I was born and raised in Knoxville, TN, a town most people have heard of but can’t recall why.
My father, a clinical psychologist, is from Brooklyn, NY, and like any decent Jew raised up on the streets of Flatbush, Dad was a full-blown radical leftist by junior high. My mother, also a clinical psychologist, grew up all over the United States because her father, Fletcher Thompson, was in the FBI (I’ll come back to this).
Image: My father at a protest in 1970 (admittedly, he was also selling buttons, but the kid had to eat, okay?); my grandfather Fletcher, my grandmother Ruth, my mother (green purse and matching shoes), my mother’s siblings, and J. Edgar Hoover.
Before they passed in 2017 and 2018 respectively, I was very close to Fletcher as well as his wife, my grandmother Ruth.
In so many ways, Ruth and Fletcher were wonderful. Even in their 90s, they were devoted to living lives of meaning and service, and to me, they were ideal grandparents: unfailingly kind and loving, and keenly interested in my life and accomplishments.
Images: Fletcher and me and his and Ruth’s 70th anniversary celebration dinner; Ruth opening a Christmas present from me (earrings I had made for her), Fletcher and a very young me.
Ruth was born in Saluda, South Carolina in 1923.
From census records, I know that my grandmother’s grandparents and great-grandparents were enslavers. I also know this this because, every so often, Ruth used to mention the African American men and women who lived on her family’s land when she was young; they had “stayed on after the war,” she would say.
Images: My grandmother Ruth holding my aunt Jennie about 1950; my grandmother Ruth’s great-grandmother, Susannah Catherine "Susan" Burton Deloache (1817-1867); Ruth’s great-grandfather, William Allison DeLoache (1810-1887).
According to my father, the quarters where enslaved people formerly lived were still standing when he made his first visit to the Saluda home-place with my mom back in the 1980s. By my lifetime, though, only the "big house” (it’s not actually very big at all) survived. Still, even as a kid, I wondered about the African American individuals and families enslaved by my ancestors. And, just as often, I wondered about my ancestors themselves—what they thought of themselves, what they thought of their souls.
Looking back, it is clear to me that for a very long time, I thought this—the fact that I am descended from people who held other people in bondage—was my lot to reckon with. Now, don’t get me wrong. I still think this is my lot to reckon with. Over the past ten years or so, however, I have learned that my ancestral inheritance is far weightier and more complex than I ever imagined.
Images: The home in Saluda, SC where my grandmother grew up; pine trees behind the house.
Now, I said I’d come back to the matter of my grandfather’s career in the FBI, so let’s get into it, yes?
The first thing I want you to know is that I asked my grandfather every question I could think to ask him about his career, and I asked most questions more than once. The second thing I want you to know, however, is that I still don’t know what I don’t know, and I don’t know quite a lot.
You see, on some subjects—the Kennedy assassination, for example, Fletcher was quite open and engaging. (My grandfather was one of two agents LBJ sent to Dallas immediately after President Kennedy’s assassination to conduct the initial investigation and write the initial report.) On other matters, however, Fletcher said close to nothing—sometimes because he didn’t want to say anything about a particular subject, and sometimes because it didn’t even occur to me to ask about a particular subject. (I was, please try to remember, 22 to 27 years old when I conducted these interviews, and my only real credential as an interviewer was that I was his granddaughter.)
I did ask, however, about COINTELPRO, the series of covert and mostly illegal counterintelligence programs conducted by the FBI between 1956 to 1971 in order to surveil, infiltrate, discredit, and disrupt American political organizations the Bureau (especially J. Edgar Hoover) deemed to be “subversive.”
On this topic, however, Fletcher said very little at all. In fact, the only thing he ever said regarding COINTELPRO was this: “I did not know of any such program, and if I had, I would have been very disappointed in the Bureau.” And I know, I know. There are far too many ways to interpret such a statement for it to be of any use at all.
So, you see, when Fletcher passed away at 96 in 2017, I figured I’d already learned everything I ever would about his career.
But I was wrong.
Image: Excerpt of an FBI memo regarding COINTELPRO.
