowned 
farm and more than 65 Negroes 
had moved in living in the
20by-336 foot tents in groups of
up to 10.
Shephwles, ner of the
land said the tent dweller told
him "we had to move." He said
they were forced to leave.
Mayor I. P. Yancey of Somerville 
said however, he didn't know

"of anyone being put out of their
houses."
"Of course, every December or
January we have lots of moving
around," he said. "Some people
change from tenants to farm operators. 
Some change from renters
to sharecroppers. Others get aggravated 
and just move. Some people 
give up farming."
"I hear they're taking up money
up north," Yancey said.
"But I don't know of anybody
hungry down here. I think it is
just a propaganda situation."


A FEVER in the BLOOD
From the novel published by St. Martin's Press, Inc. Copyright 
1959, by William Pearson. Distributed by King Features Syndicate
WHEN Dan Callahan entered
his house late the night of
his return to Rowton, a private
detective hired by Keenan to
watch the house alerted the
publisher. Keenan in turn informed 
Bob Vinquist. The private 
detective had tapped both
Beers's and Callahan's phones
and the lines were being monitored 
by wire - recording machines. 

At eleven o'clock, Bob
knocked on the door of Mickey
Beers's apartment. When the
door opened, Beers, hostile and
suspicious, said, "What do you
want?"
"I want to save your neck."
Bob stepped around the investigator 
before the door could
be slammed in his face. There
was pathos, he thought, in the
squalor of this cramped apartment 
with its unframed calendar 
artwork tacked to calcimined 
walls and its cheap throw
rugs hardly concealing the peeling 
linoleum. Beers earned a
salary from which he could
have rented quarters far better
than these, but medical bills for
an invalid wire. Bob supposed,
took their grim major share. In
this moment, he faltered. Then
he thought of Dan as Governor.
"Mickey," he said, "I could
drag it out, make you sweat,
but there wouldn't be any point.
You see I know everything
about that Fourth of July accident 
I know about Dan's making 
up the story that you were
on the way to arrest a dope
peddler."
Beers laughed caustically. "It
I had time. I might listen to
your airy tale. But I don't. So
beat it, will you?"
"The papers are going to run
the story Mickey. Because they
have proof you never got any
telephone calls from an informer 
before you left the Barbecue.
The man who has the cigarette
ter in the dance pavilion is
 opposite the phone booths,
MicKey. He says nobody used
m that day. You know why?
They were out of order."
They weren't out of order!"
"You don't know. You were
never there." Bob felt a little
sick. Even now the story, so
carefully rehearsed, sounded too
contrived to panic Beers into
phoning Dan. Restraining the
impulse to overplay his part,
he said quietly, "You know
what'll happen when the story
breaks? Dan will say he had
nothing to do with it. He took
your word, and that's all he
knows."
Beers advanced on him, his
reddish eyes cruelly narrowed,
but a queasy white cast to his
lace gave away the bravado.
"You're asking for it, Vinquist,
I'm giving you ten seconds to
get out of here."
Bob stood up. "You might
still be able to save your neck,
and your ob, if you want to say
Dan made you tell that story.
You've got a sick wife, haven't
you? You got children?"
 Beers said.
Shrugging, Bob walked to the
door. Then he turned. "You're

going to be the all guy, Mickey.
You've made a false statement
about official business. Read the
statutes.  He opened the door quickly. 
"You know where to reach
me if you change your mind."
IT WAS CLOSE to midnight
when Bob Vinquist, waiting
with Keenan, Stimson, and Polly 
Hoffman in the publisher's
office, heard the elevator door
slam open on the other side of
the City Room. Moments later
the private detective who had
made the telephone taps entered
and, after introductions, put his
wire recorder on the desk and
adjusted the dials.
The first sounds were static,
and in the charged stillness they
leapt from the loud speaker like
the crackle between hot wires.
Then an indistinct voice came
in above them:
"Boss, I don't know how to
begin. Vinquist...he's got the
goods on us. The Fourth of
July. He was here a couple of
minutes ago." Beers laughed
nervously. "But he don't know
any more than when he walked
in." Beers hesitated. "Only he
knew too much then. He knew
I didn't get no phone call before
we left the Barbecue."
"How could he know something 
like that?"
"Because the phones in the
dance pavilion were out of order
that day."
"You fell for a story like
that! You're a moron."
"I don't have to take that
from you. You've pushed me
around long enough! I think I'll
phone Vinquist, tell him he's
right. Tell him a few other
things too. Tell him . . . tell
him, yeah, how you really lost
your leg in Italy!"
Over the recorder Callahan's
voice was a shriek.  You do, and
you'll be behind bars for that
evidence you planted in the
Hart case. You're just lucky
Norman Hart got a new trial.
You're just lucky I didn't know
what was going on in time to
stop you, because if . . ."
"Yeah, you're just lucky I got
you a conviction in the first
place. You're just lucky you had
me around to tell the jury how
he'd tried to knife his wife.
You're just lucky I didn't call
you a liar right in front of
Hoffman when he asked you if
you'd coached me. You're just
. . ."
"Damn it, don't you realize
you're playing right into Vinquist's 
hands? If he can get
the two of us fighting each
other, he's . . ."
"Yeah, but you don't know
the rest of it. There's a statute:
two years for making a false
statement about official business." 

"What statute? There's no
such statute like that."
There was a long dead pause.
"No statute?"
"Hell, no. Mickey, I can read
Vinquist like a book. You're getting 
to be as jumpy as an old

woman? Take some pills and go
to sleep. Take some of your
famous codee pills."
"But what  those phones
were out of order?"
"I'm telling you, they
."
There was another long
pause.
"Boss, I . . . guess I got a
. . . a little excited."
"You sure did. Now let's
knock it off and get some
sleep . . . ."
In the publisher's office, the
detective flicked the switch of
the wire recorder. "There it is,
Mr. Keenan."
Keenan, his eyes riveted to
the machine, said hoarsely,
"What have we stumbled on?
That business about Callahan's
leg and Italy? That business
about the evidence in the Hart
case?"
Bob Vinquist, still so gripped
by those savagely exchanged
disclosures that he felt divorced
from the reality around him,
heard his own voice, distant and
equally unreal, saying, "I think
we'd better see Judge Hoffman
with this the first thing tomorrow, 
Mr. Keenan. I don't know
what the evidence they were
talking about would be. It
might even be the codeine
bottle. But we're going to have
to tell the Judge everything, because 
whatever Beers did, whatever 
Callahan knew, it was a
fraud on the Court."
"Sure we'll tell him. We'll let
him hear the tape."
"Just a minute, gentlemen,"
the detective said. "I can't let
you take this tape to a judge."
"Take it easy. Nobody's going
to get you involved," Keenan
said.
The detective took the recorder 
by its handle and smiled
bleakly. "It stays in my possession, 
Mr. Keenan."
Keenan raked him with his
eyes. "Then you be sure it's still
there when I want it."
Keenan waited until he heard
the elevator open and close behind 
the detective. "I wouldn't
put it past him to try to get a
bid from Callahan for that
tape." He turned to Stimson
with almost boyish glee. "Phil,
for once even you look wideeyed 
and bushy-tailed. What do
you make of that business about
Italy and the leg?"
"Beats. But there's something
awful rotten in Denmark."
"Did you ever check back on
his OSS service record while
you were digging around?"
Stimson shook his head, but
Keenan was temporarily too
elated for reprimands. "Never
mind. I'm going to send a wire
to Washington."
"They won't release those
records, will they?"
Keenan swung in his chair
and glanced up at his framed
letter of commendation for wartime 
services. "I know a man
who can blast it out if there's
any trouble. To hell with the
Fourth of July business now."
He spun in his chair to face
Bob. "Callahan will be indicted
for that Hart case evidence."

