Excerpt from Life magazine article (September 28, 1962) entitled Still Fighting for Justice — Carter Ridge of South Carolina, the New Star in Politics
Fifteen years ago a teenaged young man took it upon himself to witness the last lynching trial in the state of South Carolina. After the all-white jury acquitted the accused murderers of Willie Earle, the youth, Carter Ridge, was arrested for “disturbing the peace” when what he was actually doing was disturbing the conscience of his fellow citizens, in questioning the morality of the Jim Crow system of segregation.
Today, Carter Ridge is all grown up, and his fight for justice continues. Last week he encountered a family of sharecroppers in the deep cotton belt of South Carolina, illegally evicted from their home by the same corrupt, landed interests he battled as a freckled youngster...
Summer 1962, Columbia
As the following days, and then weeks, picked up speed, Carter travelled to several towns a day, with his caravan of musical acts, fake country home, and campaign field staff, and his name recognition and overall favorability rating continued to grow. This caused the press and political leadership of the state to begin taking him more seriously, and ask how is Mr. Ridge going to pay for all of this? The conservative publisher of the largest newspaper in South Carolina, The State, started dubbing Ridge’s program The Indebted Life.
Over coffee during a stop in Darlington one morning, Carter read the front page of The State, with its headline, Thompkins Riles Crowds. The article had an accompanying photo showing Thompkins addressing a large crowd in Myrtle Beach. He promised that if elected governor he would be the leader in obstructing and resisting the Federal government, by any means necessary. He came just short of calling for a new civil war, and the reporter claimed that most of his speech was a glowing tribute to the Lost Cause of the Confederacy, the tragedy that was Republican Reconstruction, and the glory of past South Carolinians such as John C. Calhoun and Benjamin “Pitchfork” Tillman. The article closed with a summary of Tillman’s tenure as both governor and senator eighty years prior, with the statement while Senator, Tillman often boasted of his having killed Negroes during the Red Shirt uprising that brought Jim Crow into existence in the state.
“Well at least I’m not the only one getting negative press from The State,” Carter said to Shelby.
“For some folks, linking Thompkins to Tillman is a good thing,” Shelby replied. “For every person it offends, it might energize and embolden another.”
“I just can’t tell if it’s a desperate move on Thompkins’ part, or if he thinks that rattling that pauper’s box of the Lost Cause is going to get his people excited.” Carter shrugged. “They’ve been sipping on that gruel for generations now, it’s not exactly some new exotic recipe.”
It was enough to bring Thompkins to the top of the Democratic Party primary that June, besting his opponents with over sixty percent of the total votes. As promised, Governor Hollings hosted Carter for an endorsement and press conference in the lobby of the State House. Most of the questions were directed at Carter, which was to be expected, but it seemed to irk Hollings, who was used to being the center of the universe, at least within the confines of the State House. After a third consecutive question from a reporter as to how Carter planned on paying for his ambitious program, he promised to hold a separate press briefing in the next week, focused exclusively on that question. Hollings smiled in an inauthentic manner, looking a bit like the dummy Charlie McCarthy sitting on Edgar Bergen’s lap. The next day’s The State ran an unflattering photo of Hollings and Carter, with the caption Tweedledee and Tweedledum.
Leading up to his promised briefing on how The Good Life would be financed, Carter sat for two days with his economic advisors, one a Wall Street banker with whom he had worked during the public offering of his father’s Ridge Paper Company into a reconstituted Southern Paper Corporation a decade earlier, and the other a prominent economist from the University of Pennsylvania, whom he had flown into Columbia to brief the rest of his campaign team.
“Quite simply,” Peter Drake, the Wall Street financier said, “Wall Street loves debt. It’s what fuels the economy, and without it, there would be no banking system, and no economic growth. So, if a state wants to finance capital projects through the issuance of bonds, that is debt, there should be no problem as long as the ability to make payments on that debt isn’t a risk.”
Professor Shaw nodded, and as if on cue, added, “Which brings us to our rather innovative idea for Mr. Ridge and the state of South Carolina. We call it a Sovereign Wealth Fund, or if you think in terms of a business, what we’re proposing is creating a balance sheet of assets that the state government possesses.”