In August 2021, an acquaintance added me to an email chain full of Overly Confident Men taking turns holding forth for one another on matters they knew little to nothing about. Now, a better person than I am would have let them be. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, after all. But me? I decided, instead, to send a slightly snarky reply-all message sharing my observations on their discourse, and then, to be honest, I forgot the exchange entirely.
But then I got a response. “That was very funny,” it read, “who are you?” Below that, the note was signed: “Oliver St. Clair Franklin.”
From our very first conversation over the phone shortly after I received his note, it was clear to me that in Oliver, I had found a kindred spirit. I never could have imagined, however, what we would soon discover:
I was carrying a missing piece of Oliver’s ancestral history, and he was carrying a missing piece of mine.
Image: Oliver and me, September 2024.
Driving, a few months later, across the country from Santa Cruz, California to my parents’ home in Knoxville, I called Oliver to help pass the time. We got to chatting, and eventually, Oliver asked what I would be working on while I was in Tennessee. For just a moment, I wavered on whether or not to tell him, but then I did. “I’m going to organize my grandfather’s papers,” I said, adding, “he was an Assistant Director in the FBI.” I will never forget Oliver’s reply.
“You know, I hope your grandfather was Fletcher Thompson,” he said. I pulled over immediately, and then asked the obvious question: “How do you know my grandfather’s name?”
Here is what Oliver told me:
In October of 1964, just weeks after winning the Nobel Peace Prize, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. came to Baltimore. By then, of course, the FBI was tracking King’s every move and bugging every phone call and hotel room they could manage. Knowing this, King decided to lodge with a local African American pastor and his wife, Reverend Oliver St. Clair Franklin Sr. and Mrs. Hyla Franklin.
Ultimately, Oliver’s parents paid a heavy price for their hospitality and kindness. Shortly after King’s departure, the FBI placed the Franklin household under surveillance and bugged their phone lines. This, according to Oliver, is when Rev. Franklin decided they needed help. Specifically, what they needed was a man on the inside: an Bureau man with a conscience who might be persuaded to let them know if and when the Franklins had cause to fear for their safety. Of course, such a person might not exist, the Franklins realized. If he did exist, however, they had a good guess as to who, in their circle, would be able to provide the person’s name.
The first African American to serve as a federal judge, and the first to serve a federal appellate judge, William H. Hastie Jr. was an accomplished attorney, educator and civil rights leader. He was also a friend and ally of the Franklin family, and the person Rev. Franklin came to in 1964 in search of an inside man.
Judge Hastie did not disappoint. He did indeed have an ally inside the Bureau. His name was Fletcher Thompson.
From then on, Oliver told me, it was not uncommon for his father—who remained active in the struggle for civil rights despite the FBI’s harassment—to exclaim, about some crisis or another, “I’ve got to talk to Fletcher about this!” What’s more, Oliver told me, Fletcher wasn’t just an ally to William Hastie and the Franklins. He was an ally—albeit an undercover one—of the Civil Rights Movement and its leaders generally.
I had no idea. My whole family, none of us had any idea.
[By the way, you are wondering how my grandfather and William H. Hastie knew each other, I’ve wondered the same thing. Unfortunately, I don’t have a clear answer. If I had to guess, however, I’d say their connection had something to do with Judge Hastie’s hometown, Knoxville, TN.]
Images: Dr. King in Baltimore in 1964; an advertisement for Oliver’s father’s church printed in the Baltimore Afro-American, December 28, 1857; Judge William Hastie.
Now, to understand the significance—to me, I mean—of what Oliver told me, you have to understand that one of the primary reasons I found my grandfather’s career so painful to think about was that he always seemed so very proud of it. Of course, in many ways, he deserved to be! My grandfather grew up poor as poor could be. He spent most of his time, even as a kid, working at his father’s sawmill, and if it weren’t for an extremely thoughtful and perceptive teacher who told Fletcher about the Textile Industrial Institute, which allowed students to earn their tuition by splitting their time between studying and working in a cotton mill, it is very unlikely my grandfather would have received any education beyond high school. But he did, and then, through a lucky combination of intellect, determination, and charm, he made his way into the FBI—the institution which, in his head, at least, represented the “good guys.” Keep in mind, Fletcher grew up in the 1920s and 30s. Mostly, he didn’t have the money to see movies. When he did, however, you better believe he was watching G-Men take down good-for-nothing gangsters.