FROM A CORNER of his consciousness 
Judge Sam Hoffman 
heard the courthouse clock
strike the quarter-hour. He drew
another savage line on his
scratch ad. Across the desk,
Matt Keenan cleared his throat.
"I think that's about the whole
story Judge. Unless you've got
some thing else to add Bob?"
"No, Bob Vinquist said "except 
that I think the evidence
Callahan and Beers were talking 
about must be the codee
bottle But I doubt that we could
over trace it back to Beers
now."
"Yes, I doubt it," Judge Hoffman 
saw though he struggled
with an inner turmoil so great
he could hardly bring himself
to speak. But the not anger he
tell—this constriction in his
chest and fingers trembling
from emotion—was not he must
bitterly concede produced solely 
by outrage for wrongs perpetrated 
on one Norman Hart.
That man at least, would have
his new trial. But what about
that other man, Sam Hoffman?
As Judge Hoffman reflected
on this shocking Knowledge that
Callahan had deliberately introduced 
the testimony leading to
the mistrial motion, as he recalled 
his own weeks and weeks
o tormente indecision over
whether his denial of the motion 
had been improperly motivated 
as he thought of the Bar
Association investigation into
his judicial fitness brought on
solely because he had chosen
to denounce himself publicly for
having possibly unfairly denied
Norman Hart a new trial, he
wondered whether he was living
in some madman's dream.
"Well, Judge," Keenan rasped,
"what's your opinion of Callanan 
now?"
I imagine," he replied jaws
clenched, "it's the same as
yours."
"Good! Then that's settled.
Now Judge, I came here to report 
Knowledge I have about
his tampering with justice in
the Hart case. I'm willing to
testify in open court about the
recording or do any other thing
you want me to—and to hell
with what happens to me. The
man is a menace. He has to be
stopped."
Judge Hoffman crumpled the
piece of paper on which he had
been making his scrawls. He
must collect himself. For a
moment his legal mind took
over his thinking and he asked
himself whether the Supreme
Court reversal in the Hart case
made that so-called tampering
a matter, in the strictly technical 
sense, no longer relevant.
Did he even have jurisdiction
now that the case had been
transferred to another division?
Furthermore, it had to be kept
in mind that Callahan was not
 responsible for the
use of allegedly planted evidence. 
His crime was concealment 
of subsequently acquired
knowledge of the tampering.
And how would the concealment, 
the alleged tampering, be
proved? By illegal wire tapping

Judge Hoffman made a grimace
of distaste. "Where is this recording 
now?"
"The man I hired to make it,
has it," Keenan said. "It's safe."
"This is an immensely complicated 
situation, Mr. Keenan.
I'm not sure now much value
that recording has, in terms of
formal hearing by the Court.
In this state, illegally obtained
evidence is not admissible in
court, and your evidence has
been illegally obtained. And the
laws of evidence are such that
I couldn't permit you - if I'm
to honor the obligations imposed
by our system of jurisprudence,
—to play that
recording in open court. Neither
could I permit you to testify
about it.
"Thus from the legal standpoint, 
any hearing I held would
be a farce. It would establish
the truth ot nothing. Callahan
would be smeared, yes, and
probably destroyed politically—
I want that as much as you—
but he couldn't be convicted of
crime. Because the underlying
evidence would have been illegally 
obtained. Worse, to permit 
you to testify at all would
violate those fundamental protections 
the Law is great enough
to extend to every man . . . including 
a Callahan. On the other
hand, if you could somehow
substantiate your charges with
proof that was admissible in
court . . ."
Keenan turned crimson. "I
came over here ready to take
any consequences. And you
know what I find? I find a
figurehead of a judge who hides
behind the smoke screen of a
lot of fine-sounding empty
words. And why?" He pounded
the desk. "Ill tell you why. Because 
you're scared of Callahan,
you're scared of this Hart case,
you're scared of getting in any
deeper with that Bar Association 
Committee. You don't want
justice. You just want your
job!"
Judge Hoffman, fought the almost 
hysterical impulse to attack 
the publisher physically.
He wanted to shout,  Yet through his mind
there flashed a picture, incongruous 
in this moment of humiliation 
and crisis, of old
Marty Spewack, the bailiff,
gnome-like and senile, hobbling
into chambers to overpower this
violent, profane, and husky adversary. 
Then the phone rang.
"Hoffman!" he snapped.
"Sam, Lew Jacobs."
Judge Hoffman clutched the
phone tighter. The chairman of
the Bar Association Committee
investigating his judicial conduct 
would not be phoning just
to pass the time of day. "Yes,
Lew."
"This is one of the toughest
things I've ever had to do, Sam.
The Committee's signed a report. 
It'll be released this afternoon. 
The Committee's voted to
censure you for failing to report
an attempt to bribe you the

moment it happened. The Committee, 
Sam, asks that you resign 
forthwith. There's also a
recommendation that you be
suspended from the practice of
law for twelve months."
Judge Hoffman's vision
blurred.
"The business about resigning
is, of course, merely a request
at this stage. On the other hand,
if you choose not to comply, the
Committee can request your impeachment." 

"Yes, I know what you can
do" Judge Hoffman slammed
down the phone. He looked
around the room, taking in the
Currier and Ives prints, the law
books and the old leather club
chair he had bought when he
first went into practice. Trembling 
but determined to hold together 
the remnants of his
poise, he said, "The Bar Association 
is releasing its report
this afternoon. It asks for my
resignation and will recommend
the institution of proceedings
for a twelve-month disbarment."
White-faced, Bob shook his
head in distress so real that
Judge Hoffman looked away.
So this, he thought, so this was
how his career was going to
end. Futility. Yet could any
man, valuing whatever precious
years he still had left, concede
he lacked the ... the strenght,
the will, to battle fate's hars
scheme with everything he had?
And would that same man, a
judge, concede that he knew of
no way to protect the authority
of his court against deceptions
as flagrant as Callahan's?
Raising his eyes, speaking
with tight, dispassionate irony,
Judge Hoffman said, "Mr.
Keenan, you've told me you're
interested to justice. I've been
a judge more than twenty years
and I'm not sure I know what
justice is. Not that I consider
this very remarkable. Better
minds than mine have wrestled
with this problem. I do know
however, that the more I try to
reduce any situation to its moral
absolutes, the more arbitrary I
have to be; the more arbitrary
I am, the less just I am. I'm
not complaining. If I could start
my life over, I'd still want to
be a judge. The job has many
rewards, not the least of which
at my age, in regular pay
check."
Judge Hoffman swung in his
chair and gazed out the window.
'You may be wondering what
all this has to do with the price
of eggs. Mr. Keenan, it has this
to do you're right, I do want
my job. But not as badly as you
seem to think. So if you're willing 
to play your recording in
open court—and take any consequences, 
which may ultimately 
include the filing of criminal
charges against you for tapping
a phone illegally then I'm willing 
to initiate an inquiry of my
own motion and permit you to
play that recording. Tomorrow
at ten."
"Judge," Keenan said gruffly,
"I apologize for shooting off my
mouth. You do have guts!"