“Normally, a company produces a balance sheet on a regular accounting basis to show how much wealth has been created, what the assets are, and what the debts are. It’s an easy vehicle for banks to be able to assess risk, and to make decisions in terms of lending,” Mr. Drake continued.
“But,” they both said at the same time, and Drake motioned to Shaw to continue, “it’s not widely used by governments. Certainly not state governments. But if you think in terms of all of the assets the state has at its disposal, the land, the resources, the buildings, not to mention the existing tax revenues, it’s quite impressive what you could present to banks in terms of collateral.”
“Collateral, isn’t the right word, because you wouldn’t be giving the banks ownership of anything, even temporarily,” Drake jumped in, correcting Shaw. “But the idea is that, in the event someday in the future the state of South Carolina could not pay back its loans to the banks, it could conceivably use some of its assets to do so — selling off a state park, for instance, or selling waterfront property that it holds, there are many, many ways to raise the money necessary to pay back debt.”
“What Mr. Ridge is proposing is a staggered investment ladder, I believe is the term we’ve been using,” Margot said, interjecting to make sure she was on the same page as the two experts.
“Correct!” Drake responded. “Meaning, today’s state government budget is roughly two hundred and fifty million dollars. Altogether, all of the proposed, incremental spending over ten years is one billion, or about a hundred million more per year than what is currently spent.”
“That’s a lot of money,” Shaw said, as if he were making a joke. “But it needs to be thought of as an investment, and with each dollar invested in building a new road, a new high-speed rail line, a new school, a new library, or a new hospital you are creating wealth, you are creating assets, which will generate taxes, which will pay for the debt obligations over time.”
“Especially for a state like South Carolina, which is starting so far back in terms of competition in regards to the rest of the South, not to mention the rest of the country, and the world. Here, an extra one hundred million per year in serious investment would make an immediate and powerful impact, people would see it. They would feel it with extra money in their paychecks from the economic growth of the investment.”
“Okay, so why hasn’t this been done before,” Margot asked. “What would someone at The State newspaper who has a bee in their bonnet about The Good Life use as a counter argument?”
“Good question!” Shaw, the consummate professor replied. “The reason why it hasn’t been used on a large scale before is because it’s a new concept, and most state governments are debt-averse. In fact, most state constitutions have legal limits as to how much debt the state can assume.”
Carter turned to Margot, and added, “Remember, in South Carolina, all debt is horse-traded among the various state senators for their pet projects back in their home counties. Senator “A” wants a road paved, and Senator “B” wants a sewage line extended, so the state bonds are proposed and bundled together and voted in one bill. But it isn’t organized at all from a statewide perspective, and it certainly isn’t a rational planning process as to what the overall needs of the state are. It is just a bunch of rural counties determining what small, miniscule needs they have, while the cities and the state as a whole are starved of investment.”
“So,” Margot said, “from a messaging perspective, we could claim that this is an investment in the future for all of the state, funded by Wall Street, which will create wealth and growth for everyone, is that a fair summation?”
“I’d say that’s pretty spot-on,” Drake said.
“Okay, let’s go through the details of what each proposal is going to cost,” Carter said as he opened his notebook.
For the press briefing, Margot procured the nearby Longstreet Theatre, which was a theater in the round, giving a more dynamic, informal ambiance than a typical political, boring, old-fashioned briefing, and which was also in keeping with the title Margot gave for the briefing, A Modern, Innovative Proposal for South Carolina’s Future. Carter rehearsed that morning, both with the forty minute, twenty-page overview, as well as with practicing questions posed by both cadets and campaign staff posing as reporters. After a light lunch, he made the five-minute walk over to the theater with Margot to do a final walk-through.
A little before 3:00 p.m. the theater began filling with reporters, camera crews, and interested, concerned citizens. A multi-colored brochure was given to everyone as they entered, and finally at 3:30 the lights dimmed with a sole focus on the center stage, as Carter came out. The acoustics allowed him to speak without amplification, but since there were television cameras present, he put on a microphone necklace that fed directly to the video feed, and allowed him to walk and talk unencumbered.
