That was justice for African-Americans in Central Florida in the 1950s, and things only got worse for black citizens after the civil rights movement started to attract attention.
Things didn’t get much better for me either. Because, in addition to writing stories for the paper that paid my salary, I got a job free-lancing for the Baltimore Afro-American, one of the oldest black newspapers in the country. They paid me five cents a word, and I filed stories about what I was seeing on the C&C beat, including the cops’ Saturday night invasions of “nigratown.” They also published photos that I shot with my ancient Speed Graphic camera.
Somehow, that information got back to the sheriff, who one morning appeared in my office and, in his laconic Southern drawl, let me know that hanging around his sleepy cowtown could be damaging to my health. Before long, my editors, concerned for my well-being, transferred me back to the main office.
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