By Jerry Flook, Garland Historian
Published in the Garland-Rowlett Messenger, July 2011
Elijah “Lige” Harris (1892-1924) was the first officer of the law to die in the line of duty September 4, 1924-in Garland, Texas. A poignant account of his death was written by his daughter, Ruth Harris Martin. Her account (abridged) follows.
Papa
“Sarah, call Doc Ogle, I’ve been shot!”
When Sarah [Harris’s daughter] asked him [to repeat] what he had said, he must have realized that she was frightened, so he said someone had been shot.
Sarah was the night operator for the local telephone exchange, which was at that time owned by A. D. Jackson, and I stayed with her. We were not afraid because Papa was the City Night Watchman and we knew that we could depend upon him to watch after us. Then, also, the fire alarm siren was in the telephone office and, if necessary, we could turn it on to alert the entire town. I have often wondered why we did not turn on the alarm, for if we had, there would have been a large crowd there in a few minutes.
Papa was serving his second term as Constable of Precinct 2, but with such a large family to support, he thought it necessary to seek additional employment and had taken the job of night watchman. The fee for this was paid by the merchants around the Square. [However] the townspeople were his friends and he was sympathetic with the violators, most of whom were hometown boys on a drinking spree. Many times instead of making an arrest and thereby receiving a fee, which God knows we needed, he would just take the violators home. Thus he endeared himself to the hearts of the people, young and old, black or white. No other nationalities lived here then, except a few Mexicans who worked on the railroads as section hands. It did not seem possible for such a tragedy to befall him, but in view of what happened he must have had enemies who resented the fact that he stood for what was right.
On that particular night, the events of which changed our lives forever, I had been to a meeting at the Baptist Church. As I walked home with a friend, Cecil Nelson. On my way to spend the night with Sarah, I saw Papa near Weir’s Drug Store, which was about one-half block from the telephone exchange. [The telephone exchange was on the corner between Roach Feed & Seed and 5th Street. Weir’s Drug was on Main Street next door to the present 2-story Baker building.] I said good night to Cecil, and Papa walked the rest of the way with me. Little did I realize that this would be the last time I would walk down the street with him. I hope to walk down the streets of gold with him one great day.
Around 1 a.m. Sarah and I were asleep. Few calls came in late at night so the night operator could set the night buzzer and go back to bed. Twice Sarah had raised up to look at the switchboard because she had heard sounds and thought that perhaps the night buzzer was not working. She learned, however, that it was working for in just a few minutes a subscriber, who said that he had just returned from Dallas, called to ask where the shooting was in town. Sarah told him that she had not heard anything about a shooting, but she woke me then as she realized the shots were what had awakened her. Then there was a call from 175, which was the office of the Garland News, and Papa said, “Sarah, call Doc Ogle, I’ve been shot. Then, as if he knew she would be terribly frightened, he told her that someone had been shot. She then told me that she thought it was Papa who had been shot. We were both wide awake then and filled with terror. Of course Sarah called Dr. Ogle immediately. To us he was more than a doctor. He had delivered six of us children.
Again the same subscriber called to ask about the shooting; he was, in all probability, trying to establish an alibi. This time there was a knock at the front entrance and we peeped furtively out the window to see who was there in the lobby. It was the former night operator. She told us that she would relieve us. Then Sarah and I, scared almost to death, ran as fast as we could across the square to where Papa was. It seemed we were almost flying; as if we were on a magic carpet.
Before we reached there we saw Papa lying on the curb in front of Zacha’s Drug Store, where Dr. Ogle’s office was in the rear [the Masonic Bldg., now the location of Zion Church, at the corner of N. Sixth and State streets.] Papa had been in the alley behind this store when he was shot. He had crawled across the street [ State St.] to the Garland News office, pulled himself up by holding the door knob [He had a bullet in his lumbar spine and was likely partially paralyzed below the waist] and used his gun to break the glass so he could unlock the door from inside and get in to the telephone to call us. My heart almost breaks when I think of the agony that must have been his. He had crawled back across the street and was lying there waiting for someone to come. He showed no sign of fear or severe pain. He asked us if we had left anyone at the telephone office and told us that we would be needed there more than we would be with him. We told him that the former operator was there. He then told us that regardless of what happened anytime to never leave a job where we were needed.