The press that evening and in the following days was glowing. Granted, few of the reporters had any economic or finance background, but the adjectives given included “cogent,” “compelling,” “innovative,” and “inspiring.” Margot had forwarded the glowing reviews to the UPI and AP wire services, as well as the New York City media to build Carter’s image. It worked, because within days, both Newsday and the New York Post requested interviews with Carter.
“Shall we sit down and go over the itinerary for the next ten days?” Margot said, as the rest of the campaign team gathered around the conference table.
Shelby came up to the main hall having parked the Continental, and Jimmy joined them to be the driver for the second car, a brand new Buick Invicta. Margot walked them all through the major events planned; one of the secretaries had typed up and mimeographed all of the contacts, names, addresses, phone numbers, and notes through the following week. Most of the events were focused on the Midlands near and around Columbia, including a television appearance on the Sunday news show for WIS-TV 10. It was summertime so nobody was thinking about politics, other than journalists and politicians, and therefore it was a good time to work out the kinks in his messaging since few would be paying attention.
“How many of these events have air-conditioning?” Carter asked. He had taken off his suit jacket, already loosened his tie, and was sipping iced tea. Two large fans had been set up near the windows, but they seemed to be aspirational as Betty from The Harris Group might have said, since the temperature outside was already eighty-nine degrees, but with the humidity, it felt like Venus.
“The Buick has air-conditioning,” Jimmy said proudly to Carolyn and Thomas.
“And a V8 engine,” Shelby said, teasing him. Jimmy had already taken it for a few test drives over the holiday weekend, and had repeatedly stated to Shelby how fast she was under the hood.
“All of the indoor venues have air-conditioning I’m happy to report,” Margot said, a bit evasively.
“Meaning...?” Carter asked.
“Well, there are a few outdoor events, but I scheduled those for mornings,” she said.
“Let’s hold off on anymore outdoor events until September,” Carter said, slightly perturbed.
Throughout the long, languid days of summer, Margot continued to have the entourage trek across the state. The heat and humidity slowed the pace, going from as many as four or five stops per day to only one or two, but during the down time, Carter was able to reflect on the overall message of his campaign, and jotted notes for future speeches and themes he thought needed stressing. As they wound through country towns and drove along rural highways surrounded by towering pines, the little caravan pulled into favorite diners to have Coca-Colas and a bite to eat. If Carolyn was part of the group, they made sure it was a Negro establishment, referring to her dog-eared copy of the 1960 Green Book she kept in the glove compartment of the Buick.
“What’s that book you keep pulling out?” one of the cadets riding along in the Buick asked her early in the summer.
She handed it to him to take a look at.
“It’s a guide for Negroes to use when we travel, to know which places throughout the South and across the country are welcoming to us, so we can have a place to eat or stay when traveling,” she said matter-of-factly. “Y’all don’t have to worry about that, but it’s something that is life and death for us.”
The cadet thumbed through the green-covered guide, turning to the pages for South Carolina, then said, “Oh, so that’s why we always stop at Brooks Restaurant when we’re in Charleston.”
“Besides the fact that they have great pork chops and collards, yes,” Jimmy said as they drove.
The cadet handed it back to Carolyn, and said, “I didn’t know about that. I’m sorry you have to worry about that.”
“Well, that’s why I’m working on this campaign,” she said as she put her copy back in the glove box. “Hopefully someday soon it will be a relic of the past.”
By September the little entourage had visited most of the civic functions, town fairs, summer camps, and vacation Bible schools in the Midlands, Pee Dee, and Up State. The six of them had bonded over milkshakes at roadside malt shops, huddled under too small umbrellas during late afternoon thunderstorms, and enjoyed home-style cooking at Negro church potlucks which Margot had strategically researched if the day would entail needing to stop for dinner somewhere. To mark the beginning of the end of summer, Thomas had created a three-minute-short documentary of the previous few weeks. The quick shots, some barely a second long, were accompanied by Carmen McRae singing along to Dave Brubeck’s ‘Take Five’ and the humorous outtakes of the five of them following Carter along Margot’s route of various hole-in-the-wall venues had everyone laughing. Afterwards everyone clapped and cheered.
“Who knew Thomas had a sense of humor?!” Margot quipped, teasing him. “That was just marvelous! Fantastic job!”
