The Two Faces of America: Denouncing Civil and Human Rights Violations Abroad While Violating Civil and Human Rights Here at Home

THE

TWO FACES OF AMERICA

DENOUNCING CIVIL AND HUMAN RIGHTS VIOLATIONS ABROAD WHILE

VIOLATING CIVIL AND HUMAN RIGHTS HERE AT HOME

THE TRUE STORY OF MY WRONGFUL CONVICTION, TEN YEARS FALSE IMPRISONMENT AND THE COVER-UP THAT FOLLOWED

By: LEONARD C. GARRETT, SR.

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© 2012 Leonard C. Garrett, Sr. All rights reserved.

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Published by AuthorHouse 03/23/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4685-6440-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-6441-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-6442-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011961317

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Contents

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

PART TWO

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

COMMENTARY

Dedicated To

My Sons Leonard C, Garrett, Jr., and

Gregory C. Garrett;

You were always there

After God breadth air back into my Lungs,

And allowed me to Live another Day;

I open my eyes, and You were there,

I love you, and God loves you.

Also;

My Special Prayer for;

The innocent Black, former Savannah Georgia police officer wrongfully convicted on false charges fabricated by the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, FBI, and the United States Attorney’s office and; sentenced to life imprisonment by the trial Judge who knew the charges were fabricated and false.

May God Bless and keep You

and,

May Their Souls burn in Hell.

PART ONE

THE BEAUTIFUL FACE AMERICA,

A nation offering those with Hope, the Opportunity to achieve their American dream and, through Shared Sacrifice, leave a better America for the Generation that follows.

CHAPTER 1

Sharecropper’s Son Remembers the Past

August 29, 2005, was a bright, sun shiny day with just a little breeze. Jo Jo, my Spitz/Chow mixed dog was at my side as I watched the same old re-runs. An old article published by the Pensacola News Journal, December 14, 1995, flashed on the screen. John Shattuck, Assistant Secretary of State for Human Rights & Labor wrote that the United States is firmly committed to seeking a full accounting for and release of any and all prisoners incarcerated in China for nonviolent expression of their political, social, or religious beliefs and in a another; article Haddock wrote; the United States condemns the decision of the Beijing (court) to convict Wei Jingsheng of conspiring to subvert the government and to sentence Wei to 14 years of prison, the unconscionable process of prolonged detention sudden formal arrest, and quick trial provided Wei with little time to prepare for his defense and consult with legal advisors. Assistant Secretary of State Shattuck said.

Images of the black Savannah Georgia policeman convicted on false charges fabricated by the GBI, FBI, and sentenced to life in federal prison without the possibility of parole; hundreds of young black men I believed were wrongfully convicted; and many young black inmates serving extended prison sentences based upon a prosecutor’s wrongfully alleged preponderance of the evidence theory all; flashed across my screen. I reached over and patted Jo Jo on his head. The images of these inmates kept flashing before me, tension began building up between my shoulder blades, traveling up my neck and to my forehead. This causes me to become emotionally stressed and sleepy. A red glow flashed across the windshield, I was approaching the red light on the corner of Flood Road and Hurt Road. The pressure continued to increase, I knew the routine. I had to pullover, close my eyes, and relax my mind. I stopped at the red light, concentrated on making a right turn onto Hurt Road. I drove one block and turned left into the Church parking lot on the left side of Hurt Road. I leaned back in the seat, closed my eyes and tried to relax.

Sometime later, I awoke and continued to Hurt Park for Jo Jo’s morning walk. He knows his route, when he comes to a tall weed, light pole, or shrubs, he smells it, twist his butt round and around, start to raise one leg, stop, twists his butt in the opposite direction, trying to decide which leg he is going to raise and pee. These walks were for his pleasure and enjoyment, but, standing there for minutes watching him twist his butt around trying to decide which leg to raises and pee, was a test of my patience.

Normally, the movie and flashbacks subsides during our walks however, on this particular day, the flashbacks intensified. It was this day, August 29, 2005, I made up my mind. I was seventy-five, my sons were secure, and I had been silent for eighteen years. It was time that I rid myself of these demons. I had to write my memoir and expose the harvesting of young black men and women by a corrupt conservative criminal justice system. This corrupt system took me back to Route 1, Box 42 and more encouragement to write this memoir.