CHAPTER 27
From the novel published by St. Martin's Press, Inc. Copyright 
1959, by William Pearson. Distributed by King Features Syndicate
WHEN Dan Callahan entered
his house late the night of
his return to Rowton, a private
detective hired by Keenan to
watch the house alerted the
publisher. Keenan in turn informed 
Bob Vinquist. The private 
detective had tapped both
Beers's and Callahan's phones
and the lines were being monitored 
by wire - recording machines. 

At eleven o'clock, Bob
knocked on the door of Mickey
Beers's apartment. When the
door opened, Beers, hostile and
suspicious, said, "What do you
want?"
"I want to save your neck."
Bob stepped around the investigator 
before the door could
be slammed in his face. There
was pathos, he thought, in the
squalor of this cramped apartment 
with its unframed calendar 
artwork tacked to calcimined 
walls and its cheap throw
rugs hardly concealing the peeling 
linoleum. Beers earned a
salary from which he could
have rented quarters far better
than these, but medical bills for
an invalid wire. Bob supposed,
took their grim major share. In
this moment, he faltered. Then
he thought of Dan as Governor.
"Mickey," he said, "I could
drag it out, make you sweat,
but there wouldn't be any point.
You see I know everything
about that Fourth of July accident 
I know about Dan's making 
up the story that you were
on the way to arrest a dope
peddler."
Beers laughed caustically. "It
I had time. I might listen to
your airy tale. But I don't. So
beat it, will you?"
"The papers are going to run
the story Mickey. Because they
have proof you never got any
telephone calls from an informer 
before you left the Barbecue.
The man who has the cigarette
ter in the dance pavilion is
 opposite the phone booths,
MicKey. He says nobody used
m that day. You know why?
They were out of order."
They weren't out of order!"
"You don't know. You were
never there." Bob felt a little
sick. Even now the story, so
carefully rehearsed, sounded too
contrived to panic Beers into
phoning Dan. Restraining the
impulse to overplay his part,
he said quietly, "You know
what'll happen when the story
breaks? Dan will say he had
nothing to do with it. He took
your word, and that's all he
knows."
Beers advanced on him, his
reddish eyes cruelly narrowed,
but a queasy white cast to his
lace gave away the bravado.
"You're asking for it, Vinquist,
I'm giving you ten seconds to
get out of here."
Bob stood up. "You might
still be able to save your neck,
and your ob, if you want to say
Dan made you tell that story.
You've got a sick wife, haven't
you? You got children?"
 Beers said.
Shrugging, Bob walked to the
door. Then he turned. "You're

going to be the all guy, Mickey.
You've made a false statement
about official business. Read the
statutes.  He opened the door quickly. 
"You know where to reach
me if you change your mind."
IT WAS CLOSE to midnight
when Bob Vinquist, waiting
with Keenan, Stimson, and Polly 
Hoffman in the publisher's
office, heard the elevator door
slam open on the other side of
the City Room. Moments later
the private detective who had
made the telephone taps entered
and, after introductions, put his
wire recorder on the desk and
adjusted the dials.
The first sounds were static,
and in the charged stillness they
leapt from the loud speaker like
the crackle between hot wires.
Then an indistinct voice came
in above them:
"Boss, I don't know how to
begin. Vinquist...he's got the
goods on us. The Fourth of
July. He was here a couple of
minutes ago." Beers laughed
nervously. "But he don't know
any more than when he walked
in." Beers hesitated. "Only he
knew too much then. He knew
I didn't get no phone call before
we left the Barbecue."
"How could he know something 
like that?"
"Because the phones in the
dance pavilion were out of order
that day."
"You fell for a story like
that! You're a moron."
"I don't have to take that
from you. You've pushed me
around long enough! I think I'll
phone Vinquist, tell him he's
right. Tell him a few other
things too. Tell him . . . tell
him, yeah, how you really lost
your leg in Italy!"
Over the recorder Callahan's
voice was a shriek.  You do, and
you'll be behind bars for that
evidence you planted in the
Hart case. You're just lucky
Norman Hart got a new trial.
You're just lucky I didn't know
what was going on in time to
stop you, because if . . ."
"Yeah, you're just lucky I got
you a conviction in the first
place. You're just lucky you had
me around to tell the jury how
he'd tried to knife his wife.
You're just lucky I didn't call
you a liar right in front of
Hoffman when he asked you if
you'd coached me. You're just
. . ."
"Damn it, don't you realize
you're playing right into Vinquist's 
hands? If he can get
the two of us fighting each
other, he's . . ."
"Yeah, but you don't know
the rest of it. There's a statute:
two years for making a false
statement about official business." 

"What statute? There's no
such statute like that."
There was a long dead pause.
"No statute?"
"Hell, no. Mickey, I can read
Vinquist like a book. You're getting 
to be as jumpy as an old

woman? Take some pills and go
to sleep. Take some of your
famous codee pills."
"But what  those phones
were out of order?"
"I'm telling you, they
."
There was another long
pause.
"Boss, I . . . guess I got a
. . . a little excited."
"You sure did. Now let's
knock it off and get some
sleep . . . ."
In the publisher's office, the
detective flicked the switch of
the wire recorder. "There it is,
Mr. Keenan."
Keenan, his eyes riveted to
the machine, said hoarsely,
"What have we stumbled on?
That business about Callahan's
leg and Italy? That business
about the evidence in the Hart
case?"
Bob Vinquist, still so gripped
by those savagely exchanged
disclosures that he felt divorced
from the reality around him,
heard his own voice, distant and
equally unreal, saying, "I think
we'd better see Judge Hoffman
with this the first thing tomorrow, 
Mr. Keenan. I don't know
what the evidence they were
talking about would be. It
might even be the codeine
bottle. But we're going to have
to tell the Judge everything, because 
whatever Beers did, whatever 
Callahan knew, it was a
fraud on the Court."
"Sure we'll tell him. We'll let
him hear the tape."
"Just a minute, gentlemen,"
the detective said. "I can't let
you take this tape to a judge."
"Take it easy. Nobody's going
to get you involved," Keenan
said.
The detective took the recorder 
by its handle and smiled
bleakly. "It stays in my possession, 
Mr. Keenan."
Keenan raked him with his
eyes. "Then you be sure it's still
there when I want it."
Keenan waited until he heard
the elevator open and close behind 
the detective. "I wouldn't
put it past him to try to get a
bid from Callahan for that
tape." He turned to Stimson
with almost boyish glee. "Phil,
for once even you look wideeyed 
and bushy-tailed. What do
you make of that business about
Italy and the leg?"
"Beats. But there's something
awful rotten in Denmark."
"Did you ever check back on
his OSS service record while
you were digging around?"
Stimson shook his head, but
Keenan was temporarily too
elated for reprimands. "Never
mind. I'm going to send a wire
to Washington."
"They won't release those
records, will they?"
Keenan swung in his chair
and glanced up at his framed
letter of commendation for wartime 
services. "I know a man
who can blast it out if there's
any trouble. To hell with the
Fourth of July business now."
He spun in his chair to face
Bob. "Callahan will be indicted
for that Hart case evidence."

