The Following Is an Unrehearsed Interview with Edward F

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EDWARD F. PRICHARD, JR. ORAL HISTORY PROJECT

Interview with Edward Fretwell Prichard, Jr.

May 13, 1983

Conducted by

Vic Hellard

Frankfort, Kentucky

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The following is an unrehearsed interview with Edward F. Prichard, Jr. for the Edward F. Prichard, Jr. Oral History Project. The interview was conducted by Vic Hellard in Frankfort, Kentucky, on May 13, 1983.

Hellard: [microphone noise] This is tape eleven, side two, an interview with Edward F. Prichard on the thirteenth day of May 1983. Mr. Prichard let’s talk now about you, you’re back in Kentucky, we’ve been through the first legislative session of, of the Clements’ administration, and then you got into some difficulty. Why don’t you just start and tell us what kind of difficulty that was. Prichard: Well, I presume you’re talking about the election in 1948. Hellard: Yes sir. [microphone noise] Prichard: Well, [microphone noise] that occurred when the, on the morning of election day in 1948. There was a discovery of some two hundred and, I don’t remember exactly how many, but it was either 249 or 253 ballots which had been placed in various ballot boxes in Bourbon County, stamped for the Democratic candidates. And that resulted in a federal investigation of that election, and indictments, and I suppose that was the beginning of my troubles. The investigation continued for a number of months. There were two federal agents assigned to it, John, I believe it was Core, from Lexington, and another agent named Mooney, who I believed was stationed in Cynthiana. I’m sure they had others investigating some of the technical aspects of it, such as handwriting, finger prints, things of that sort. Hellard: Prich, hold it just a minute, I’m sorry, thank you. Prichard: That investigation continued for several months, and during that period I went abroad with a client on some business for a couple of weeks, and during the period when I was away, the grand jury returned a sealed indictment against me and my then law partner A. E. Funk Jr. for a conspiracy to violate the federal civil rights law. And that indictment was, as I recall it, returned in about March of 1949. Trial took place in July, I believe it was, June or July of 1949, here in Lexington. And after a lengthy trial, Mr. Funk was com-, acquitted and I was convicted. No one else was indicted, although the

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indictment charged that persons unknown were also parties to the conspiracy. And as a result of that conviction, which was affirmed on appeal to the U.S. Court of Appeals in Cincinnati sometime in 1950, I was sent to the federal correctional institution at Ashland, where I stayed from the summer of 1950 until Christmastime, when my sentence was commuted by President [Harry] Truman, and I returned to my home in Bourbon County. There were a good many dramatic overtones to that trial and that investigation. The decisive witness in that trial was Judge Ardery, Judge W. B. Ardery, then the circuit judge of the fourteenth judicial district, who testified that I had revealed to him my involvement in this matter. And I think that is what was the element in the trial that resulted in the conviction. Mr. Funk was charged with having written the signatures, the fake signatures, of the, some of the election officers on the back of the ballots. There was conflicting testimony from handwriting experts, and the jury found him innocent. The trial attracted a great deal of attention in the local press and elsewhere. I’m sure it was a, one of the major news stories of that year. And it obviously had a very profound effect on my life. Hellard: Now, how did those ballots get there? Prichard: How’d they get in the box? Hellard: Yes sir. Prichard: Well, I helped put them there. Hellard: Were there other people involved? Prichard: Yes, there were. Hellard: I know, of course, from your—from your—from your—your interview with Mr. [John Ed] Pearce which you had said some time ago that you, yes, had in fact been involved in this. Prichard: Certainly I was. Hellard: And— Prichard: No question about that. Hellard: Now, why, why? Prichard: Why? Hellard: Yeah.