I understood, in other words, why Fletcher was so proud, and make no mistake, I was intensely proud of him. Still, however, I longed for Fletcher to at least acknowledge—and maybe even reckon with—all the FBI did that was and is worthy of shame, not pride. About those things, by the way, I will say more in a moment. But for now, my point is this:
For me, Oliver’s story complicated things, complicated Fletcher, in a very welcome way—in a way I absolutely did not see coming. To be fair, however, it is possible that I should have.
Images: Fletcher with his brothers and father in the 1940s.
Fletcher was born in 1921 in Spotsylvania County, VA, the last of nine children born to Jennie Lee Brown Thompson and Charles Hiram Thompson.
Fletcher’s birth was extremely harrowing for Jennie Lee, so much so that once it was clear that both she and the baby, my grandfather, would survive, she and Charles decided their new son’s middle name would be “Dew,” the surname of the doctor who successfully delivered him. Dr. Dew, for his part, cautioned Jennie and Charles against trying to have any more children. Unfortunately, however, Jennie fell pregnant again less than two years after Fletcher’s birth. Her death certificate, dated April 9, 1923, indicates that she died of a “septic infection following [an] abortion.”
Afterwards, daunted by the prospect of raising nine children on his own, Charles decided to send Fletcher to be raised by his (Fletcher’s) paternal grandparents, James L. Thompson and Julia A. Thompson. (Technically, Julia was Fletcher’s step-grandmother, but that’s neither here nor there.)
So who were these elders who raised my grandfather?
Unfortunately, I don’t know much about them. What I do know, however, is the first thing that came to mind when Oliver told me how he knew my grandfather’s name, so I’m going to share it with you, too.
Image: Fletcher and his grandparents, James L. and Julia A. Thompson, in the 1930 census for Spotsylvania County, VA.
Way back in 1861, at the outbreak of the Civil War, James—the man who would one day raise my grandfather—was a ten-year-old boy living on his family’s farm in Mountain City, TN.
When, on June 8, 1861, Tennessee became the last state to secede, James was, of course, far too young to enlist. At 42 years of age, however, James’s father, Henry Haws Thompson would have been more than welcome in the Confederate Army, even if he was too old to be drafted. Ultimately, Henry did elect to serve—but for the Union, not the Confederacy, enlisting as a private in Company E on September 24, 1863 in Greeneville, Tennessee for a period of three years, and mustering in at Strawberry Plains just over a month later.
Over the next year, Henry served in several capacities, including as a wagon master and as an assistant commissary. By January of 1864, however, records place him as a patient first, in Cumberland General Hospital in Nashville, Tennessee, and the following June, in a military hospital in Gallatin, Tennessee. Having recovered and returned to service, Henry mustered out with this regiment on September 5, 1865 in—of all places—Knoxville, TN. This, however, is not where Henry’s story ends.
Henry Hawes Thompson survived the Civil War, but he would not survive the fury of Reconstruction.
Returning to Mountain City, TN after the war, Henry was met not only with his family, but with an entire town of white southerners bitterly enraged by his betrayal of the South, and of them. They wanted his death, and ultimately, they would have it. Henry Haws Thompson died on March 14, 1870, when, according to Fletcher, he was lynched by a white mob as retribution for his sin of fighting against the Confederacy.
This, the murder of his father, was something James L. Thompson—my grandfather’s grandfather—would neither forget nor forgive. Instead, he spoke of father—his courage, his conviction, and his murder—often, and to many people, including a little boy, his grandson, who came to live with him in 1923.
Images: Henry Haws Thompson’s Civil War service record; record of Henry Haws Thompson’s treatment in a hospital for soldiers in Chattanooga, TN, 1864.