FROM A CORNER of his consciousness 
Judge Sam Hoffman 
heard the courthouse clock
strike the quarter-hour. He drew
another savage line on his
scratch ad. Across the desk,
Matt Keenan cleared his throat.
"I think that's about the whole
story Judge. Unless you've got
some thing else to add Bob?"
"No, Bob Vinquist said "except 
that I think the evidence
Callahan and Beers were talking 
about must be the codee
bottle But I doubt that we could
over trace it back to Beers
now."
"Yes, I doubt it," Judge Hoffman 
saw though he struggled
with an inner turmoil so great
he could hardly bring himself
to speak. But the not anger he
tell—this constriction in his
chest and fingers trembling
from emotion—was not he must
bitterly concede produced solely 
by outrage for wrongs perpetrated 
on one Norman Hart.
That man at least, would have
his new trial. But what about
that other man, Sam Hoffman?
As Judge Hoffman reflected
on this shocking Knowledge that
Callahan had deliberately introduced 
the testimony leading to
the mistrial motion, as he recalled 
his own weeks and weeks
o tormente indecision over
whether his denial of the motion 
had been improperly motivated 
as he thought of the Bar
Association investigation into
his judicial fitness brought on
solely because he had chosen
to denounce himself publicly for
having possibly unfairly denied
Norman Hart a new trial, he
wondered whether he was living
in some madman's dream.
"Well, Judge," Keenan rasped,
"what's your opinion of Callanan 
now?"
I imagine," he replied jaws
clenched, "it's the same as
yours."
"Good! Then that's settled.
Now Judge, I came here to report 
Knowledge I have about
his tampering with justice in
the Hart case. I'm willing to
testify in open court about the
recording or do any other thing
you want me to—and to hell
with what happens to me. The
man is a menace. He has to be
stopped."
Judge Hoffman crumpled the
piece of paper on which he had
been making his scrawls. He
must collect himself. For a
moment his legal mind took
over his thinking and he asked
himself whether the Supreme
Court reversal in the Hart case
made that so-called tampering
a matter, in the strictly technical 
sense, no longer relevant.
Did he even have jurisdiction
now that the case had been
transferred to another division?
Furthermore, it had to be kept
in mind that Callahan was not
 responsible for the
use of allegedly planted evidence. 
His crime was concealment 
of subsequently acquired
knowledge of the tampering.
And how would the concealment, 
the alleged tampering, be
proved? By illegal wire tapping

Judge Hoffman made a grimace
of distaste. "Where is this recording 
now?"
"The man I hired to make it,
has it," Keenan said. "It's safe."
"This is an immensely complicated 
situation, Mr. Keenan.
I'm not sure now much value
that recording has, in terms of
formal hearing by the Court.
In this state, illegally obtained
evidence is not admissible in
court, and your evidence has
been illegally obtained. And the
laws of evidence are such that
I couldn't permit you - if I'm
to honor the obligations imposed
by our system of jurisprudence,
—to play that
recording in open court. Neither
could I permit you to testify
about it.
"Thus from the legal standpoint, 
any hearing I held would
be a farce. It would establish
the truth ot nothing. Callahan
would be smeared, yes, and
probably destroyed politically—
I want that as much as you—
but he couldn't be convicted of
crime. Because the underlying
evidence would have been illegally 
obtained. Worse, to permit 
you to testify at all would
violate those fundamental protections 
the Law is great enough
to extend to every man . . . including 
a Callahan. On the other
hand, if you could somehow
substantiate your charges with
proof that was admissible in
court . . ."
Keenan turned crimson. "I
came over here ready to take
any consequences. And you
know what I find? I find a
figurehead of a judge who hides
behind the smoke screen of a
lot of fine-sounding empty
words. And why?" He pounded
the desk. "Ill tell you why. Because 
you're scared of Callahan,
you're scared of this Hart case,
you're scared of getting in any
deeper with that Bar Association 
Committee. You don't want
justice. You just want your
job!"
Judge Hoffman, fought the almost 
hysterical impulse to attack 
the publisher physically.
He wanted to shout,  Yet through his mind
there flashed a picture, incongruous 
in this moment of humiliation 
and crisis, of old
Marty Spewack, the bailiff,
gnome-like and senile, hobbling
into chambers to overpower this
violent, profane, and husky adversary. 
Then the phone rang.
"Hoffman!" he snapped.
"Sam, Lew Jacobs."
Judge Hoffman clutched the
phone tighter. The chairman of
the Bar Association Committee
investigating his judicial conduct 
would not be phoning just
to pass the time of day. "Yes,
Lew."
"This is one of the toughest
things I've ever had to do, Sam.
The Committee's signed a report. 
It'll be released this afternoon. 
The Committee's voted to
censure you for failing to report
an attempt to bribe you the

moment it happened. The Committee, 
Sam, asks that you resign 
forthwith. There's also a
recommendation that you be
suspended from the practice of
law for twelve months."
Judge Hoffman's vision
blurred.
"The business about resigning
is, of course, merely a request
at this stage. On the other hand,
if you choose not to comply, the
Committee can request your impeachment." 

"Yes, I know what you can
do" Judge Hoffman slammed
down the phone. He looked
around the room, taking in the
Currier and Ives prints, the law
books and the old leather club
chair he had bought when he
first went into practice. Trembling 
but determined to hold together 
the remnants of his
poise, he said, "The Bar Association 
is releasing its report
this afternoon. It asks for my
resignation and will recommend
the institution of proceedings
for a twelve-month disbarment."
White-faced, Bob shook his
head in distress so real that
Judge Hoffman looked away.
So this, he thought, so this was
how his career was going to
end. Futility. Yet could any
man, valuing whatever precious
years he still had left, concede
he lacked the ... the strenght,
the will, to battle fate's hars
scheme with everything he had?
And would that same man, a
judge, concede that he knew of
no way to protect the authority
of his court against deceptions
as flagrant as Callahan's?
Raising his eyes, speaking
with tight, dispassionate irony,
Judge Hoffman said, "Mr.
Keenan, you've told me you're
interested to justice. I've been
a judge more than twenty years
and I'm not sure I know what
justice is. Not that I consider
this very remarkable. Better
minds than mine have wrestled
with this problem. I do know
however, that the more I try to
reduce any situation to its moral
absolutes, the more arbitrary I
have to be; the more arbitrary
I am, the less just I am. I'm
not complaining. If I could start
my life over, I'd still want to
be a judge. The job has many
rewards, not the least of which
at my age, in regular pay
check."
Judge Hoffman swung in his
chair and gazed out the window.
'You may be wondering what
all this has to do with the price
of eggs. Mr. Keenan, it has this
to do you're right, I do want
my job. But not as badly as you
seem to think. So if you're willing 
to play your recording in
open court—and take any consequences, 
which may ultimately 
include the filing of criminal
charges against you for tapping
a phone illegally then I'm willing 
to initiate an inquiry of my
own motion and permit you to
play that recording. Tomorrow
at ten."
"Judge," Keenan said gruffly,
"I apologize for shooting off my
mouth. You do have guts!"


CHAPTER 28
From the novel published by St. Martin's Press, Inc. Copyright 
1959, by William Pearson. Distributed by King Features Syndicate
WHEN Dan Callahan entered
his house late the night of
his return to Rowton, a private
detective hired by Keenan to
watch the house alerted the
publisher. Keenan in turn informed 
Bob Vinquist. The private 
detective had tapped both
Beers's and Callahan's phones
and the lines were being monitored 
by wire - recording machines. 