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Prichard: Oh, I’d been, I suppose from the time I was a small boy I had lived in an atmosphere in that county where it was almost a sport or a game to monkey with elections. I can never remember the time when I didn’t hear from people close to me about that sort of thing taking place in elections. I can remember when I was a very tiny child my great-grandfather telling me about things that he had done as a young man, things of a similar nature. I think my father probably had done the same thing many times in the course of his political life. The first time I personally can recall anything of that sort taking place of which I had personal knowledge was in 1932, when I was seventeen years old, and Judge [William] Ardery was running for reelection as commonwealth’s attorney of the fourteenth judicial district. His opponent was my later and longtime friend Marion Rider. Judge Ardery was nominated on the face of the returns by a majority of twenty-seven. It is generally believed, and I think it’s the truth, that some a thousand to twelve hundred ballots were dropped in the boxes in Bourbon County in that race. My father, and most of the other prominent Democrats in the county, were involved in that episode. I can’t, I can hardly recall an election since I was able to remember where there weren’t credible rumors of similar activities. It was just considered a part of the political game, and more or less a sort of a sport. Of course I knew it wasn’t right, but it was just one of the things that people did. Hellard: Well, was this the first time you had done something like this? You’ve been active in politics for a long—well since childhood. Prichard: It was the second time. The only other time I personally participated in anything of that sort was in 1946 when we had a primary for the United States Senate race. And Phil Ardery was the candidate against John Y. Brown [Sr.] and, of course, I had tried to help Phil in every way that I could. Contributed substantially, financially to his campaign, worked hard for him, and we did that in Bourbon County that year. I don’t know to, on how massive a scale, but it wasn’t as big as the effort that was made for his father, but it was probably as big or bigger than the one we made in 1948. But I knew about it, and knew who was doing it, and knew how it was done. But I

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don’t recall any other times except those two when I actually took part in it myself. Hellard: Now, Phil obviously knew this was going, going on in his race. Prichard: I’m not sure whether he knew it was going on, but he knew that it had gone on within twenty-four hours afterwards. Now, I don’t know whether we told him ahead of time we were going to do it. Hellard: At what—at what point— Prichard: He, he and his father obviously knew what we had done in his father’s race for commonwealth’s attorney because that was so notorious and so flagrant and so big that everybody in the county knew it. They had people over there investigating it, you know, Mr. [Les] Morris had people over there investigating it. Mr. Rider, and Mr. Rider, who was a sort of a, a regular guy, just dropped the matter, didn’t contest the election. Hellard: Are trying to get your cigarette—cigar? Prichard: Yeah, ask Audrey if she’s got some. [tape turned off and on] [Victor] Bradley was one of my lawyers in my case, he and Rider. That was ironic that Rider was representing me when he had been the victim of the same thing almost twenty years before. But Mr. Bradley told me in that connection that when he first became commonwealth’s attorney of that district, way back in the first decade of this century, that the first case called for trial after he took the oath as commonwealth’s attorney was the Commonwealth of Kentucky v. John T. Hinton. Mr. Hinton was the mayor of Paris, and he was indicted for buying votes. And when they called the case for trial, Mr. Hinton stepped up to the court and said, “Your honor, you can have this trial if you want to, but I don’t see what purpose it would serve.” And he reached in his pocket and took out a pardon from Governor [J. C. W.] Beckham, who pardoned him before he was ever tried. So there was a long tradition in that county of doing what they used to call “write the book,” which meant that take the book of ballots, write up a lot of fraudulent ballots, get them in the box. There were various ways of doing it. And this is the first time that there had ever been anybody prosecuted for it except Mr. Hinton, who was prosecuted for buying votes. I can remember hearing some of my older friends telling me about another

