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Authors: Blanche Caldwell Barrow, John Neal Phillips
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fingerprinted at the Polk County jail, July 24, 1933. She weighed in at eighty-one pounds, down thirty-three and a half pounds in six months. “Later, when I was left alone in a cell, I tried to wash the blood out of my trousers and hair.” (From the Blanche Caldwell Barrow scrapbooks, courtesy of Rhea Leen Linder)
After the officers spoke with me they all left the room, except for one man. He hadn’t said much to me, but when he did speak he was kind, just like David R. Clevenger, the Platte County prosecuting attorney, and Constable Tom Hulett. Others had been cruel, although I didn’t blame them for the way they felt. The man introduced himself. His name was Holt Coffey. He was the Platte County sheriff. He and his son had both been wounded in the gun battle of July 19. 4 I turned to face him.
“Well,” I said. “Why don’t you start cursing me? You are the one who got hurt. Don’t you feel like killing me, like most of the rest feel?”
Blanche Barrow leaving Des Moines. “The trip back to Missouri was one of the most miserable I had ever made.” (From the Blanche Caldwell Barrow scrapbooks, courtesy of Rhea Leen Linder)
“I don’t work that way,” he said, shaking his head. “I try to be kind to everyone.”
I would learn that Holt Coffey stuck by his word.
When they wanted me to sign extradition papers, I refused unless I could see Buck. They said Missouri would get me anyway. Then one of the men from Platte City promised that I would be taken to the hospital the next day to see Buck. So I signed the papers, even though I couldn’t see well enough to read what they said. I’d have signed most anything to be near Buck. The next afternoon I was turned over to the Missouri officers without getting to see Buck.
Mr. Clevenger came to the jail cell to get me. Another officer, whose name I don’t know, was with him. He wanted to question me, but I had little to say. I said I couldn’t remember much, which was the truth, but he only thought I was lying. My mind was a blank. Even when I was alone and had tried to remember some of the things I had been asked about, I couldn’t. For instance, I had been questioned a lot about where we were on the Fourthof July, but try as I may, I couldn’t remember. 5 I still don’t remember a lot. Eventually Mr. Clevenger took pity on me and told the officer he believed I was telling the truth. So, the officer stop grilling me. 6
Buck Barrow in a Perry, Iowa, hospital. “The night Buck died I awoke about two o’clock in the morning.” (From the Blanche Barrow scrapbooks, courtesy of Rhea Leen Linder)
The trip back to Missouri was one of the most miserable I had ever made. The next morning, July 26, I awoke in the Platte City jail. Everyone there was kind to me, although they wouldn’t give me any news about Buck.
The night Buck died I awoke about two o’clock in the morning. 7 I thought I heard him calling me. It was a sign from Buck. I cried the rest of the night. I knew he must be dead. I tried to make myself believe it would be better for him if he did die now. He had nothing to live for anyway, only to face death all over again. I would have rather seen him dead than to have to spend the rest of his life in prison, or to get the death penalty, which I was sure he would get. Still, I was selfish enough to want him to live so I might have one more chance to see him.
The next morning, Sunday, I asked if he were dead, but no one would tell me. That afternoon, however, I was finally told he was dead and that his mother had been with him when he died. 8 Had it not been for thoughtsof what might happen to my dear old father I am afraid I would have broken my promise to Buck and committed suicide. I wanted so much to die and be put out of my misery, but I knew that was the coward’s way out. I tried to get hold of myself and take my punishment like a man, with a smile and my chin up. So far I have managed to do that.
My father wanted to come to me but I knew
After the officers spoke with me they all left the room, except for one man. He hadn’t said much to me, but when he did speak he was kind, just like David R. Clevenger, the Platte County prosecuting attorney, and Constable Tom Hulett. Others had been cruel, although I didn’t blame them for the way they felt. The man introduced himself. His name was Holt Coffey. He was the Platte County sheriff. He and his son had both been wounded in the gun battle of July 19. 4 I turned to face him.
“Well,” I said. “Why don’t you start cursing me? You are the one who got hurt. Don’t you feel like killing me, like most of the rest feel?”
Blanche Barrow leaving Des Moines. “The trip back to Missouri was one of the most miserable I had ever made.” (From the Blanche Caldwell Barrow scrapbooks, courtesy of Rhea Leen Linder)
“I don’t work that way,” he said, shaking his head. “I try to be kind to everyone.”
I would learn that Holt Coffey stuck by his word.
When they wanted me to sign extradition papers, I refused unless I could see Buck. They said Missouri would get me anyway. Then one of the men from Platte City promised that I would be taken to the hospital the next day to see Buck. So I signed the papers, even though I couldn’t see well enough to read what they said. I’d have signed most anything to be near Buck. The next afternoon I was turned over to the Missouri officers without getting to see Buck.
Mr. Clevenger came to the jail cell to get me. Another officer, whose name I don’t know, was with him. He wanted to question me, but I had little to say. I said I couldn’t remember much, which was the truth, but he only thought I was lying. My mind was a blank. Even when I was alone and had tried to remember some of the things I had been asked about, I couldn’t. For instance, I had been questioned a lot about where we were on the Fourthof July, but try as I may, I couldn’t remember. 5 I still don’t remember a lot. Eventually Mr. Clevenger took pity on me and told the officer he believed I was telling the truth. So, the officer stop grilling me. 6
Buck Barrow in a Perry, Iowa, hospital. “The night Buck died I awoke about two o’clock in the morning.” (From the Blanche Barrow scrapbooks, courtesy of Rhea Leen Linder)
The trip back to Missouri was one of the most miserable I had ever made. The next morning, July 26, I awoke in the Platte City jail. Everyone there was kind to me, although they wouldn’t give me any news about Buck.
The night Buck died I awoke about two o’clock in the morning. 7 I thought I heard him calling me. It was a sign from Buck. I cried the rest of the night. I knew he must be dead. I tried to make myself believe it would be better for him if he did die now. He had nothing to live for anyway, only to face death all over again. I would have rather seen him dead than to have to spend the rest of his life in prison, or to get the death penalty, which I was sure he would get. Still, I was selfish enough to want him to live so I might have one more chance to see him.
The next morning, Sunday, I asked if he were dead, but no one would tell me. That afternoon, however, I was finally told he was dead and that his mother had been with him when he died. 8 Had it not been for thoughtsof what might happen to my dear old father I am afraid I would have broken my promise to Buck and committed suicide. I wanted so much to die and be put out of my misery, but I knew that was the coward’s way out. I tried to get hold of myself and take my punishment like a man, with a smile and my chin up. So far I have managed to do that.
My father wanted to come to me but I knew
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