ROUTE 1 BOX 42

Route 1, Box 42 is scrawled on a tin mailbox nailed to a pole in front of a small wooden frame house. The house is located on the side of a dirt road that runs from Malone Florida, a small farm town, to Dothan Alabama, a distance of about twenty-five miles. The house sat on forty-acres of farmland given my grandparents when they were freed from slavery. When their daughter Ollie married my father, John Garrett, my grandparents gave them the farm. I was born in that small home on May 17, 1930. No mail was delivered to the mailbox because my parents could not read or write. We had no electricity, running water, and the outhouse (toilet)was about forty feet from the house.

These rural communities had three classes of citizens. Landowners, businessmen, politicians, etc, were elite first class citizens. Dirt poor white farm hands were second class citizens and; blacks were recognized as subjects, not citizens. The white elites pacified dirt poor whites by giving them dominance over dirt-poor blacks. The Constitution and Bill of Rights were not applicable to blacks.

Dressed in white sheets and hoods, the Ku Klux Klan terrorized and burned homes, beat un-mercifully and/or hanged black men all, without fear of prosecution. We children we had no knowledge of the outside world; played no sports or any other games necessary for normal child-hood development.

My parents did not have money to buy seeds, fertilizer, and other necessities required to operate the farm. To survive, they had to sharecrop their farm with my grandparents former slave master. As sharecroppers, we were one-step above slavery. We maintained the farm, planted the crops, harvested the crops, and received only enough money to purchase food, overalls, and a pair of shoes.

The family seldom went to Malone. I remember Mother telling us to clean up, we are going to town. Daddy would dress in clean overalls, go out and hitch up our blind horse Old Anne to the wagon. My sister, brother, and I would run and jump in the wagon. About halfway down the road to Malone, there was a dip in the road. It appeared that every time we went to Malone there was water standing in the dip. We children, not wearing shoes, would let our feet hang over the back of the wagon. As the wagon went slowly through the water, we would splash the water with our feet.

Malone, a small, one block town, had a seeds, feed, and farm supply store; a general store, a drug store, and a movie theater for white people. A small area inside the drug store served as the Greyhound Bus Station/railroad depot. There was a boardwalk behind the general store, which served as a platform for those boarding or off-loading from the train.

God’s Gift, a Photography Memory

I was three years old when my sister started school. She was near sighted and had to hold the book and her face close to the lamp in-order to read. Seeing her face so close to the lamp hurt me. One night, I took her book and began to read and explain her lesson to her. From that night on, I helped my sister with her homework.

I began school at age five. On the second day of school, the teacher moved me into the second grade class. A week or so later, I was moved into the fifth grade. I was now two-grades ahead of my sister.

Blacks Were Helpless

Daddy got up around five o’clock in the morning and began his chores. Mother awakened us children around six o’clock. Breakfast would consist mostly of grits, thick bacon and biscuits. When times were hard, we would have bacon, molasses, and biscuits. We grew cotton on our farm. During the summer, our forty acres seemingly came alive as the cotton buds slowly opened and blossomed into an ocean of beautiful white cotton. During harvesting, mother would take us children to the field. With a croaker sack strapped around our shoulder, we would accompany mother down the rows of cotton. We would pull cotton out of their buds and put it in our sacks.

Sometimes on a weekend, families would get together and go over and help a friend repair a roof, fix a barn or other problem on their farm. The children would sit around and listen to the men talk mostly about Ku Klux Klan activity. Sometimes they would gather the young boys and remind them that when in town, they must not walk on the sidewalk or look at white women. They would talk about how the Klan had gone to someone’s home, took the man out, and beat him. Sometimes they would have beaten him almost half to death because he looked at a white woman. Hearing these men talk, we knew that our parents had no defense against the Klan and other white farmers, we were helpless. Yes, I learned the meaning of fear at a very early age.

The Hanging Tree

There was a real highway running from Malone to Marianna, Florida about thirty or so miles south of Malone. There was a large oak tree called the Hanging Tree. This tree sat in the center of a park directly in front of the Courthouse in Marianna. One night we heard the sound of cars approaching from the direction of Dothan. Daddy jumped up and blew the kerosene lamp out. The cars stopped on the road directly in front of our house, we were terrified. Daddy cracked the door open just enough to peek out. He whispered to mother that the Klan had taken a black man out of a car. Daddy said they were beating the man. Daddy could hardly talk. His voice was trembling as he tried to talk. We children feared that if they decided to come and take daddy, there was nothing we could do to stop them. After what seemed an eternity, they put the poor man back in the car and left. A few days later, daddy told mother that they had hanged the man from the hanging tree in Marianna. Daddy said they had cut out his genitals and stuffed them down his throat. I think that night, daddy made up his mind that we had to leave the farm to save his life and possibly ours. I was almost seven when we left the farm and moved to Tampa, Florida.