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occasion when they voted the county dry in the local option election and all the church leaders, the laymen, the leading laymen in the churches, got together and raised a big pot of money to buy the black vote for the dry cause. And I can remember my great-grandfathers telling me about the occasions when he was a young man when they did the same thing back when the Republicans and blacks were leading element in the Republican Party, and they use to stuff the ballot boxes. So I guess I just grew up thinking it was part of the natural course of events. Hellard: Well, how did this particular event occur? How did you decide to do it, and then how did you go about doing it? Prichard: Well, the reason it occurred at that time and in that county was that Virgil Chapman, who represented this district in the Congress, was a candidate for United States senator, and the Democrats, some of the Democrats over in Bourbon County just thought it would be a good idea to get the best possible vote for Chapman that they could. Hellard: You’re not lit. Prichard: And— That’s got it. And so a, a friend of mine came out to my house one night—we were living on a farm then about three miles south of Paris—and said, “I want you to come in to the courthouse and see something.” And we went into county clerk’s office, this fellow had a key, and there back in the vault of the county clerk’s office were all the books of ballots and all the ballot boxes. And he said, “Don’t you think we ought to help Virgil out a little bit?” So we went to Lexington and got Funk, who wouldn’t have been involved in it if we hadn’t approached him. He came down and did some of the writing. We had the names of the election officers, so we took the ballots, stamped them, folded them, put the forged signatures of the election officers on the back, and dropped them in the various boxes, which were stacked in the corridor there outside the clerk’s office in the courthouse. I wrote some of the signatures also, but I did it with my left hand. And they never were able to untangle the mystery of whose those signatures were. They tried to, tried to prosecute Funk, who had signed them in a sort of scrawly way, but with his right hand. We procured a handwriting expert who said it wasn’t Funk’s

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writing, and my opinion was the jury didn’t want to convict. And when they had one man’s testimony against another’s so-called expert, they decided for the defense because they didn’t want to convict. And I’ve always thought that in my case, they convicted me because Judge Ardery’s testimony left them no, no alternative, and because they felt that probably if Funk got into it, I had gotten him into it, and that’s probably right. In that sense he was more, or less, culpable than I was. The third person involved was never indicted or convicted. And there were only three of us involved. Many people thought there were a lot of other people involved in it. There weren’t. And one of the mysteries to me, or not mysteries, but one of the questions was how they, how the prosecution acquired sufficient information to subpoena Judge Ardery and Philip Ardery before the grand jury. And I have always had to believe that they were subpoenaed because they wanted to be, or because they talked. Because there wasn’t anybody except three of us that knew that I had gone to Judge Ardery’s house that night, and talked to him. Of course, when I had heard that a grand jury was coming to be impaneled in Bourbon County—that time the federal authorities were not in the case, or at least had not come in the case—I was apprehensive, and I called Phil Ardery and went to see him. Phil Ardery said, “Let’s go see my father.” And we went to see Judge Ardery, and I told him the whole story. Mrs. Ardery was in an adjoining room and probably could have heard the conversation. If she didn’t hear it, I’m sure Judge Ardery told her all about it. And I’ve never been sure whether it was Mrs. Ardery, or the judge, or Phil that told the FBI about that conversation. Hellard: Well, why did you feel the need to talk to Judge Ardery, or Phil? You and Phil were not practicing law at this time together were you? Prichard: Uh-uh, no, but we had been up to a fairly short time before. Hellard: Well, had your parting been an amiable parting? Prichard: Not bitter, but had been cool, cool, we weren’t as close as we had been. There had been those political differences that I’ve already described to you. Hellard: Yes.

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Prichard: I don’t think they were, well, the reason I went to Judge Ardery, thought of going to Judge Ardery, was that he was going to impanel the grand jury, and I thought he’d have a lot of control over what was done. And I thought he might be able to guide the situation favorably or unfavorably to me. And— Hellard: Well, what was his reaction the night you talked to him? Did he indicate he would do that, or— Prichard: He indicated he would try to be helpful. Hellard: And subsequent events didn’t bear, bear out on what he said that night? Prichard: Well, I was, no I don’t think so, I don’t think so. I’m sure not. I did not realize at that time what I later felt to be the case, which was that Judge Ardery had a great deal of bitterness toward me. And I think the bitterness probably arose out of whatever differences developed between Phil and me at the time of the [Earle] Clements-[Harry Lee] Waterfield race, about which I’ve already talked to you. And he, although I must say that the Bourbon County grand jury didn’t do anything; heard some testimony, but by that time the FBI had come in and taken, well, impounded the ballots and taken over the investigation so that the Bourbon County grand jury had a perfectly legitimate excuse for backing away, which I’m sure they were glad to do. And so that didn’t, and I’m sure there were people in Bourbon County that thought I had gone too far too fast, and that might of thought I was too big for my breeches and felt this was a good way to sort of bring me down. And then there were lots of others over there who were very sympathetic. Caused a lot of division and bitterness in the county. Hellard: Well, there must have surely been those also who, because of your, your early success, the prestige that you were bound to have had, at least locally, having been in Washington and been in the White House, would hold you to a higher accountability. Prichard: Why certainly, and they should’ve, perfectly right, perfectly right. It was, it was, there was a great incongruity about it all. Nobody realizes that any more than I do. Hellard: Who—do you want to say who the third person was?

