The Jailhouse
written by Paul Warnock
Back in the early 1950's there was a family in Rockingham
named Johnston (all names changed); we knew most of them
well as they attended the Pee Dee Church with us. There was
the father (Mr. Johnston to kids like me); he never went to
Church. I knew very little about him, but my father knew him.
He was the type of man you would like to have on your side in
a fight; you certainly didn't want him on the other side. The
mother, Mrs. Johnston, was a devout Christian lady who
attended church regularly. The oldest son, Charles, was also a
good Christian man and may have been married by this time.
The younger son, John, six or seven years my senior, was a
little bit wild; he only attended the Church occasionally. He
was a good person for me to engage in conversation, as he
knew a lot of things I was still trying to learn (although I had
no intention of ever doing most of these things, I still wanted
to know about them). He had a close friend named Wayne.
When they (John & Wayne) did go to Church they usually
spent most of the time outside talking with other boys
including me on the front steps of the Church. This was in lieu
of being inside where the service was being held. I was close
to twelve by this time. There also was a Johnston daughter,
Janice, who was two or three years older than me; she was
dating a young man outside the Church, and we didn't see
much of her during this time period.
Now John and Wayne were just fun loving boys; and one
Halloween night they came up with this not-so-bright-idea that
they would play a trick on John's father, Mr. Johnston. Now
Mr. Johnston was simply not the kind of man on whom you
played tricks. He was another one of those tough men that I
associate with eating nails for breakfast. John and Wayne
knocked on the door; then they ran and hid in some bushes
about fifty feet to the side of the house. When Mr. Johnston
came to the door, he loudly proclaimed his annoyance to the
open spaces in forceful language. Now if John had been
thinking at all, he would have known by now this was not a
good idea. My younger brother and I did this same exact trick
one previous Halloween, and our neighbor (also a tough man
who ate nails for breakfast) came to the door and proclaimed
his intense displeasure with the situation. We knew not to do
that again, never! Anyhow, John and Wayne decided they
would try this trick again as it has been so much fun the first
time. So they did. This time Mr. Johnston came to the door
with his shotgun and discharged the gun in their general
direction. Mr. Johnston only meant to scare them, but the
blast hit Wayne, and he was dead. Both Mr. Johnson and John
sort of stood there in disbelief. I never heard the detailed
description of this event, so that's about all I can tell you. I'm
assuming they called the ambulance and perhaps the sheriff. I
don't have to tell you there was a sad funeral. Poor Wayne, he
never made it to twenty.
Back in the 1950's the ambulance services were performed by
the funeral homes. The drivers had no training except, if you
were lucky, a little bit of first aid. Their job was to get you to
the hospital as soon as they could, and that was it. There was
no communication with the hospital until they heard the siren
as the ambulance arrived. I would think it would give any
accident victim an eerie feeling to see the hearse there to take
them to the hospital. Actually the ambulances did have a red
light on top, but it did say Watson-King or Marks in the
window using metal lettering displayed in the back side
windows and usually from the rear widow. This was a far cry
from the modern ambulances, usually operated by the
counties, where the drivers are trained paramedics who are in
constant communication with a medical doctor at the hospital
when needed.
Sheriff R.W. Goodman, or more likely one of his deputies, took
Mr. Johnston off to jail. I assume he was charged with
manslaughter rather than murder considering the
circumstances. My father, pursuing his religious guidelines,
decided some of us needed to go visit Mr. Johnston at the jail.
When he mentioned this possibility to us children at the
dinner table, all the others seem to scatter. I was just setting
there finishing my beans and cornbread, and I looked up at
him and said: "Sure, let's go." I did have some second thoughts
about that, but I wasn't about to back out. This was several
days after Halloween, and it was a weeknight as I remember I
had to go to school the next day.