Four years after his stay with Oliver’s parents in 1964, Dr. King made a different and tragic decision in Memphis, Tennessee. Worried about King’s safety, several advisors urged him to rethink his decision to lodge at the Lorraine Motel. Cognizant of the Motel’s historical significance to the Black community, however, and wanting to demonstrate support for the striking sanitation workers, King checked into the Lorraine on April 2, 1968. Standing on his hotel room’s balcony two days later, Dr. King was assassinated by a career criminal named James Early Ray.
Except, you see, he wasn’t. Dr. King was assassinated at the Lorraine Motel, that is, but not by James Earl Ray. He was, instead, killed by a man named Frank Strausser: a Vietnam vet, former cop, and practiced sharpshooter tasked, by the Federal Bureau of Investigation, with the execution of the man J. Edgar Hoover was calling “the most notorious liar in the country.”
Reader, please know that I know that you may or may not believe what I have written above. Please also know, however, in this particular moment—for the purposes of this particular thing which I am presently writing—I do not care what you believe. Why? Well, you’ll have to forgive me, but I just don’t think I am up to the task of convincing Americans of such an awful, painful truth. This is not to say, however, that I don’t think someone should do it. I just don’t think it’s going to be me.
Anyway, 54 years after Dr. King, I too, came to Memphis and checked into a hotel. Then I set out to find Frank Strausser.
Images: For reasons you will soon understand, I was quite nervous about coming to Memphis.I spent the night before in Clarksdale, MS. I didn’t sleep much, but I did get to sing at Red’s Juke Joint.; the Lorraine Motel.
To be clear, I am not a detective. I am not even an investigative journalist. I’m a historian. Sure, historians do a kind of detective work, but not this kind, so let me briefly explain how it was that I ended up coming to Memphis looking for the man who killed Martin Luther King Jr.
In the early summer of 2022, I got a phone call from someone I did not know—let’s call him Jason, although his name is not Jason. Jason was calling me, he explained, because he had heard from a mutual friend that my grandfather was in the FBI, and that said grandfather had left me his papers. Both of these things were of interest, Jason said, because he was hoping to produce a documentary about the FBI’s assassination of Dr. King.
To be honest, I don’t know what Jason expected me to say, but what I did say was that I was 99.9 percent confident there were no papers in my grandfather’s collection related to Dr. King or his assassination, and that personally, I doubted whether any such papers existed at all. It wasn’t, as I’ve explained, that I disagreed with Jason about the FBI’s role in King’s death. It’s that I doubted and still doubt that J. Edgar Hoover or any of his underlings would have been dumb enough to create such potentially incriminating documents. Instead, what I believe happened—and what I told Jason—is that J. Edgar Hoover informed Clyde Tolson, an Assistant Director and Hoover’s right-hand man, among other things—that he wanted King killed, and that Clyde Tolson carried those orders to Memphis, where he delivered them, verbally, to relevant parties (namely, the Dixie Mafia). This, I should be say, is not my personal theory. It is, instead, a summary of extensive research conducted by the attorney William Pepper. (Pepper died in April of 2024, but I did speak to him over the phone several times before he passed. He reminded me of my grandfather—very old but sharp as hell.)
Jason listened to my thoughts and thanked me, but before he could hang up, I got an idea: “Why don’t we try to find Frank Strausser?” I said. As far as I had been able to tell, I told Jason, there wasn’t any evidence indicating he had died, and I was going to be in Memphis soon anyway. (Memphis was the final stop on trip I was taking with colleagues from UVA and the Charlottesville Community.)
Admittedly, my plan was neither sophisticated nor smart, but here’s what I had in mind:
As far as I could tell, Jason was bright and savvy. And if it weren’t for two things—the fact that he is a man, for one, and the fact that he is African American, for two—I would have encouraged him to show up at Frank Strausser’s door himself. As things were, however, it seemed apparent to both of us that the odds of Frank Strausser a) opening the door, b) not physically or verbally assaulting anyone, and c) being willing to talk were all better if I was the one who rang his doorbell—especially if I wore a dress and a bit of lipstick.
Image: William F. Pepper and members of Dr. King’s family at a news conference in Atlanta in 1999. Photo by the NYT.