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Prichard: Well, yes. He’s dead now, and this is a, I would hope this didn’t hit the public eye for a long time still. It was Bill Baldwin, county attorney. Everybody knew it over there. Don’t think that would surprise anybody. But he was never indicted or convicted, and I’m glad he wasn’t. And he and I remained close friends the rest of his life. I was a pallbearer at his funeral. He was an usher at my wedding. We never ceased to be close and intimate friends, and I’m just happy that he didn’t get in any trouble. And I’m sure that had the situation been reversed, he would have felt the same way. Hellard: You want to hold on a minute, let me switch tapes here. [microphone noise] Something’s not right, testing, testing, one two three four, this is tape number twelve, side number one, of the Edward F. Prichard interviews, May 13, 1983. Okay. [microphone noise] Prichard: Billy Baldwin and I had been friends all our lives. Our mothers grew up together, families had been close, his brother Grover is still a close friend, and we remained close long as he lived. I had a long visit with him just a week before he died. And, as I’ve said earlier on this tape, I’m glad he didn’t get in any trouble. I— Hellard: Until the time you were actually convicted did, would, obviously you were worried about it, and there must have been some element of, of embarrassment for your family that sort of— Prichard: Why of course. Hellard: —were you, but were you ever really convinced that you’d be convicted until the time in which— Prichard: I wasn’t sure because I didn’t know the, the critical factor was Judge Ardery’s testimony. I was satisfied that if he testified, and was permitted to testify, that it would be virtually impossible for me not to be convicted. I was not quite sure whether the court would require him to testify, or whether he would testify. I’m quite sure that if he had refused to testify, he wouldn’t have been held in contempt. At least I felt sure. And I think there was a legitimate legal argument that my test-, my conversation with him was privileged, and that was the primary issue on which the appeal was taken. This was a matter which had not ever been decided in Kentucky, as to

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whether a conversation with a judge was privileged, and there was respectable legal authority, including [John Henry] Wigmore’s great treatise on evidence, to the effect that a judge should have an option to invoke a privilege himself. There were two questions: was the conversation privileged as a, as something analogous to a lawyer-client relationship, or was there a separate privilege for a communication made to a judge? And one privilege was the privilege of the person who made the confession. The other would have been the privilege of the judge himself. I think there was a strong argument for either privilege. I am confident that if Judge Ardery had himself invoked the privilege that Judge [H. Church] Ford would not have disregarded that. But he didn’t. But that is all water over the dam. I was guilty. And naturally I, well, I knew that jury didn’t want to convict me, wasn’t any doubt about that. If the jury had had an out, they would have acquitted me, and that’s shown by the fact that they acquitted Funk because I don’t believe that jury ever thought for a minute that I did it by myself. I don’t think the jury thought for a minute that Funk was just brought into it helter-skelter. And I think that indicates pretty clearly where their sympathies lay. Hellard: Did Phil Ardery testify? Prichard: The court did not permit him to testify. The court ruled that my communications with him were privileged. Hellard: Okay. Well, what was it like to leave here and go to Ashland? What was your state of mind? Prichard: Well, I don’t know. My state of mind was probably a lot worse, Vic, before I went than it was when I went and afterwards. I guess what I was thinking about all the time I was up there was to make the best, or the least hard time—that’s a great expression among prisoners is to make hard time, meaning you had a hard time getting along—and hoping that I could get out as early as I could. I knew I’d be eligible for, eligible for parole in a third of the time, and had hopes that the president would do something for me. Hellard: Were you actually, actually pursuing that?