The jailhouse back then was located on South Hancock Street
just below the courthouse. I assume it is still there, but I haven
't looked for it in the last five years or so. It was made of
sturdy yellowish bricks. All the windows were covered with
heavy bars, and the small yard and the building were
surrender with a heavy metal fence at least six feet tall with
three strands of barbed wire on the top. It was about sundown
when we went; as I remember the twilight as we went in and
the darkness as we left. We walked in the front door and
talked to the jailor. My father identified himself and stated
whom he wanted to see. He then escorted us through several
locked metal wire doors that he opened for us and relocked
after we had passed. When we entered the detention area,
there were about twenty-five men locked behind a heavy wire
screen. We had to stand outside this last screen barrier. Mr.
Johnston recognized my father, and they engaged in
conversation though this wire fence. My father introduced
me, and Mr. Johnston nodded to me. I returned the nod, but I
never talked to him. He still looked plenty tough to me, but he
was mild mannered that day as he and my father conversed.
He seemed to really appreciate our visit. I didn't participate in
their conversation, but instead I started counting the prisoners
and the number of bunks available. They had ten more people
than they had bunks. There was one sink and one commode.
There were no individual cells, just one big open bay. I assume
this was a holding area for men awaiting trial. I wondered at
the time what would keep those men from fighting with each
other, but now I reason most of these were not hardened
criminals and the last thing they wanted would be an
altercation just before their trial. The visit lasted about fifteen
minutes, which I think was our time limit anyhow. There
must have been more to the jail on the bottom floor. Usually
non-felons could serve thirty day to six-month sentences in the
local jail, as it would not be worth the trouble to move them to
a larger facility. I would think that anyone serving more than
six months would at least be sent to the Prison Farm (Chain
Gang) or to the State Penitentiary in Raleigh.
This was about the time we were moving to Gastonia in 1954.
We were gone by the time Mr. Johnston came to trial. It was
at least a year by the time we came back to visit. When we did,
no one ever mentioned this affair. I saw Charles Johnston
several years ago in 2002, but I failed to ask him about his
father's trial which was over fifty years ago now. I assume he
was probably given a suspended sentence, but I don't know
that for sure. It is probably a memory Charles had rather not
talk about.
written by Paul Warnock
Back in the early 1950's there was a family in Rockingham
named Johnston (all names changed); we knew most of them
well as they attended the Pee Dee Church with us. There was
the father (Mr. Johnston to kids like me); he never went to
Church. I knew very little about him, but my father knew him.
He was the type of man you would like to have on your side in
a fight; you certainly didn't want him on the other side. The
mother, Mrs. Johnston, was a devout Christian lady who
attended church regularly. The oldest son, Charles, was also a
good Christian man and may have been married by this time.
The younger son, John, six or seven years my senior, was a
little bit wild; he only attended the Church occasionally. He
was a good person for me to engage in conversation, as he
knew a lot of things I was still trying to learn (although I had
no intention of ever doing most of these things, I still wanted
to know about them). He had a close friend named Wayne.
When they (John & Wayne) did go to Church they usually
spent most of the time outside talking with other boys
including me on the front steps of the Church. This was in lieu
of being inside where the service was being held. I was close
to twelve by this time. There also was a Johnston daughter,
Janice, who was two or three years older than me; she was
dating a young man outside the Church, and we didn't see
much of her during this time period.
Now John and Wayne were just fun loving boys; and one
Halloween night they came up with this not-so-bright-idea that
they would play a trick on John's father, Mr. Johnston. Now
Mr. Johnston was simply not the kind of man on whom you
played tricks. He was another one of those tough men that I
associate with eating nails for breakfast. John and Wayne
knocked on the door; then they ran and hid in some bushes
about fifty feet to the side of the house. When Mr. Johnston
came to the door, he loudly proclaimed his annoyance to the
open spaces in forceful language. Now if John had been
thinking at all, he would have known by now this was not a
good idea. My younger brother and I did this same exact trick
one previous Halloween, and our neighbor (also a tough man
who ate nails for breakfast) came to the door and proclaimed
his intense displeasure with the situation. We knew not to do
that again, never! Anyhow, John and Wayne decided they
would try this trick again as it has been so much fun the first
time. So they did. This time Mr. Johnston came to the door
with his shotgun and discharged the gun in their general
direction. Mr. Johnston only meant to scare them, but the
blast hit Wayne, and he was dead. Both Mr. Johnson and John
sort of stood there in disbelief. I never heard the detailed
description of this event, so that's about all I can tell you. I'm
assuming they called the ambulance and perhaps the sheriff. I
don't have to tell you there was a sad funeral. Poor Wayne, he
never made it to twenty.
