The White House Boys: An American Tragedy (4 page)
White House side entrance (the “beating entrance”), 2008.
Photo by R. Kiser
White House hallway, 2008.
Photo by R. Kiser
White House beating chamber 1, 2008.
Photo by R. Kiser
White House beating chamber 1 (side angle), 2008.
Photo by R. Kiser
White House beating chamber 2. The light you see is from the flash and small window; otherwise, it is very dark in there.
Photo by R. Kiser
I
had been sentenced to the Florida Industrial School for Boys in Marianna, Florida, by Judge Marion Gooding of the Duval County Juvenile Court for being an “incorrigible child” and “unable to follow instruction.” What was my crime against society? I had attempted to run away, once again, from the Children’s Home Society Orphanage in Jacksonville, Florida—but other than climbing through an open window in the Spring Park School building searching for food, climbing a tree at the orphanage, taking a bicycle from the girls’ dormitory for a ride, and going to the bathroom without asking permission, I had never caused any real trouble. Sure I could be a bit of a hellion at times, but only to protect myself. My true crime, my real “crime,” was not having parents to care for me. That is the real truth of it all.
“You damn orphan kids are nothing more to me than a herd of caribou,” said Judge Gooding, before sentencing me and my friend David to the reform school.
I remember that day as if it were yesterday. I recall the hollow sounds of the courtroom doors, the fed-up look in the judge’s eyes, and the harsh tone of his voice as he shook his head back and forth in disgust.
I was numb as I stood there before him, being just a young boy looking up at a great big man sitting behind a great big table. I did not know what to do, say, or think. I guess that’s because it really did not matter to me anymore. I suppose it was because I had already given up on life. Or maybe it was because there was no one there to tell me what to say, do, or think.
I couldn’t possibly imagine that my life could get any worse than it was. I found it unbelievable that anyone on the face of this earth could beat or mistreat children as badly as they had at the orphanage. But boy, was I wrong on that call.
I
hadn’t been at the Florida Industrial School for Boys for very long when they called me to the head office. They told me that I would be visiting the White House—a torture room for boys who broke one of the many rules.
When I heard this, I was overcome by heart-pounding fear. I nearly passed out and trembled so badly that my legs collapsed. I fell to the floor and just lay there. The men told me to “get my sorry butt up” and sit down on the wooden bench outside the office.
I shook as I waited there for the two men—six-foot-tall Mr. Hatton and one-armed Mr. Tidwell— who would take me to the White House. I knew the routine well, since I’d heard about it from many of the other boys who had been taken there.
After a wait of about thirty minutes, the two men came to get me. They grabbed me by my arms and lifted me off the bench. There were several other boys in the office (boys were always coming and going), so I had to try to act as though I was not scared, but they knew.
The two men walked with me across the grass circle that divided the offices from the White House. We continued toward the dining hall. As we rounded the building, I could see it right in front of me: THE WHITE HOUSE.
My mind went crazy with fear. I was so scared, I could not think straight. Words were coming from my mouth before my mind could think of what it was I was attempting to say. I was trying to decide if I should run and hide or maybe kill myself. Anything was better than what was going to happen in there.
When we reached the door, one of the men took out his keys and stuck one into the lock. I looked back over my shoulder, and I saw about fifty boys near the dining hall. They stared in silence. As the door opened, an ungodly odor filled my nose, and I could hardly breathe. I remember trying to step through the doorway, but the odor was so over-whelming that I fell in the short hallway inside. One of the men grabbed me by the back of the shirt collar and jerked it up around my neck, choking me.
One of the buttons popped off my shirt and hit the floor, rolling very slowly around the corner. Almost everything was happening in slow motion. My whole body was numb, and it was very difficult to breathe. I tried to pull the shirt down from around my neck, but the man jerked it once again and hit me on the top of the head with his knuckles. I hit the floor again and bloodied my nose from the impact. At that point, I was not walking at all; my legs would not work.
The two men picked me up and carried me into a small room, which had nothing in it except a bunk bed and a pillow without a case. They put me down on the floor and ordered me to lie on the bed facing the wall. Crying, I pulled myself up onto the edge of the bed and wiped the blood from my nose onto my shirtsleeve. When I looked up at the men’s faces, they were plain, cold, and hard. They had no expression whatsoever. I did what they told me to do. What choice did I have?
One of them told me to move my hands to the top of the bunk bed and grab the bar at the headboard. I did so as quickly as I could. Not one sound could be heard. I felt one of the men reach under the pillow and slowly pull something out. I turned over quickly and looked at the one who was standing near me. He had a large leather strap in his hand.
“Turn your damn head back toward the wall!” he yelled.
I knew what was going to happen, and it was going to be very bad. I had been told what to expect by some of the boys who had been there. (Mind you, some who had been there couldn’t tell us what it was like since they were never seen again.) I had also heard that this infamous giant strap was made of two pieces of leather with a piece of sheet metal sewn in between the halves.
Again, everything was dead silent. I remember tightening my buttocks as much as I could. Then I waited and waited, and waited. I remember hearing someone taking a deep breath, then a footstep. I turned over very quickly and looked at the man with the leather strap. There was an ungodly expression on his face, and I knew he was going to beat me to death. I will never forget that look for as long as I live.
I tried to jump off the bed, but I was knocked backward when the leather strap hit me on the side of the face. Blood squirted everywhere—all over the walls, bed, pillow, and floor. The men grabbed me and pinned me to the floor. I was yelling to God to save me, begging for someone, anyone, to help.
“Please forgive me! Please forgive me!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. “Please forgive me! Dear God, please help me!”
But it didn’t do any good. God didn’t hear me that day. Maybe He was smart enough not to ever enter the White House, even to save a child.
After about five minutes of begging, pleading, and crying, I was told to get back on the bed and grab the top rail again. They warned that if I tried to get off the bed, the whole thing would start all over. I slowly pulled myself up off the floor and got back onto the bed. Again, I grabbed the rail and waited. Everything became quiet, except for the two men breathing really hard. Once again, I tightened up my buttocks and waited.
“You get up again, and I’ll make goddamn sure you make it to the graveyard today,” warned one of the men, Mr. Hatton.
Tightening every single muscle in my small body, I waited. Then all of a sudden, it happened. I thought my head would explode. The thing came down on me over and over. I screamed and kicked and yelled as much as I could, but it did no good. He just kept beating me over and over. However, I never let go of that bed rail. Then there was nothing.
The next thing I remember, I was sitting very gingerly on another wooden bench in Mr. Hatton’s office. The other boys in the office could barely look at me, like somehow they might “catch” my pain. I remember wiping the slobber and blood from my mouth. My body felt like it was on fire. I got up and found that I could hardly stand.
God, God, God, it hurt so badly.
One of the men in the office yelled at me to sit back down. I told him I had to go to the bathroom really bad. He pointed at the doorway to the bathroom and told me to “make it quick.” Hobbling toward the bathroom, I mumbled, “One of these days I’m gonna get out of here, and I’m gonna tell what you did to me and the others.”
The man pointed his finger at me and said, “Let me tell you something, mister, talking like that is a good way to wake up dead tomorrow morning. You understand me?”