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Prichard: Well, I, I don’t know that I was in a position to pursue it by that time, but my friends in Washington and my friends in Kentucky were actively pursuing it. I know, I knew, for instance, that Senator [actually then-Governor] Clements and Senator Withers, Garrett Withers, the other United States senator at that time—took Mr. Barkley’s place after he became vice president—and that Mr. Barkley and Virgil Chapman had gone to see the president [Truman] and tried to get him to give me a pardon even before I had to serve any time. And he, perhaps wisely, said that that was not feasible, but that he’d do the best he could to get me out of there as soon as possible. And I don’t have any doubt that I know that my friends did everything they could. I have every reason to believe that Chief Justice [Fred] Vinson went to the president. I know that Paul Porter, a close friend and a very eminent Washington lawyer, was very active in my behalf. I know that Tom Clark, who had been the attorney general when the indictment was brought, was sympathetic. That Howard McGrath, who followed him as attorney general, was very sympathetic. Jim McGranery, who was deputy attorney general and later attorney general, was sympathetic. And so I had hopes I’d get out ahead of my time, and I did. I was there from roughly from July till December. And I think the president felt that after I had served a few months it would be easier for him to let me out than it would have been to grant some kind of clemency before I ever served. And— Hellard: Well, what was your state of mind, then, prior to going to Ashland, while all this was going on? Prichard: Oh, very depressed, very depressed. And, you know, I would immerse myself in reading, I think I read every novel of [Anthony] Trollope. And, you know, try to think about other things. And during a lot of that time always hoping appeals would be successful. They took the case to the Supreme Court, where four of the justices disqualified themselves, and therefore it was pursuant to the U.S. code, affirmed by necessity when you had the lack of quorum. You see, you had to have six judges to make a quorum on the Supreme Court. And Chief Justice Vinson and Justices [Felix] Frankfurter and [Stanley] Reed and [Robert H.] Jackson all disqualified themselves, Justice Reed because he was

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a long time intimate family friend, Justice Jackson because I had worked for him in the attorney general’s office, Justice, Chief Justice Vinson because of his intimate personal relationship, and Justice Frankfurter because of his intimate personal relationship. Hellard: We’re, we’re eventually going to come to, to Lucy [Marshall Elliott Prichard, wife] as a separate segment of all of it, but how did she bear up through all of this? Prichard: Well, very bravely in some ways, but I think she was quite bitter about it, and had every right to be because I didn’t tell her the facts. I simply, I simply kept silent about it. She was pregnant. Our first child was born within a very few days after the indictment was returned. I believe the indictment I said was returned in March, it must have been returned in May, because Allen was born on May the fourteenth, and I think that was just a few days after the indictment was returned. Hellard: Which is tomorrow as a matter of fact. Prichard: That’s right. Yeah. Thirty-three years ago tomorrow. Hellard: Now when you went to Ashland, did Lucy stay with— Prichard: But she was, she was very much hurt, and had every right to be, and I think it has continued to be a sore point between us. And, and I think she, you know, I, I don’t blame her at all. I was very wrong. I was the same way with my parents. I never really told them the whole truth, you know, beforehand, because I was hoping against hope that the thing would come out all right. And that was a, that was a cruel and wrong thing for me to do, or not to do. Hellard: And yet a very human— Prichard: Oh yes, oh yes. There’s one, I feel worse about that than I do about the offense itself. And of course it became a very much of a cause célèbre in this part of the country, I mean, that county was strongly divided, and there was a, a lot of people over there who were very much sympathetic to me, and, you know, they, they circulated a petition for a pardon, with thousands of signatures, some 3,000 signatures or something like that, 4,000, I don’t know what. Brannon, Paul Brannon, who had one of the two-room newspapers over there, that took up the cudgel. And most of that was foredoomed to failure,