The Son’s New Beginning

We began our lives anew at 1351 Chestnut Street in the government projects. I was to enter the eighth grade, however, when I enrolled at Harlem Elementary School, the principal refused to place me in the eighth grade. He placed me back in the same grade as children my own age. He told my mother that it was in my best interest. When the teacher gave out homework assignments, I would complete my homework assignment during the class. In my spare time away from school, I searched around for newspapers, magazines, and books to read. I could not afford to buy a newspaper so I would walk a few miles to the black library. I loved to read articles by Ralph McGill in the editorial pages of the Atlanta Journal. His articles were enlightening. In almost every subject addressed, he appeared to be very passionate and insightful. His writing introduced me to the world as it was, but not the world in which I lived.

Caddying and Gaining Respect

In 1942 at age twelve, I began caddying at the Palma Ceia Golf and Country Club. The golf pro allowed me to clean and polish golf clubs in the pro shop. As payment, I could select the golfer I wanted to caddie for that day. Naturally, I would select the big tippers. The club pro had two brothers, Burl and George Bolester. After the players had finished for the day, Burl and George would let some of us caddies slip onto the golf course and play a few holes of golf. I became an excellent golfer. I soon became well known among the Palma Ceia Club membership. They would ask me to speak at club meetings where a collection would be taken up to pay for my participation in black sponsored golf tournaments in St. Petersburg and Jacksonville, Florida. Businessman Astor Clark or Judge McWhorter made their bag and clubs available for my use during tournament play.

As I walked the golf course carrying two golf bags on my shoulders, I admired the large homes with green lawns that surrounded the course. After five years of carrying heavy golf bags on my shoulders, I was still broke and had no future. Late one night, I was sitting on a curb outside a drug store on the corner of Delaware and Main Street; I said to myself, someday, I will have a wife, two children and a beautiful home with a nice lawn just like the ones surrounding the golf course.

Escaping Poverty

My family was poor and lived from payday to pay day. I became acutely aware that I had no future as a black man in the South. Even if I graduated from high school, I could not afford to go to college. Even worse, if I were able to go to college, upon graduation, I would still be regulated to a low paying job. I had no choice. I had to find a way to get a job that would enable me to support myself. I could then move my mother and siblings out of the government projects. On October 20, 1948, I quit high school and joined the United States Air Force.

The Son’s Twenty Year Air Force Career

The air force had its routine down pat. Recruits from all over the country would arrive at the train station in San Antonia, Texas at around the same time and date. Personnel from Lackland AFB would be there with transportation to take the Recruits to the Processing Center where they received a physical, GI haircut, and a bunch of shots. I remember almost passing out from those shots. I had never had shots before.

I will never forget my first parade. All the Flights in training were present on the Parade Grounds. Standing in formation, I heard the Command, Present Arms; the Guide Arms Bearers lowered their flags in salute while the American Flag remained tall. All Flights of airmen saluted, the band began playing the Star Spangle Banner, and tears rolled down my cheeks, I was never so proud. I had left the government projects a "no-body but now, I was a member of the United States Air Force, dedicated to defend this great nation.

My Flight graduated from basic training in February 1949. I was eighteen years old. The Air force was segregated. White airmen could select a career field of their choice. Black airmen were also given a choice of career fields but, none were ever accepted. We had some highly educated and bright airmen in my Flight however, when the orders came down, my entire flight was assigned to the 25th Motor Vehicle Squadron, Elmendorf Air Force Base, Fort Richardson Alaska.

The 25th Motor Vehicle Squadron was part of Elmendorf Air Force Base however; the squadron was located in a wooded area about five miles from the main base. The squadron was outfitted with six by six trucks. I was given a few driving lessons and then assigned duty as driver for garbage pickup. I would drive behind warehouses with a black airman from another black unit. He would pick up the garbage and load it onto the truck. We would take the garbage to the dump. Upon completion, I would return to the motor pool, check and service my truck, and turn in my trip ticket to the motor pool sergeant.