At eleven o'clock, Bob
knocked on the door of Mickey
Beers's apartment. When the
door opened, Beers, hostile and
suspicious, said, "What do you
want?"
"I want to save your neck."
Bob stepped around the investigator 
before the door could
be slammed in his face. There
was pathos, he thought, in the
squalor of this cramped apartment 
with its unframed calendar 
artwork tacked to calcimined 
walls and its cheap throw
rugs hardly concealing the peeling 
linoleum. Beers earned a
salary from which he could
have rented quarters far better
than these, but medical bills for
an invalid wire. Bob supposed,
took their grim major share. In
this moment, he faltered. Then
he thought of Dan as Governor.
"Mickey," he said, "I could
drag it out, make you sweat,
but there wouldn't be any point.
You see I know everything
about that Fourth of July accident 
I know about Dan's making 
up the story that you were
on the way to arrest a dope
peddler."
Beers laughed caustically. "It
I had time. I might listen to
your airy tale. But I don't. So
beat it, will you?"
"The papers are going to run
the story Mickey. Because they
have proof you never got any
telephone calls from an informer 
before you left the Barbecue.
The man who has the cigarette
ter in the dance pavilion is
 opposite the phone booths,
MicKey. He says nobody used
m that day. You know why?
They were out of order."
They weren't out of order!"
"You don't know. You were
never there." Bob felt a little
sick. Even now the story, so
carefully rehearsed, sounded too
contrived to panic Beers into
phoning Dan. Restraining the
impulse to overplay his part,
he said quietly, "You know
what'll happen when the story
breaks? Dan will say he had
nothing to do with it. He took
your word, and that's all he
knows."
Beers advanced on him, his
reddish eyes cruelly narrowed,
but a queasy white cast to his
lace gave away the bravado.
"You're asking for it, Vinquist,
I'm giving you ten seconds to
get out of here."
Bob stood up. "You might
still be able to save your neck,
and your ob, if you want to say
Dan made you tell that story.
You've got a sick wife, haven't
you? You got children?"
 Beers said.
Shrugging, Bob walked to the
door. Then he turned. "You're

going to be the all guy, Mickey.
You've made a false statement
about official business. Read the
statutes.  He opened the door quickly. 
"You know where to reach
me if you change your mind."
IT WAS CLOSE to midnight
when Bob Vinquist, waiting
with Keenan, Stimson, and Polly 
Hoffman in the publisher's
office, heard the elevator door
slam open on the other side of
the City Room. Moments later
the private detective who had
made the telephone taps entered
and, after introductions, put his
wire recorder on the desk and
adjusted the dials.
The first sounds were static,
and in the charged stillness they
leapt from the loud speaker like
the crackle between hot wires.
Then an indistinct voice came
in above them:
"Boss, I don't know how to
begin. Vinquist...he's got the
goods on us. The Fourth of
July. He was here a couple of
minutes ago." Beers laughed
nervously. "But he don't know
any more than when he walked
in." Beers hesitated. "Only he
knew too much then. He knew
I didn't get no phone call before
we left the Barbecue."
"How could he know something 
like that?"
"Because the phones in the
dance pavilion were out of order
that day."
"You fell for a story like
that! You're a moron."
"I don't have to take that
from you. You've pushed me
around long enough! I think I'll
phone Vinquist, tell him he's
right. Tell him a few other
things too. Tell him . . . tell
him, yeah, how you really lost
your leg in Italy!"
Over the recorder Callahan's
voice was a shriek.  You do, and
you'll be behind bars for that
evidence you planted in the
Hart case. You're just lucky
Norman Hart got a new trial.
You're just lucky I didn't know
what was going on in time to
stop you, because if . . ."
"Yeah, you're just lucky I got
you a conviction in the first
place. You're just lucky you had
me around to tell the jury how
he'd tried to knife his wife.
You're just lucky I didn't call
you a liar right in front of
Hoffman when he asked you if
you'd coached me. You're just
. . ."
"Damn it, don't you realize
you're playing right into Vinquist's 
hands? If he can get
the two of us fighting each
other, he's . . ."
"Yeah, but you don't know
the rest of it. There's a statute:
two years for making a false
statement about official business." 

"What statute? There's no
such statute like that."
There was a long dead pause.
"No statute?"
"Hell, no. Mickey, I can read
Vinquist like a book. You're getting 
to be as jumpy as an old

woman? Take some pills and go
to sleep. Take some of your
famous codee pills."
"But what  those phones
were out of order?"
"I'm telling you, they
."
There was another long
pause.
"Boss, I . . . guess I got a
. . . a little excited."
"You sure did. Now let's
knock it off and get some
sleep . . . ."
In the publisher's office, the
detective flicked the switch of
the wire recorder. "There it is,
Mr. Keenan."
Keenan, his eyes riveted to
the machine, said hoarsely,
"What have we stumbled on?
That business about Callahan's
leg and Italy? That business
about the evidence in the Hart
case?"
Bob Vinquist, still so gripped
by those savagely exchanged
disclosures that he felt divorced
from the reality around him,
heard his own voice, distant and
equally unreal, saying, "I think
we'd better see Judge Hoffman
with this the first thing tomorrow, 
Mr. Keenan. I don't know
what the evidence they were
talking about would be. It
might even be the codeine
bottle. But we're going to have
to tell the Judge everything, because 
whatever Beers did, whatever 
Callahan knew, it was a
fraud on the Court."
"Sure we'll tell him. We'll let
him hear the tape."
"Just a minute, gentlemen,"
the detective said. "I can't let
you take this tape to a judge."
"Take it easy. Nobody's going
to get you involved," Keenan
said.
The detective took the recorder 
by its handle and smiled
bleakly. "It stays in my possession, 
Mr. Keenan."
Keenan raked him with his
eyes. "Then you be sure it's still
there when I want it."
Keenan waited until he heard
the elevator open and close behind 
the detective. "I wouldn't
put it past him to try to get a
bid from Callahan for that
tape." He turned to Stimson
with almost boyish glee. "Phil,
for once even you look wideeyed 
and bushy-tailed. What do
you make of that business about
Italy and the leg?"
"Beats. But there's something
awful rotten in Denmark."
"Did you ever check back on
his OSS service record while
you were digging around?"
Stimson shook his head, but
Keenan was temporarily too
elated for reprimands. "Never
mind. I'm going to send a wire
to Washington."
"They won't release those
records, will they?"
Keenan swung in his chair
and glanced up at his framed
letter of commendation for wartime 
services. "I know a man
who can blast it out if there's
any trouble. To hell with the
Fourth of July business now."
He spun in his chair to face
Bob. "Callahan will be indicted
for that Hart case evidence."

FROM A CORNER of his consciousness 
Judge Sam Hoffman 
heard the courthouse clock
strike the quarter-hour. He drew
another savage line on his
scratch ad. Across the desk,
Matt Keenan cleared his throat.
"I think that's about the whole
story Judge. Unless you've got
some thing else to add Bob?"
"No, Bob Vinquist said "except 
that I think the evidence
Callahan and Beers were talking 
about must be the codee
bottle But I doubt that we could
over trace it back to Beers
now."
"Yes, I doubt it," Judge Hoffman 
saw though he struggled
with an inner turmoil so great
he could hardly bring himself
to speak. But the not anger he
tell—this constriction in his
chest and fingers trembling
from emotion—was not he must
bitterly concede produced solely 
by outrage for wrongs perpetrated 
on one Norman Hart.
That man at least, would have
his new trial. But what about
that other man, Sam Hoffman?
As Judge Hoffman reflected
on this shocking Knowledge that
Callahan had deliberately introduced 
the testimony leading to
the mistrial motion, as he recalled 
his own weeks and weeks
o tormente indecision over
whether his denial of the motion 
had been improperly motivated 
as he thought of the Bar
Association investigation into
his judicial fitness brought on
solely because he had chosen
to denounce himself publicly for
having possibly unfairly denied
Norman Hart a new trial, he
wondered whether he was living
in some madman's dream.
"Well, Judge," Keenan rasped,
"what's your opinion of Callanan 
now?"
I imagine," he replied jaws
clenched, "it's the same as
yours."
"Good! Then that's settled.
Now Judge, I came here to report 
Knowledge I have about
his tampering with justice in
the Hart case. I'm willing to
testify in open court about the
recording or do any other thing
you want me to—and to hell
with what happens to me. The
man is a menace. He has to be
stopped."
Judge Hoffman crumpled the
piece of paper on which he had
been making his scrawls. He
must collect himself. For a
moment his legal mind took
over his thinking and he asked
himself whether the Supreme
Court reversal in the Hart case
made that so-called tampering
a matter, in the strictly technical 
sense, no longer relevant.
Did he even have jurisdiction
now that the case had been
transferred to another division?
Furthermore, it had to be kept
in mind that Callahan was not
 responsible for the
use of allegedly planted evidence. 
His crime was concealment 
of subsequently acquired
knowledge of the tampering.
And how would the concealment, 
the alleged tampering, be
proved? By illegal wire tapping