By this time the doctor had arrived and Cliff Smith and a few others had come. Cliff lived less than a block away and had heard the shooting and voices. They placed Papa gently on a cot and moved him back to the doctor’s office, while Sarah and I watched with fear and misgiving, but with not a tear in our eyes. Sarah was 17 and I was 15, but we grew up that night. We never again had a carefree life; our youth was gone.
Papa told Dr. Ogle that he had been shot, and as he examined him to determine the extent of the injury, I recall their conversation. “Who did it, Lige?” Papa answered, “I don’t know, Doc, but if I could get up from here I would get the yellow devil.” We listened intently as he related what happened. He said that there were three men and Cliff verified this as he had seen the men running from the scene to their car. Papa had heard a noise as he made his round and had turned back to investigate. When he did not see anyone and had turned to go on his way, a shot ran out from behind him; other shots followed. He was shot just below his belt. For some unknown reason the light which usually burned there was out. This could have been a coincidence as Papa had not worked the previous night, but considering the situation it may have been removed. Papa was usually careful about replacing the light bulbs.
Papa was in full command of the situation. He told someone to call Mr. Holford about the broken window in the door of the News office. I don’t know why they waited so long to call the ambulance, but during this time you would have thought that it was someone besides Papa who had been hurt. Our brother, Lee, arrived in a few minutes. He was beside himself with anger and fear and asked Papa who did it and vowed to find them and kill them. Papa told Lee that he did not want blood on the hands of his son and told him that if they were apprehended to let the law take its course.
We said something to Papa about calling Mama. We knew that she would want to be there and that he really wanted her there. They were a devoted couple. She had always told us not to keep anything from her. I started running up the street as fast as I could to get Mama. The streets were dark, but no thought of fear entered my mind; friends lived in every house I would have to pass. Anyway, I just jbew I had to get Mama quickly, even if I did have to run five or six blocks in the darkness. When I almost reached the door I called out, “Mama! Mama!” and she knew immediately that something was terribly wrong. When I told her Papa had been shot, she was very calm (praying, I know) and dressed hurriedly.
I do not now recall the exact course of events, but we went back to the drug store, taking Mama. Mama rode in the ambulance with Papa, and Sarah and I rode with Lee to St. Paul Hospital. We arrived there as soon as the ambulance did and I do not recall one word that we said on the way, but oh what an awful night we spent. As we went up the elevator together, Papa tried to appear very calm. The doctor had evidently given him something for pain. Dr. Samuell [well-known local surgeon] had evidently been called before we left Garland. Papa was taken immediately to the operating room and while [Dr. Samuell] was operating Mama, Sarah, and I were standing outside the door and could see the doctor working. Deadly silence prevailed.
Mama told us to come with her and we went down the hall a short way to a small dark room with only a dim light from the hallway. Mama said to us in a tone that was almost a command, “Pray!” Sarah and i were both Christians but I doubt if either of us prayed because we were so terrified. But God knew the fear and the anxiety that was ours and that we loved our Daddy. We listened as Mama prayed and it was somehow such a sacred scene that Sarah and I never talked about it but once and that was in recent years. But what was Mama saying to God? What on earth could she mean telling God that she was not asking him to spare Papa’s life but to save his soul [apparently Lige was not a “born-again Christian]. Heaven only knew how much she needed him with seven children at home.
The operation was not successful. The bullet had lodged in his backbone and could not be removed, so Papa died. Were there ever any sadder words? Somehow I believe God answered Mama’s prayer, for Papa died on Thursday he told Mama that he was not afraid to die but that he hated to leave her with all of us children. He said that he had not been a bad man-just cussed a little. He asked Uncle Mose and Uncle Fletcher Brummit to help see after us.
Papa was brought home and it seems sometimes that I can still see that casket in front of the window. It was the custom for friends to sit all night with the deceased. Throngs of people came, many had gone to the hospital to visit Papa, and we were told that men had stood there and cried unashamedly as they talked with him and told how they wished that they could help him. Perhaps some of them were the same boys that he had taken home and not arrested.
The funeral was at First Baptist Church. Brother J. A. Caraway preached the funeral. Mrs. [C. D.] Flook and her son, Cecil, sang “He Knows.” At that time we did not realize the grief and sorrow that Mama had to bear. I recall many times when I would open a door unannounced, Mama would be crying but she would quickly dry her eyes. Recently I went by where we lived then. The house is gone, but in my mind’s eye I saw something that was not there.