African American women’s history is at once beautiful and haunting, and because my work emphasizes their experiences with the law, it can also be profoundly difficult and sad. When I first stumbled onto the case of Mary Wright, a young African American domestic accused of killing her white employer, I assumed her fate was sealed. But as I read through the court documents and press coverage, a unique tale unfolded. Mary’s story is a timely account of a Black woman battling seemingly insurmountable odds.
On a summer afternoon in 1901, Mary discovered her employer in a pool of blood on the floor of an upstairs hallway. Sarah, a widowed septuagenarian, had suffered a punishing beating; her skull was cracked open, and she lay in a battered heap. Mary went for help, and after the alarm was raised, a barely breathing Sarah was rushed to the hospital while authorities took Mary into custody.
Philadelphia’s criminal justice system was hardly known for impartiality, so Mary’s was an especially precarious position. That Sarah Haggenbotham was among the city’s wealthiest elite added another layer of complexity. But Mary tapped into key methods that Black women used at the turn of the century to help even the odds, maneuvers that mobilized their might and their minds.
Under questioning, Mary carefully chose when to speak and when to be quiet. She described the bizarre events that occurred at the house shortly after they returned from the Anchorage Hotel on the Jersey shore—Sarah’s son Jonathan Haggenbotham had purchased the storied resort. Mary said that Sarah feared her home had been burglarized. She noticed storage trunks had been broken open and ransacked. As if that wasn’t alarming enough, Mary and Sarah encountered a strange white man in the house who hurled a brick at Sarah’s head before running outside. When Jonathan came home later that day, he dissuaded Sarah from summoning the police. He said there was no immediate danger, and it seemed that nothing had been stolen. He went out again, and sometime thereafter Sarah was attacked.
The authorities were skeptical of Mary’s version of events as well as her repeated requests to speak with Jonathan—which they denied. She remained in police custody. When Sarah died without regaining consciousness, Mary’s predicament went from bad to worse.
Facing murder charges, Mary changed tactics. She weaponized her housekeeper knowledge to point the police in another obvious direction. Sarah had cut her trip to the shore short because she did not approve of Jonathan’s fiancé, Clara Ferner—a thirty-eight-year-old woman who worked at his hotel. Mary said that Sarah and Clara argued over everything from drapes to dinner. Mary went further. She amended her original intruder story. She implied that Jonathan had hired the man to kill his mother, but that the man couldn’t finish the job. The stranger told her that Jonathan was a cold soul and that he was killing his mother upstairs. As the man left, she went to check.
She saw Jonathan standing over Sarah, who lay on the hallway floor, feebly asking her son, “Why?” He responded that she had seen his face. Then he dropped the brick on her head. Mary was horrified, but Jonathan tried to soothe her; he gave her wine and told her that if she kept his secret, she would live well on the Jersey shore. Every word of Mary’s new account found its way into local presses, and it sent shockwaves through Philadelphia’s high society and everyday folk alike.
When police arrested Jonathan, he cast a worrying image. He rocked back and forth in court and cried Mary’s name aloud in some sort of twisted mantra—moving between entreaties for her to come to him and asking how she could betray him. This as his fiancé, Clara sat by his side trying to explain the proceedings. Spectators thought him to be having a mental crisis. That theory would be dispelled by another stunner, as a prison official made it plain: Jonathan had the tell-tale signs of the hypodermic needle on his arm. He was addicted to morphine.
As authorities investigated Jonathan, they kept the pressure on Mary. She remained in a rat-infested cell while police tried to set her up. They had her beau visit and ask pointed questions while a detective in disguise listened from an adjacent cell. Mary held to her account. Even so, she was hardly out of the woods. Jonathan’s family hired the city’s former district attorney to help him navigate the case. The press also routinely depicted Mary as untrustworthy. The David and Goliath battle incensed the Black community, and Mary’s congregation fundraised and got her a lawyer. This level of solidarity was vital for Mary’s plight; collective organization has always sustained African Americans throughout periods of struggle and this instance was no different.
Since Jonathan refused to submit clothes he wore on the day of the murder, there was little evidence beyond the word of a Black woman. The charges against him were dropped. Mary, conversely, was indicted for murder. As she languished in jail, she reportedly wept bitter tears. Those tears didn’t just display her inner turmoil; they helped humanize her to the public.
Tried in December, the strongest witness for the defense was also the most unexpected. Jonathan testified that he did not remember anything from his arraignment or that Mary had accused him of the murder. He did not recall his time in the county prison, either. It was simply too bizarre for the jury to believe—in the end, they acquitted Mary.
Outmatched on every register, Mary Wright used her status as a servant to her advantage, and her emotional displays eroded narratives of her as a brutal killer. Her communal ties also gave her a fighting chance. Knitted together, these methods helped Mary and other Black women like her wring out the most unlikely of victories.