Judge Hoffman made a grimace
of distaste. "Where is this recording 
now?"
"The man I hired to make it,
has it," Keenan said. "It's safe."
"This is an immensely complicated 
situation, Mr. Keenan.
I'm not sure now much value
that recording has, in terms of
formal hearing by the Court.
In this state, illegally obtained
evidence is not admissible in
court, and your evidence has
been illegally obtained. And the
laws of evidence are such that
I couldn't permit you - if I'm
to honor the obligations imposed
by our system of jurisprudence,
—to play that
recording in open court. Neither
could I permit you to testify
about it.
"Thus from the legal standpoint, 
any hearing I held would
be a farce. It would establish
the truth ot nothing. Callahan
would be smeared, yes, and
probably destroyed politically—
I want that as much as you—
but he couldn't be convicted of
crime. Because the underlying
evidence would have been illegally 
obtained. Worse, to permit 
you to testify at all would
violate those fundamental protections 
the Law is great enough
to extend to every man . . . including 
a Callahan. On the other
hand, if you could somehow
substantiate your charges with
proof that was admissible in
court . . ."
Keenan turned crimson. "I
came over here ready to take
any consequences. And you
know what I find? I find a
figurehead of a judge who hides
behind the smoke screen of a
lot of fine-sounding empty
words. And why?" He pounded
the desk. "Ill tell you why. Because 
you're scared of Callahan,
you're scared of this Hart case,
you're scared of getting in any
deeper with that Bar Association 
Committee. You don't want
justice. You just want your
job!"
Judge Hoffman, fought the almost 
hysterical impulse to attack 
the publisher physically.
He wanted to shout,  Yet through his mind
there flashed a picture, incongruous 
in this moment of humiliation 
and crisis, of old
Marty Spewack, the bailiff,
gnome-like and senile, hobbling
into chambers to overpower this
violent, profane, and husky adversary. 
Then the phone rang.
"Hoffman!" he snapped.
"Sam, Lew Jacobs."
Judge Hoffman clutched the
phone tighter. The chairman of
the Bar Association Committee
investigating his judicial conduct 
would not be phoning just
to pass the time of day. "Yes,
Lew."
"This is one of the toughest
things I've ever had to do, Sam.
The Committee's signed a report. 
It'll be released this afternoon. 
The Committee's voted to
censure you for failing to report
an attempt to bribe you the

moment it happened. The Committee, 
Sam, asks that you resign 
forthwith. There's also a
recommendation that you be
suspended from the practice of
law for twelve months."
Judge Hoffman's vision
blurred.
"The business about resigning
is, of course, merely a request
at this stage. On the other hand,
if you choose not to comply, the
Committee can request your impeachment." 

"Yes, I know what you can
do" Judge Hoffman slammed
down the phone. He looked
around the room, taking in the
Currier and Ives prints, the law
books and the old leather club
chair he had bought when he
first went into practice. Trembling 
but determined to hold together 
the remnants of his
poise, he said, "The Bar Association 
is releasing its report
this afternoon. It asks for my
resignation and will recommend
the institution of proceedings
for a twelve-month disbarment."
White-faced, Bob shook his
head in distress so real that
Judge Hoffman looked away.
So this, he thought, so this was
how his career was going to
end. Futility. Yet could any
man, valuing whatever precious
years he still had left, concede
he lacked the ... the strenght,
the will, to battle fate's hars
scheme with everything he had?
And would that same man, a
judge, concede that he knew of
no way to protect the authority
of his court against deceptions
as flagrant as Callahan's?
Raising his eyes, speaking
with tight, dispassionate irony,
Judge Hoffman said, "Mr.
Keenan, you've told me you're
interested to justice. I've been
a judge more than twenty years
and I'm not sure I know what
justice is. Not that I consider
this very remarkable. Better
minds than mine have wrestled
with this problem. I do know
however, that the more I try to
reduce any situation to its moral
absolutes, the more arbitrary I
have to be; the more arbitrary
I am, the less just I am. I'm
not complaining. If I could start
my life over, I'd still want to
be a judge. The job has many
rewards, not the least of which
at my age, in regular pay
check."
Judge Hoffman swung in his
chair and gazed out the window.
'You may be wondering what
all this has to do with the price
of eggs. Mr. Keenan, it has this
to do you're right, I do want
my job. But not as badly as you
seem to think. So if you're willing 
to play your recording in
open court—and take any consequences, 
which may ultimately 
include the filing of criminal
charges against you for tapping
a phone illegally then I'm willing 
to initiate an inquiry of my
own motion and permit you to
play that recording. Tomorrow
at ten."
"Judge," Keenan said gruffly,
"I apologize for shooting off my
mouth. You do have guts!"


Kennedy

ba and the setting up of a military
regime by Col. Joseph Kasavubu,
and the long debate in the UN
General Assembly, which ended in
a deadlock.
4. The fight between the Federal
courts and the State of Louisiana
over desegregation of New Orleans
public schools.
5. The decision of the Supreme
Court that the State of Alabama
cannot fix the boundaries of the
City of Tuskegee so as to exclude
all colored voters from the city
limits.
6. Passage by the Congress of
the 1960 Civil Rights Act providing
for Federal court - appointed voting 
referees to overseer thr registration 
and voting of qualified colored 
citizens in areas where they
are denied registration; making it
a federal crime for anyone to obstruct 
any Federal court order by
force or threat of force, and providing 
criminal penalties for flight
over state lines to avoid prosecution 
for bombings.
7. The hearing held by the Civil 
Rights Commission in New Orleans 
on the denial of the right to
vote to colored citizens in Louisiana 
through the connivance of
White Citizens Councils, state officials, 
and local registrars.
8. The plight of colored persons
in Fayette and Haywood Counties,
Tenn., against whom economic reprisals, 
including eviction of share
croppers, 
denial of credit, and refusal 
to sell goods and services, because 
they, had sought themselves
to register to vote or had encouraged 
others to do so.
9. The winning of three gold
medals in the Olympic Games by
Miss Wilma Rudolph of Clarksville,
Tenn., a Tennessee State College
student, who won the 100-meter
sprin the 200 - meter event, and
ran anchor on the American women's 
400-meter relay team which
set a world record of 44.4 second,
and the winning of the Olympic
decathlon by Rafer Johnson.
10. The comeback of Floyd Patterson, 
who knocked out Ingemar
Johanson in the fifth round of
their return engagement to regain
the world heavyweight boxing
championship

WISHING WELL
Registered U. S. Patent Office.
HERE is a pleasant little game that will give you a message every
day. It is a numerical puzzle designed to spell out your fortune.
Count the letters in your first name. If the number of letters is 6 or
more, subtract 4. If the number is less than 6, add 3. The result is
your key number. Start at the upper left-hand corner of the rectangle 
and check every one of your key numbers, left to right. Then
read the message the letters under the checked figures give you.