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but there were a lot of people that got involved in it. And then there were some who were very much, very active on the other side, thought that I ought to be punished. And it, it created divisions over there that never healed, although I have not carried any bitter feelings, really. Hellard: Can, can you say that, though, from the, the outset? Prichard: No. It’s much less true. It came true gradually. Of course I had more resentment. With the Arderys, my resentment was primarily as what I thought was a certain hypocrisy about it. I’m sure there were some people who really felt, and perhaps rightly, that it was a strong moral issue. And I can’t resent that. You know, at the time I might have resented it, just like you resent it if somebody takes a stick of candy away from you. But there were some who I felt really were actuated more by motives of envy, or something akin to that. And those things I resented at the time, but I don’t now. I don’t have any bitterness toward Phil Ardery. He and I are on civil terms. And I, I don’t really feel any, honestly don’t feel any bitterness toward him. Hellard: But how long did it take you to reach that point? Prichard: Oh, twenty years, thirty years, I don’t know, twenty, but it was gradual. But I certainly didn’t spend any time trying to get even with any of them. I didn’t let it carry me into those things. But— Hellard: Well, while you were in Ashland, did you meet any interesting people? Prichard: Yeah. Hellard: You always have a chance of meeting interesting people I believe wherever you go. [laughs] Prichard: Well, the, the most interesting people I met up there were some of the Hollywood Ten, people who had been sentenced for contempt of court because they were Communists, or radicals, who took the Fifth Amendment, or didn’t take the Fifth Amendment but refused to answer. Movie people and play-wrights. I met them. They were very interesting. John Howard Lawson, who was a play-wright; Dalton Trumbo, who wrote Johnny Get Your Gun, was a well-known movie writer, writer of scripts. Those were the most interesting people. Then I met a lot of bootleggers and car thieves and tax cheaters, and people like that; that’s what mostly was up at Ashland. And

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they were easy enough to get along with. You know, I made the best of it up there. I was, you know, you can’t say you were, one couldn’t say one was happy up there, but that wasn’t the greatest misery of it, because there were things to do all day long and sort of a routine to keep. And was kind of like being in a CCC [Civilian Conservation Corps] camp I guess. I taught school a while, was clerk at the power plant for a while. And I had frequent visits. Hellard: Well, what was the greatest misery of it all? Prichard: Well, the greatest misery was afterwards, trying to rehabilitate myself, trying to get back into the main stream of life. That was the greatest misery by far. I suppose a period of apprehension when I didn’t know whether I was going to be convicted or whether it was going to be affirmed. I suppose that was a period of great tension, too, but the real misery was from the time I got out on till I got reestablished. I resigned from the bar so that I never had to be disciplined by the bar, and I had a period of about three years when I was not able to practice law. And I helped my father some with his business, farming. And I did a good deal of legal research and legal work for some of my friends in Washington like Tom Corcoran, Arnold Fordison Porter, worked on a few cases and briefs, but it was hard going, hard financially. If I hadn’t had help from my father, I couldn’t have made it. Had a young child, then Nathan was born in 1951, Louis in 1953. Those were tough times in a way. And I suppose that was the period of greatest, greatest unhappiness. Hellard: Well, during those times, you, you, you lived in Bourbon County? Prichard: Yes, lived there till 1957. Hellard: And did you live with your, your parents? Prichard: No. Hellard: In your own place? Prichard: No, no. We lived on the same place Lucy and I had lived from the time we got married, which was on the farm three miles south of Paris. Hellard: Well, now, what—any time you think this is getting too personal, just let me know that—but how did you, how did you, obviously, your legal defense was expensive, you spent money on expert witnesses, you were in jail for six months, no money coming in, you weren’t a wealthy man to begin with.