With the start of autumn they entered the final stretch with renewed confidence. As the temperature became cooler, the Citroën replaced the air-conditioned Continental, and Carter would sit in the back seat with Stan, talking about legal issues, proposed reforms, and the nuances of Federal court cases that had already been adjudicated.
One morning they were driving through Barnwell County on their way to Allendale. The cotton had been harvested, and hefty white bales of it were placed in rows at the several co-operative cotton gins they passed along the way.
“How was the harvest this year, by the way, does anyone have any idea?” Carter asked Stan.
“Not very good, apparently,” Shelby commented from the front seat, pointing to a white family standing at the side of the state road, their meager possessions strewn around them. The males were dressed in overalls, and the mother and her daughter were in well-worn dresses. She was crying, and her husband was trying to comfort her.
“Let’s pull over and see what’s going on,” Carter said.
Shelby pulled up to the road’s shoulder a bit past the family, with Jimmy in the Buick behind them. Immediately Carolyn and Thomas jumped out of their car and began documenting. Carter came over to the family, extending his hand to the father, and asked if they were all right.
“We just got thrown out of our place,” said the gentleman. His deeply creased, worn face showed decades of hard labor under the sun, and his eyes were weary. He had the slouch of a wounded stray dog that was just trying to find a place to lie down and die.
“What happened?” Stan asked, with a tenderness to his voice that was as soothing as it was steady. One of the younger children grabbed hold of his daddy’s leg and hid behind this swarm of strangers. The child was barefoot.
“Shelby, do we still have some coffee in that thermos? Can we give this gentleman something to drink?” Carter asked softly.
Shelby came back with the thermos and offered it to the farmer.
“Thank-you, sir,” he said as he gratefully took the open thermos and poured a cup of hot coffee into the plastic cup.
“My name is Carter Ridge, by the way, and this is Stan Larson,” he said by way of introduction. “We were just passing by and you seemed to be needing some help, so we’re here to help.”
“These here is my family,” the farmer said, taking a sip of the coffee. His wife stood from the battered suitcase she had been sitting on, and wiped a tear and wayward strand of hair from her face. He passed the coffee cup to her for her to taste. “We’re the Salleys, I’m Jarvis and this is my wife, Edna.”
“Don’t mind Carolyn and Thomas there, they’re here to film me if that’s all right with y’all,” Carter said as he heard the photo shutter click on Carolyn’s camera behind him. “I’m running for governor, but I want to know what happened, how can we help?”
The little boy hiding behind Jarvis’ leg peeked around with a little mischievous grin on his dirty face, and Carter smiled back.
“Well sir, we just finished harvestin’ the cotton for the season, and the boss man, Mister Hodge, he came on over this mornin’ with the sheriff, tellin’ us that after doin’ the tally and what not that we were still short for the year. We been workin’ his land for the last, oh it must be goin’ on fifteen years now, and we just keep gettin’ more and more in debt and behind. So he done thrown us out this mornin’”
He took another sip of the coffee and then pointed behind him towards a shack down a dirt road.
“That’s our place,” he said. “It ain’t much, but it was enough
for us.”
“I see, I see,” Stan said. “Well, this Mister Hodge, did he give you any warning before this morning? Did he give you any papers with how much you owed, how much your harvest was?”
Jarvis reached into his overalls pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.
“I reckon this is it,” he said as he handed it to Stan.
He and Carter stood reading it. It was a receipt from the cotton gin that showed the total pounds of cotton processed the previous week (6,112 lbs.), for a total of 12.7 bales. The cotton gin paid 25 cents per pound, or $1,528. It was stamped by the gin agent with the prior day’s date, and signed.
“So, were you paid fifteen hundred and twenty-eight dollars?” Carter asked.
“No sir, Mister Hodge done and took it, he owns the gin,” Jarvis said. “He says that I owed him sixteen hundred dollars for the year.”
“Did he give you any other paperwork? Anything that shows sixteen hundred in debt?” Stan asked, handing back the receipt.
“No sir.”
Stan shook his head. The older sister who was playing together behind their daddy joined the little boy.
“You’re a tenant farmer, or sharecropper?” Stan asked.
“We’s sharecroppin’” Edna spoke up. “This is all we’s got.”