Jesse H. Turner,

tion can best be determined by
the representation of all citizens in
every section of each of our governmenting 
bodies. My efforts on
the committee will certainly be directed 
toward that goal."
Showing confidence in the man,
Jesse Turner, received without opposition 
the votes of the local NA
ACP as its next president.
Turner came to Memphis in 1937
to attend LeMoyne College. He is
a native of Longview, Mississippi.
Turner attended the University of
Chicago after a four and a half

year stretch in the army. Turner
rose from private to captain while
in service.
After receiving a master's degree 
in business administration and
accounting, he went to the TriState 
Bank in 1947. Turner's career 
started as cashier with the TriState 
Bank and he is presently executive 
vice president.
Turner's parent's are Rev. and
Mrs. C. J. Turner, West Point, Miss.
He is married to the former Allegra 
Wills of Louisiana. They
have three sons; Jesse Jr., 10, Ray
9, and Eric. 4.
Turner's many duties as bank
executive and certified public accountant 
with his own business
firm does not keep him from be
ing 
a very integral part of civic
endeavors in the city.
CONGRATULATIONS JESSE
TURNER AS MAN OF THE YEAR
IN MEMPHIS.

TURNER'S CAREER

tion can best be determined by
the representation of all citizens in
every section of each of our governmenting 
bodies. My efforts on
the committee will certainly be directed 
toward that goal."
Showing confidence in the man,
Jesse Turner, received without opposition 
the votes of the local NA
ACP as its next president.
Turner came to Memphis in 1937
to attend LeMoyne College. He is
a native of Longview, Mississippi.
Turner attended the University of
Chicago after a four and a half

year stretch in the army. Turner
rose from private to captain while
in service.
After receiving a master's degree 
in business administration and
accounting, he went to the TriState 
Bank in 1947. Turner's career 
started as cashier with the TriState 
Bank and he is presently executive 
vice president.
Turner's parent's are Rev. and
Mrs. C. J. Turner, West Point, Miss.
He is married to the former Allegra 
Wills of Louisiana. They
have three sons; Jesse Jr., 10, Ray
9, and Eric. 4.
Turner's many duties as bank
executive and certified public accountant 
with his own business
firm does not keep him from be
ing 
a very integral part of civic
endeavors in the city.
CONGRATULATIONS JESSE
TURNER AS MAN OF THE YEAR
IN MEMPHIS.

Use It Or Lose It
By REV. LOUISE LYNOM
Text: But this shall be the New
Covenant that I
will make with
the house of Israel, 
after those
days, saith the
ord. I will put
y law in their
inward parts and
write it in their
hearts; and I
will be their God
and they will be
my people 6 Jer.
31:33.
We are about to enter a new
year. Can we say we will start a
new life? We must rededicate our
lives for the service of God this
next year. We must be like Jeremiah 
make a New Covenant with
God "Are we willing to pull off
the old garment and put on the
new garment? Can we be like ISAIAH 
was, willing to acknowledge
his sins, ready to be washed in the
blood of Jesus Christ? Can we be
like Moses, ready to pull off his
old garment to and do the will of
God? Let us put every weight of
sin aside and take up the cross
and follow Jesus. Jeremiah declared 
that God wants people on
whom He can depend on, courageous 
people who can make wholesome 
adjustments. This day is for
us another chance, a new beginning. 
By surrendering ourselves to
God's will, then we will live in communion 
with the Holy Spirit.
Prayer: Our Gracious Father, we
thank thee for a new year, help
us to rededicate our lives for your
service. Grant to us thy blessings
we pray, In thy name, Amen.

A NEW COVENANT
By REV. LOUISE LYNOM
Text: But this shall be the New
Covenant that I
will make with
the house of Israel, 
after those
days, saith the
ord. I will put
y law in their
inward parts and
write it in their
hearts; and I
will be their God
and they will be
my people 6 Jer.
31:33.
We are about to enter a new
year. Can we say we will start a
new life? We must rededicate our
lives for the service of God this
next year. We must be like Jeremiah 
make a New Covenant with
God "Are we willing to pull off
the old garment and put on the
new garment? Can we be like ISAIAH 
was, willing to acknowledge
his sins, ready to be washed in the
blood of Jesus Christ? Can we be
like Moses, ready to pull off his
old garment to and do the will of
God? Let us put every weight of
sin aside and take up the cross
and follow Jesus. Jeremiah declared 
that God wants people on
whom He can depend on, courageous 
people who can make wholesome 
adjustments. This day is for
us another chance, a new beginning. 
By surrendering ourselves to
God's will, then we will live in communion 
with the Holy Spirit.
Prayer: Our Gracious Father, we
thank thee for a new year, help
us to rededicate our lives for your
service. Grant to us thy blessings
we pray, In thy name, Amen.

MY WEEKLY
SERMON
By
REV. BLAIR T. HUNT
PASTOR
MISSISSIPPI BLVD CHRISTIAN CHURCH

Only he who has been barred
from Hotels, hospitals, libraries
and public parks, etc., can fully
sympathize with Joseph, Mary and
her little unborn child Jesus. To
the Negro the text has a deep
meaning, deeper than words can
tell.
The angels of suffering has
come to Mary and her brow is
crowned with the sweet radiance
of motherhood. In the womb of
her body is a little child. That
child is Heaven's King, the King
of this world and all other worlds.
But in spite of all this to the hotel
keepers it meant nothing. Today
to many of us it means nothing.
To many, many people Christmas
meant nothing.
We bar Jesus from the hotels of
our hearts when we permit the
hectic activities, the frivolities, the
parties of the season to so crowd
our hearts, our lives so there is no
room for the manger cradled babe,
Jesus.
Way did the hotel keeper bar
Jesus? Maybe he didn't recognize
Jesus' parents. You see Jesus came
to him as the unborn Christ. He
didn't have your chance and my
chance. Jesus has been born of a
virgin, Mary, to us. It is so easy
to fail to recognize one whom we
are not expecting.
After Jesus was crucified, two of
His heart-broken disciples were on
their way back home. As they went
on their tearful way, Jesus, Himself 
drew near and journeyed with
them. But they failed to recognize
Him. This, because their lack of
expectancy had put out their eyes.
May we always expect Jesus, may
we always recognize Jesus. I do
not know in what guise, what form
or dress or manner our Lord will
knock at the doors of the hotels
of our lives, but I do know in some
way or fashion Jesus is sure to
come. It may be a crying baby, a
little ragged child, a hungry beggar, 
a poor cripple, a blind man

or woman, or some poor broken hearted 
outcast. But He is to come.
Perhaps the hotel keeper barred
the door to the unborn Christ because 
he just didn't want Him.
This is the case with many people
today. We may want Him but we
want Him on our own terms. Ourown 
terms or no Jesus at all. We
will let Jesus in if we may retain
our prejudices, our jealousies, our
selfish notions.
What guests will you and I entertain 
at this Christmas season
into the hotels of our hearts?
For some doubtless, this is a
rather trying and lonely Christmas
season. There is a grave out in
God's acre and a wound in the
heart that was not there a year
ago. Some are feeling the pinch of
poverty; they grieve because they
have so little to give.
Some are forgotten and so lonely, 
this makes them so afraid. But
whatever the circumstances . . .
however humble the home, however 
scanty the fare, there is one
guest that will, if permitted, take
up His abode with you.
Open the door of the hotel of your
heart, let Jesus in and will have
a joyous Christmas season and a
happy 1961.
No room, no time for Jesus
equals, "Depart I know you not."