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Prichard: Well, I was in fair shape. I had had a good income from my law practice, and I had some reserves. I had a, you know, I had, I had had a very, very, very good income during the years I practiced after I came back. And so during the period of the trial and imprisonment, it wasn’t so bad. It was after I got out when, I wasn’t able to practice law regularly, that I, I did some things, I wrote some comments and reports for the Atlantic Monthly, did a few things like that. Helped to edit, edit Harold Ickes’ diaries, his wife employed me to do that, various things like that. Then, as I said, some of the law firms in Washington gave me some work particularly Tom Corcoran’s firm and Paul Porter’s. All those things kind of helped me eke it out, and then my father helped me. Then I was readmitted to, to the bar in 1954, ’53 or ’4, I don’t, I think it was ’54, not sure which, either the end of ’53 or the beginning of ’54, and started practicing in Lexington, and that was hard going, too. But— Hellard: Now during this period of time, were you at all active in the, in the political sense? Prichard: Yes, somewhat. Hellard: In what respects? Prichard: Well, I conti-, continued to be close to Senator Clements and continued to be somewhat involved in his political affairs. In 1955 I helped him, I helped [Bert] Combs in his campaign, always in a quiet way because I guess I was hot commodity in those days and nobody wanted me to be too, too visible. But I— Hellard: As I recall, Chandler made you, made much to do about the fact that you were for Combs. Prichard: Not in that year. Now, later on in the Breathitt campaign, when he was running, he brought me into it, but really no. In 19—you see when he was thinking he was going to run, Barkley was a candidate for the Senate against Mr. [John Sherman] Cooper in 1954, and I was fairly active in that campaign in a quiet way. Barkley and I, Barkley had been a good friend of mine. He and my father-in-law kind of grew up together. My father-in-law had lived as a young man down in Mayfield. And my father had been active for Barkley in his campaign against Chandler in 1938. And so I, I remember taking a

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little part, in the Bourbon County particularly, in Barkley’s campaign for the Senate in 1954. And Chandler came over there to make a speech for him. He hated Barkley, but he thought that would be a good move for him to make since he was getting ready to run for governor the next year, and his party regularity had been under [Hellard laughs] a good deal of question. And when he came over there, he made a very clever speech in which he paid tribute to Judge Ardery and me both in the same speech. So at that point he, he was not, you know, he’s quite capable of blowing hot and cold on people. And he was very gracious in his way. In ’55, I don’t think he ever got me. I don’t think he ever got on me in any public way. I was active for Combs, helped Combs with some speeches, a little advice, in a quiet way. Then I was active in Clements’ race for the reelection in 1956, Clements and Lawrence Wetherby. I remember going to Louisville several times and sitting in on meetings with him. So I had continued a moderate activity in politics. And when I was back in law practice in Lexington, I got more active. When Combs was getting ready to run again after he was defeated in 1955, I, I was active in his campaign then, very active. And that campaign, if you recall— you were fairly young then—but that campaign lasted forever. It really lasted for four years. Of course Combs was laying the groundwork to run—and Clements the groundwork for him to run—during all that period. And I was really spending, I must say—and it’s really not good, I shouldn’t have done it—I was spending too much time on politics and not enough on my law practice. I was, I was for a good number of years, and it was one of the worst mistakes I ever made. Began to feel that the way I was going to rehabilitate myself financially, in, in law practice, was to have a governor that was beholding to me. And I was, I was spending just a lot of time on politics that I should have been spending on building up my practice. And that was a big error, but it was a fact. And I think probably that had created some tensions between Lucy and me. I think she resented that, and rightfully so. And I’d be gone for long periods in these political campaigns. And when Combs’ campaign got really full going in ’58 and ’59, I was spending more time in Louisville than I was at home. And that put the whole burden of raising the