Carter looked at the collected inventory of their lives. An old manual sewing machine was set carefully on a table, with two chairs, a half dozen peach crates filled with miscellaneous clothes and dishes, and the suitcase.
“Have y’all had anything to eat today?” Carter asked.
“Oh we had some biscuits this morning’” Jarvis said.
“What do you think, Stan?” Carter asked.
“Sadly, it doesn’t surprise me. This kind of practice is all too commonplace. It’s a human tragedy that happens on a daily basis, and rarely is it ever fought, because they don’t know their rights, and they don’t have the means to fight in court.”
“But it’s illegal, correct?” Carter asked, ruffling the little boy’s hair.
“Completely illegal,” Stan said. “Everything about this is illegal, from the receipt, which should show when the scales had been last certified by the state weights and measures agent, to the price offered which should show the market range of pricing for the region, to the lack of a debt invoice, to the lack of a certified letter advising them to vacate their land within three days of receipt.”
“If we were to bring this to court, would we win?” Carter asked.
“I’m fairly confident that even in Barnwell County we would win,” Stan said.
“Would you like us to fight this on your behalf, Mr. Salley?” Carter asked. The boy was hugging Carter’s leg.
“I don’t have any money to pay you, sir.”
“Oh, well, you don’t worry about that, Mr. Salley, I do this for free because of the generosity of Mr. Ridge here,” Stan said.
Jarvis turned to his wife for a final confirmation, and she nodded twice quickly.
“I reckon that it wouldn’t hurt, we ain’t got nothin’ to lose,” Jarvis replied.
Stan reached out to shake his hand, and Carter looked at the little boy, “what about you, son? We got a deal?”
The boy giggled, and Carter shook his little dirty hand.
“What’s your name, son?”
Edna said encouragingly, “Michael, your name is Michael.”
“Well, hello there, Michael!” Carter said as he kneeled down, to eye level with the child. “How old are you?”
He became bashful again, and went back to stand behind his daddy.
“Aww, boy, don’t be a-scared,” Jarvis said jovially. “He’s a shy one. He’s three years now.”
Carter stood back up, and said to Stan, “Let’s go find this Hodge fellow, and let him know that you’ll be representing Mr. Salley in court.”
Just then a car approached on the otherwise deserted road, and as it came closer it became apparent it was the sheriff’s car with a lone red light on its top. It pulled up to the shoulder joining the group, and out came a large older man in a uniform. He put on his hat as he shut the door.
“Salley, what’s goin’ on here?” the sheriff barked.
“Hello, officer,” Stan said as the sheriff came over. “We were just passing through and stopped to see if we could help this family.”
“And who are you?”
“I’m Stan Larson, and this is Carter Ridge,” Stan said gesturing to Carter.
The sheriff stood taking in the scene, and took out his handkerchief to wipe his brow.
“Carter Ridge, you said?” the sheriff asked.
Carter stepped forward, extending his hand to the sheriff, who shook it.
“Sheriff, it appears that these folks were illegally evicted from their home,” Carter said.
Carolyn came around for a clear shot with her camera, prompting the sheriff to ask, “and who’s this nigra?”
Before Carter could open her mouth, Carolyn said with a loud and steady voice, “I’m Miss Masters.”
The sheriff turned up his lips in a slow, ugly smile, “Well, isn’t that quite the name? Masters. Huh. I reckon I’ve seen it all, now.”
Carter took a half step closer to the sheriff and said, “Well, you’ll see a lot more in court, sir.”
The sheriff looked at him, staring into his eyes, then said, “Mr. Ridge, what can I help you with today?”
“For starters, we’re here to help the Salleys return to their home. Mr. Hodge will be served papers later today for, how many civil violations did you count up, Stan, six? Seven?”
“My last count is eight, but the clock is still ticking,” Stan said. “Maybe we’ll have more to add regarding the local sheriff’s office.”
Carter pointed at the sheriff, coming close enough to the porcine body to get his message across clearly.
“Sheriff, I know you’re a busy man. But if you run into Mr. Hodge, let him know that if there are any further issues with Mr. Salley, for him to have his lawyer get in touch with Mr. Larson here through my office. Oh, and next time I see Speaker Blatt, I’ll let him know that you and I met.”
Carter turned and said to the Salleys, “Now let’s get your things back up to your house.”