BARRED FROM ALL HOTELS
By
REV. BLAIR T. HUNT
PASTOR
MISSISSIPPI BLVD CHRISTIAN CHURCH

Only he who has been barred
from Hotels, hospitals, libraries
and public parks, etc., can fully
sympathize with Joseph, Mary and
her little unborn child Jesus. To
the Negro the text has a deep
meaning, deeper than words can
tell.
The angels of suffering has
come to Mary and her brow is
crowned with the sweet radiance
of motherhood. In the womb of
her body is a little child. That
child is Heaven's King, the King
of this world and all other worlds.
But in spite of all this to the hotel
keepers it meant nothing. Today
to many of us it means nothing.
To many, many people Christmas
meant nothing.
We bar Jesus from the hotels of
our hearts when we permit the
hectic activities, the frivolities, the
parties of the season to so crowd
our hearts, our lives so there is no
room for the manger cradled babe,
Jesus.
Way did the hotel keeper bar
Jesus? Maybe he didn't recognize
Jesus' parents. You see Jesus came
to him as the unborn Christ. He
didn't have your chance and my
chance. Jesus has been born of a
virgin, Mary, to us. It is so easy
to fail to recognize one whom we
are not expecting.
After Jesus was crucified, two of
His heart-broken disciples were on
their way back home. As they went
on their tearful way, Jesus, Himself 
drew near and journeyed with
them. But they failed to recognize
Him. This, because their lack of
expectancy had put out their eyes.
May we always expect Jesus, may
we always recognize Jesus. I do
not know in what guise, what form
or dress or manner our Lord will
knock at the doors of the hotels
of our lives, but I do know in some
way or fashion Jesus is sure to
come. It may be a crying baby, a
little ragged child, a hungry beggar, 
a poor cripple, a blind man

or woman, or some poor broken hearted 
outcast. But He is to come.
Perhaps the hotel keeper barred
the door to the unborn Christ because 
he just didn't want Him.
This is the case with many people
today. We may want Him but we
want Him on our own terms. Ourown 
terms or no Jesus at all. We
will let Jesus in if we may retain
our prejudices, our jealousies, our
selfish notions.
What guests will you and I entertain 
at this Christmas season
into the hotels of our hearts?
For some doubtless, this is a
rather trying and lonely Christmas
season. There is a grave out in
God's acre and a wound in the
heart that was not there a year
ago. Some are feeling the pinch of
poverty; they grieve because they
have so little to give.
Some are forgotten and so lonely, 
this makes them so afraid. But
whatever the circumstances . . .
however humble the home, however 
scanty the fare, there is one
guest that will, if permitted, take
up His abode with you.
Open the door of the hotel of your
heart, let Jesus in and will have
a joyous Christmas season and a
happy 1961.
No room, no time for Jesus
equals, "Depart I know you not."

Agree Hulan

victed Manhattan borough president. 

Such action is expected to take
place when Mayor Robert Wagner
calls together the six Manhattan
councilmen to make the choice.
At City Hall, spokesmen for
Wagner indicated that the Mayor
will call a meeting of the six Councilmen 
once he receives a decision
from City Corporation Counsel
Charles Tenney as to whether Jack
automatically forfeited his office at
the time of the jury's verdict or
on the date of sentencing, which
is Jan. 16.
High on the list of possible suc
cessors, it was indicated, are City
Councilman Earl Brown, who reportedly 
has the support of some
of his colleagues in the Council;
Dr. Robert C. Weaver, "vice chairman 
of the Housing and Redevelopment 
Board and former state rent

Commissioner, and state Senator
James L. Watson.
Rep. Adam Powell and J. Raymond 
Jones are believed to be
opposed to Councilman Brown because 
of Brown's race two years
ago against Powell for the Congressional 
post, but other leaders
are said to be opposed to Weaver
and Watson.
A dark horse candidate may be
Acting Borough, President Louis
Way fight is some sources said. A twoway 
fight is predicted in the primary 
regardless of who is named.

1 Dead, Another

college student at Lincoln University, 
Jefferson City, Mo., and oldest 
son of Kilgore, Jr., stated that
"Tuesday night, at 7:40 my father
was on his way home. He changes
buses at Third and Beale, and he
went to Beale and Hernando to
got some cough medicine at pantaze 
Drug store.
Kilgore III stated further that
his father "had been ill before, and
was suffering from hypertension.
He became ill in front of the drug
store, and patrolmen E. S. Burkley
and J. D. Williams, saw him and
said they were going to arrest him
for being drunk."
"A neighbor named Hudson just
happend to be across street. He
said 'Oh I know that man. He's
sick. He's never been drunk a day
in his life. Hudson supposedly
pleaded with them not to arrest
Kilgore, Jr., but to take him to a
hospital.
In near tears, young Kilgore III
stated that "my father was a religious 
man and had never seen
the inside of a jail before."
The dead man's son stated that
"later they found that my father
was sick, not drunk, and took him
to John Gaston hospital in a patrol
wagon; but then it was too late,
dad was dead on arrival at 11 p.
m. "I think something like this
should be brought to the eyes of
Memphis. I think the officers
should have shown more consideration 
to determine whether my father 
was drunk," Kilgore III stated. 

Inspector W. W. Wilkinson, homicide 
chief, said a court-ordered
autopsy showed Kilgore died of a
cerebral hemorrhage Dr. J. T.
Francisco, of the U-T College of
Medicine Department of Pathology, 
who performed the autopsy,
stated that "we have not completed 
the autopsy and have not as yet
determined whether or not the
mad had been drinking."

SON PRESENTS POLICE

college student at Lincoln University, 
Jefferson City, Mo., and oldest 
son of Kilgore, Jr., stated that
"Tuesday night, at 7:40 my father
was on his way home. He changes
buses at Third and Beale, and he
went to Beale and Hernando to
got some cough medicine at pantaze 
Drug store.
Kilgore III stated further that
his father "had been ill before, and
was suffering from hypertension.
He became ill in front of the drug
store, and patrolmen E. S. Burkley
and J. D. Williams, saw him and
said they were going to arrest him
for being drunk."
"A neighbor named Hudson just
happend to be across street. He
said 'Oh I know that man. He's
sick. He's never been drunk a day
in his life. Hudson supposedly
pleaded with them not to arrest
Kilgore, Jr., but to take him to a
hospital.
In near tears, young Kilgore III
stated that "my father was a religious 
man and had never seen
the inside of a jail before."
The dead man's son stated that
"later they found that my father
was sick, not drunk, and took him
to John Gaston hospital in a patrol
wagon; but then it was too late,
dad was dead on arrival at 11 p.
m. "I think something like this
should be brought to the eyes of
Memphis. I think the officers
should have shown more consideration 
to determine whether my father 
was drunk," Kilgore III stated. 

Inspector W. W. Wilkinson, homicide 
chief, said a court-ordered
autopsy showed Kilgore died of a
cerebral hemorrhage Dr. J. T.
Francisco, of the U-T College of
Medicine Department of Pathology, 
who performed the autopsy,
stated that "we have not completed 
the autopsy and have not as yet
determined whether or not the
mad had been drinking."