From Truck Driver to Ammunition Handler

One day the whole squadron was called into formation. Standing in front of the formation was an officer from the 18th and 19th Ammunition Supply Squadron Depot. The officer asked volunteers to join his organization. Older airmen whispered, He’s looking for strong backs and weak minds. None of the older airmen volunteered. I knew that nothing could be any lower than driving a truck the remainder of my air force career. I stepped out front and raised my hand. Much to my surprise, about four other airmen from my training flight also stepped forward.

My New Job

The 18 & 19th Ammunition Supply Squadron Depot was located in a forest about ten miles from Elmendorf Air force Base. The squadron area consisted of the squadron headquarters building, an administration building, a dining hall, and Quonset huts. The bathrooms including the showers were located in the center of the compound. Using the bathroom and/or shower, was quite an experience during the winter months.

Upon arrival at the squadron, we volunteers learned that World War Two veterans populated the squadron. They gave us a very pleasant welcome. Not one of these men was less than six feet tall. They were solid and extremely strong. Few had a high school education.

Roads from the forest ran throughout a forest where conventional munitions were stored in concrete igloos. Bombs were stored in outside revetments. The igloos and revetments were camouflaged. The munitions stored in the magazines were new and needed no maintenance. There was no war or military action at the time therefore, there was no requirement to ship or receive large amounts of munitions. To give us something to do, neither tremendous heat, cold, Rain, sleet, or snow, would prevent us from the task of moving munitions from one igloo to another. A loading crew would be sent to move ammunition from one igloo to another. A 6 by 6 truck would back up to the door, the loading crew would slide fifty-five pound boxes of small arms munitions down a steel conveyer belt that ran from the inside of the igloo to the back of the truck. Two men on the truck snatched the fifty-five pound boxes of munitions from the conveyor belt and stack them precisely in the truck. Once a truck was loaded, another truck would be waiting. Some times, we would not use conveyor belts. We would form a line with men facing each other about two feet apart. With hands together and palms up, a fifty-five pound box is passed to you in rhythm, you pat it to the man facing you and on down the line. As long as you are in rhythm, you do not feel the weight of the box.

In Pursuit of Knowledge

Around the early part of 1950, I had began reading munitions manuals describing individual munitions, their explosive fillers, and functioning, completed the Air Force Munitions Officer Correspondence Course, the Air Force Officer Candidate Correspondence Course, and three of the four parts College GED Test, failing the Literature part by three percentage points.

And older airman an demolition taught me various methods of destroying small arms ammunition, bombs, artillery shells, other munitions and, how to low-order detonate (cut open) a five hundred pound bomb without it exploding high order.

Supervisor at Age Nineteen

At age nineteen, I was promoted from private to corporal and assigned crew chief over a team of ten men. One of the good things about being a crew chief was that I got to sit in the cab of the truck which, was uncomfortable for me because my crew were much older and had many more years of military year’s military service. They would be in the back of the truck while I, many years younger in age and service, would be warm and comfortable up front.

The Shemya Experience

A lieutenant was assigned to my crew and we were sent to the Aleutian Islands (Shemya, Cold Bay, and Nome, Alaska) to destroy old World War II bombs and other munitions. Bombs had to be dumped at sea no less than ten miles off shore. The weather was always bad. Rain, cold, and high winds challenged the crane operator who had to lower bombs onto a barge that was tilting back and forth. I was always fearful for the safety of my men on the barge. However, God was good. No one ever got hurt.

The Sergeant, Gasoline, and the Match

There were empty, and some full fifty-gallon drums of diesel fuel and gasoline on the dock. To build a fire, we would knock the bottom out of a drum, fill the drum with wood, pour in a small amount of diesel fuel and; light the fire. One-day the Squadron Commander’s favorite Sergeant, who acted as though he was King of the Hill came to the dock. A light rain falling, the crew finished unloading a truck and I told them to take a break. The sergeant and I talked. Then we walked over to the break area. The drum was full of wood and an airman was pouring gasoline into the drum. We "never used gasoline". I watched as the airman poured about three gallons of gasoline into the drum. The other men and I started looking at one another. No one moved to light the fire. I had no idea what he was doing. To prevent anyone from getting hurt, I started to step forward and prevent the airman from lighting the fire. As I started to step forward, the sergeant, stepped forward, "It’s cold out here," he said as he walked over, took the matches out of the airman’s hand saying, I will light the fire. The other men backed away, all of a sudden it hit me, as I started forward to stop the sergeant, his body and arms were halfway down into the drum, his elbow bent, a WOOPHS sound came out of the drum, the sergeant was propelled up and out of the drum with his arm still frozen in position of striking the match. He landed about two feet away from the drum. We all rushed over to him. His face and neck were seared from the heat but he had no visible burns. I have an ambulance at the site during all my operations so I called for the medics. The sergeant did not want medical attention. He jumped in his jeep and left. I never inquired as into the airman’s motivation. Whether it was an act of stupidity or other, I did not want to know.