Back in the 1950's the ambulance services were performed by
the funeral homes. The drivers had no training except, if you
were lucky, a little bit of first aid. Their job was to get you to
the hospital as soon as they could, and that was it. There was
no communication with the hospital until they heard the siren
as the ambulance arrived. I would think it would give any
accident victim an eerie feeling to see the hearse there to take
them to the hospital. Actually the ambulances did have a red
light on top, but it did say Watson-King or Marks in the
window using metal lettering displayed in the back side
windows and usually from the rear widow. This was a far cry
from the modern ambulances, usually operated by the
counties, where the drivers are trained paramedics who are in
constant communication with a medical doctor at the hospital
when needed.
Sheriff R.W. Goodman, or more likely one of his deputies, took
Mr. Johnston off to jail. I assume he was charged with
manslaughter rather than murder considering the
circumstances. My father, pursuing his religious guidelines,
decided some of us needed to go visit Mr. Johnston at the jail.
When he mentioned this possibility to us children at the
dinner table, all the others seem to scatter. I was just setting
there finishing my beans and cornbread, and I looked up at
him and said: "Sure, let's go." I did have some second thoughts
about that, but I wasn't about to back out. This was several
days after Halloween, and it was a weeknight as I remember I
had to go to school the next day.
The jailhouse back then was located on South Hancock Street
just below the courthouse. I assume it is still there, but I haven
't looked for it in the last five years or so. It was made of
sturdy yellowish bricks. All the windows were covered with
heavy bars, and the small yard and the building were
surrender with a heavy metal fence at least six feet tall with
three strands of barbed wire on the top. It was about sundown
when we went; as I remember the twilight as we went in and
the darkness as we left. We walked in the front door and
talked to the jailor. My father identified himself and stated
whom he wanted to see. He then escorted us through several
locked metal wire doors that he opened for us and relocked
after we had passed. When we entered the detention area,
there were about twenty-five men locked behind a heavy wire
screen. We had to stand outside this last screen barrier. Mr.
Johnston recognized my father, and they engaged in
conversation though this wire fence. My father introduced
me, and Mr. Johnston nodded to me. I returned the nod, but I
never talked to him. He still looked plenty tough to me, but he
was mild mannered that day as he and my father conversed.
He seemed to really appreciate our visit. I didn't participate in
their conversation, but instead I started counting the prisoners
and the number of bunks available. They had ten more people
than they had bunks. There was one sink and one commode.
There were no individual cells, just one big open bay. I assume
this was a holding area for men awaiting trial. I wondered at
the time what would keep those men from fighting with each
other, but now I reason most of these were not hardened
criminals and the last thing they wanted would be an
altercation just before their trial. The visit lasted about fifteen
minutes, which I think was our time limit anyhow. There
must have been more to the jail on the bottom floor. Usually
non-felons could serve thirty day to six-month sentences in the
local jail, as it would not be worth the trouble to move them to
a larger facility. I would think that anyone serving more than
six months would at least be sent to the Prison Farm (Chain
Gang) or to the State Penitentiary in Raleigh.
This was about the time we were moving to Gastonia in 1954.
We were gone by the time Mr. Johnston came to trial. It was
at least a year by the time we came back to visit. When we did,
no one ever mentioned this affair. I saw Charles Johnston
several years ago in 2002, but I failed to ask him about his
father's trial which was over fifty years ago now. I assume he
was probably given a suspended sentence, but I don't know
that for sure. It is probably a memory Charles had rather not
talk about.
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