While both Irene and Jimmie would characterize their meeting in depositions as “accidental,” the coincidence would be all too obvious as Irene had run straight to Jimmie and both Eudora and Dorothy quickly disappeared with a small group of boys standing nearby. The young couple made their way beyond the entrance, meandering down the alleyway that led the crowd past the sideshow tents on the left and the popcorn wagons and hot dog, snack, and souvenir stands on the right. They wandered on, stopping, contemplating the lure of the signage and half-heartedly agreeing that none had been interesting enough to warrant entrance. As they reached the end of the path approaching the menagerie tent, Jimmie nodded toward the big top. He asked Irene if she wanted to go in.
“No,” she told him. The sharp whistle of the 9:00 curfew blasted. Ahead of the couple, circus workers led animals from the menagerie tent back to their wagons farther on back from the show, to the train waiting to take the company northward to the town of Virginia. Here and there tents sagged and poles slid from beneath lumpy canvas, hoisted upon the shoulders of brawny roustabouts to the delight of loitering onlookers. Jimmie pulled at Irene’s hand and the two quickly stole from public view. A small roadway, just wide enough for a single wagon, snaked behind the remaining tents; it led from the park entrance to the railroad tracks far beyond the shadows of the big top.
The circus employees would have been busily occupied with their takedown duties; the only squads of men who may have had a moment for recreation at this time were the menagerie workers (those who worked with the animals in the show) and the cook-tent staff. A favorite activity to occupy their time: dice. A person wandering off into the trees behind a raucous big top was quite likely to stumble head-on into a fiery game of craps.
Perhaps it had been a flask of booze tucked in Jimmie’s pocket, maybe the opportunity to duck into the low ravine for a momentary tryst with his girlfriend. It could have been the telltale hoots and cusses of a crap game running full blast in the distance that had drawn the young couple to another of Jimmie’s tempting vices. A space of time—less than sixty minutes—becomes a puzzling mystery, a foggy narrative of conflicting stories, brazen, clumsy lies, and unanswered questions that grow more baffling with the passage of time.
Irene and Jimmie reappeared several blocks west of the darkening circus grounds, on the front steps of Merritt School just off Fortieth Avenue West. They sat together, likely recounting the events of the last hour, formulating what they might tell others later. A match lit, the smallest of fires began to smolder.
At about 10:30 PM, William Tusken was sitting in his easy chair, finishing the evening edition of the Duluth Herald, when he heard talking outside his front porch. While he’d later claim that he didn’t recognize the male voice, it seems unlikely that he did not know to whom his daughter was speaking. Even though she’d left with her girlfriends, Mr. Tusken could hardly be so naive as to believe that Irene wouldn’t have rendezvoused with her boyfriend at some point in the evening. Irene slipped inside, passing her father quickly on her way to the stairs.
“I’m going to bed,” was all she said to him. His response was nothing more than an obligatory grunt. Upstairs, Mrs. Tusken was already in bed. Irene stopped by her door and poked her head inside. “Mama,” she whispered. “I met Jimmie tonight and we went to the circus.”
“All right, dear,” her mother answered. “Go to bed, now.”
* * *
The chimes of eleven o’clock signaled Mr. Tusken that it was time for him to fold up the paper and turn in for the night. Meanwhile, less than two miles east across the railway tracks, Jimmie changed his clothes for his midnight shift at the docks. He was a boat spotter; his job was to stand out on the dock watching for incoming boats. As they came in, he would direct them into the proper landing, known as a pocket. The constant dust and smoke could be irritating to the eyes and sinuses, but it wasn’t hard work. And a full billfold was a gold key for a young playboy like Jimmie.
The Sullivan household was always a whirlwind of activity; like Irene, Jimmie was the eldest of several siblings. In his case, there were five younger brothers and sisters, the youngest boy just age six. One can imagine that the middle of the night was one of the few quiet moments in the house.
Patrick Sullivan, Jimmie’s father, also worked at the docks. According to his testimony, he was already working at his desk when his son arrived at midnight. He was used to seeing his son here and there during his shift, so when Jimmie stopped in to speak with his father over an hour into his shift, Mr. Sullivan likely thought nothing of it. Until Jimmie began talking, that is.
He had gone to the Robinson Circus with his girl earlier that evening, Jimmie explained (this would have been no surprise to Mr. Sullivan; so had almost every other person in Duluth). While strolling innocently on the grounds behind the tents, he continued, several “niggers” had approached the couple, blocking their path. One man had grabbed Jimmie, another stuck a gun to his head, telling him that if he moved, he’d have his head blown off. And then, if that wasn’t enough, four or five more of them had carried Irene off and ravished her as he’d been forced to watch. He’d wanted to stop it, he concluded, but what could he do?
Mr. Sullivan was naturally incensed. A fire swelled in his gut as he picked up the telephone. He was embarrassed that his first conversation with William Tusken would concern something so heinous; still, the introduction was unavoidable, however unpleasant. When he reached Mr. Tusken, he kept the conversation brief. He told the girl’s father that he understood something had happened that night at the circus grounds involving some Negroes and that someone should speak to Irene before any further actions were taken. Mr. Sullivan added that he’d appreciate a call back as soon as possible.
Back at the Tusken home, William awoke his wife Amanda with urgent instructions that she speak with their daughter immediately about that night’s events. Amanda did as she was told; Irene recapitulated the tale that she and Jimmie had formulated. Amanda carried the heartbreaking news to her husband who, in turn, returned Patrick Sullivan’s call.
“What do you want done about this?” Mr. Sullivan asked the girl’s father. “This is a case for you.” The response was unintelligible; William’s voice broke in an emotional quandary. He agreed that the police needed to be called in immediately.
* * *
Over four hours later, Duluth police chief John Murphy would telephone the yardmaster at the Duluth, Winnipeg, and Pacific Railway stationhouse with orders to stop the outbound train. Jimmie had told his story in full, lurid detail a second time that night. Six colored men—circus workers—had raped his girlfriend Irene, he’d told the chief. The assault had been so violent that she’d been barely able to walk the few blocks to the streetcar. Murphy called the dispatcher at the police station. “Get hold of Fiskett, Schulte, Lading, and Olson,” he demanded. “Find ten or twelve others and have them meet me at the Duluth, Winnipeg, and Pacific lines in West Duluth right away.” Daylight had yet to break as the officers ran clumsily down the tracks to the waiting train. The men breathlessly questioned the urgency of this raid, taking pains to keep their footing as they jogged alongside the rails. “There were six of ’em,” called Murphy, his stomach burning with indignation. “Six circus niggers raped a white girl.”
Twelve hours later, a half-dozen young black men languished in cells at the West Duluth police station. One of them was twenty-four year-old Elmer Jackson. The former enlisted man, a veteran of riding the rails and the frenzy of circus life, was inexperienced in dealings with the law. Elmer sat in solitude, confused, frightened, and unaware of the more ominous happenings outside the cold brick walls that surrounded him and his cellmates. A growing mob, driven by mad rage and vengeance was marching through the streets of the West End toward the jail. Its numbers multiplying, overtaking the weak and isolated, it hid all-too-well the cowardly followers disappearing securely into its mass. What would