Armed Services Integrated

Returning to the squadron, we found that President Truman had integrated the armed services. There were white airmen in the squadron who had completed the Munitions Technical Training School at Lowry Air Force Base, Denver, Colorado. Subsequently, A young white lieutenant, a white technical sergeant named Felix Gallegos and I, with a crew of ten new white airmen were dispatched to Nome, Alaska. The lieutenant, by direction or on his own accord, put me in-charge of all operations involving the loading, transportation, unloading, and detonation of the munitions.

You Are the Man

At Nome, Alaska we had over five hundred, five hundred-pound bombs to destroy. We selected a beach area maybe ten miles from the base for the demolition site. I determined that we could safely detonate ten five hundred-pound bombs at one time. Each day around three o’clock a motorized canoe, which we called the Eskimo Express, would appear about five miles out from the beach. We assumed that it was headed to an Eskimo village outside of our view. We would hold our blast until the canoe was well out of our sight.

One day the lieutenant brought a group of nurses to watch the blast. We waited for the Eskimo Express. While waiting, a low hanging cloud began to appeared to be moving towards us. Finally, the Eskimo Express canoe but, by the time it cleared our area, the cloud was above us. The lieutenant and nurses were joking and enjoying themselves. The detonation, or, shock wave would flash up, and be reflected back to earth at a greater speed and power. I suggested we call the operation off, place guards at the site and return the next morning. The lieutenant and Sergeant Gallegos talked it over. They decided to proceed with detonating the bombs.

For the first time, the lieutenant took over. He told us to proceed and walked around like he was supervising as we set lit the safety fuse and fell back to the fallback area.

He Got His Big Bang

While the lieutenant joked with the nurses, I watch that low hanging cloud cover. O-Boy, he wants a big bang well, he is going to get much more bang than he had bargained for, I thought. At about minus three minutes before blast, all eyes were on the blast site. Suddenly, I saw a grayish colored rainbow shaped beam flash skyward, hit the low hanging cloud then, I heard the very loud reverberating bang. The nurses were thrilled.

Back at the base, we were advised that some things had been knocked off shelves and pictures from walls, but otherwise, there was no major damage to any facilities.

All’s Well That Ends Well

That evening we went a bar in Nome. It was one block beyond the finish line from Alaska’s annual cross-country sled race. Everyone cheered us and wanted to buy us drinks. For some reason, these people were impressed or, glad to have some excitement. We were told that the blast had shattered some windows in the downtown area. Sergeant Gallegos had formed a very friendly relationship with the woman owner of the bar. That evening, she gave Gallegos a ring fitted with a large gold nugget.

Accepting Responsibility

We left Nome and flew into Cold Bay. One day while removing flares from an igloo for transportation to the disposal site, one airman wanted to shoot some flares into the air to see them burn. The ground was covered with tundra and ice plant with no possibility of a fire. Sergeant Gallegos was present and said nothing. I said nothing. As soon as he fired the flare, the lieutenant drove around a curve about one forth mile from us. He arrived upset, yelling that the flare could have started a fire in the ammunition area. The airman told him that I had given him the OK to fire the flare. The lieutenant jumped my case. He had me shipped back to the Squadron and recommended I be courts marshaled.

Returning to the Squadron, I was informed that a black captain named Smith had been assigned as Squadron Commander, the Korean War had broken out and, only twenty-five percent of the squadron could leave the squadron.

One night while on duty as the Charge of Quarters (CQ), (responsible for the orderly conduct of squadron personnel; insure that the fireguard make his rounds checking for fire safety; issue passes and maintains a log insuring that off-base passes not exceed the twenty-five percent requirement) Lynn Melton came in with another airman who restricted to the base. Melton asked I give the airman his pass. As requested, I gave the airman Melton’s pass. About ten-thirty minutes later, Melton, returned a little tipsy. He had changed his mind and now, he wanted to go to town. This pissed me off. I told him that he was putting me on the spot but, to find someone who would let him use their off-base pass. He returned with airman Dewberry who told me that Melton he could