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children on her. We were financially, you know, living sort of from hand to mouth. Hellard: This is tape twelve, side two, Edward F. Prichard interview, May 13, 1983. [microphone noise] Prichard: It’s not a period I look back on with any great nostalgia or with any great pride— Hellard: Now these years— Prichard: —because I, I did not realize what I later came to realize. That the only way for me to get back in the mainstream and rehabilitate myself in any effective way was to buckle down to hard work in my law practice. And I, in many ways I’d say it’s the most painful period of my life, more so than the period when I was in prison or when I was being tried or being prosecuted. When I was trying very ineffectively to find a way to get a hand up on the greasy pole. Hellard: Was there—was there— Prichard: And it’s a marvel to me that Lucy was able to raise those children and keep the thing together as well as she did. Hellard: Was there much depression in your life after you got out, out of Ashland? Prichard: Depression? Hellard: Yes sir. Prichard: Well certainly. Not as much immediately, but as time went on and I, you know, was searching and groping for some grip on the situation and wasn’t getting it as I should have. It was very painful, the most painful period of my life. Hellard: Did you every turn to alcohol? Prichard: No, no. Hellard: You never had any problems with that? Prichard: Not really, not really. Hellard: How did you handle it? Prichard: Well it’s— Hellard: Buckle, just buckle down—

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Prichard: In some ways I didn’t, in some ways I didn’t, that’s the trouble, that’s why it’s so painful is that I didn’t handle it. I just lived from day to day. And I, I was looking for a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, that sort of feeling. And really wasn’t until the ’60s that I began to get some, some hold on the situation and, and to buckle down and do what I should have done earlier. Hellard: Now, it was in the—was it in the ’50s that you had some problem with the IRS? Prichard: Oh, more, more the late ’50s and ’60s. Hellard: Sixties. Prichard: But that was just negligence, you know, getting my returns in late, not paying when I filed the returns, being short of cash, being pursued by them all the time. Not criminally or anything, but just liens, levees, things of that sort. Hellard: And then all that, all that business gave, gave ammunition to your enemies. Prichard: Certainly, certainly it did. Well, it gave not only ammunition to my enemies, but I guess a lot of disgust to my friends and to my family. We had a—then in 1957 we moved to Woodford County, where we’ve lived ever since. And then when Combs was elected, we can talk more about that when we get back into politics, but when Combs was elected, that probably was some help to me. That’s when I star-, in 1958, I moved my law practice to Frankfort, and that probably was the beginning of some positive developments, although it took a long time, and there were plenty of years of struggling, but I began to pay more attention to my business. Still spent a lot of time, though, with politics. And in Combs’ administration I spent a lot of time with him. That probably helped me some as far as clients were concerned, but it—as far as time was concerned, it consumed a lot of time, because I suppose that I spent more time on governmental matters, sort of quasi-political matters, in the Combs’ and Breathitt administrations than I did at any time. I was sort of a constant, every day, unofficial adviser to both of them. Hellard: Well, the period— Prichard: Became very close to them. Hellard: —the period of roughest time was from, what, ’49 up, ’50 to ’55—what, what, what did you learn about yourself during that time, in retrospect?

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Prichard: Well, not enough. I suppose I really didn’t start learning about myself until the ’60s. You know, in those earlier years I was just struggling and groping from day to day to keep going. And I believe that, though I became more active certainly politically, it was probably not until Ned Breathitt became governor that I really began to feel any sense of, of getting on. I think Ned had a, an understanding of me and a feeling for me that was rather special. And I think that Ned felt, perhaps even more than Bert did, of the importance of, you know, in my life of my getting some status, some recognition, some feeling that I wasn’t in the closet. Ned appointed me to the constitutional assembly, appointed me to the Council on Higher Education, they put me on the Democratic State Central Committee, all those little things which may seem unimportant in retrospect, were important to me because they, they were an indication that I had regained some standing. And I’ll never cease to be grateful to Ned Breathitt for that. I don’t mean that Bert wasn’t a close friend, but I don’t think that Bert was quite as sensitive to those things in those days as Ned was when he was governor. Hellard: At what time did you start rebuilding your ties with, with the press? Or did you ever lose your ties with the press? Prichard: Oh, yes, the press was very hostile to me during the period of my troubles, and, and, you know, justifiably so. I mean, you know, took a dim view of me, even those who had been close to me like the people at the Courier-Journal, some of them. I suppose I began rebuilding my ties in the ’60s. I don’t know, I guess it wasn’t until then. Began to know David Hawpe, I’d always known John Ed [Pearce] and, of course, the Binghams had always been close friends, Mark Ethridge, but I think they were terribly disappointed in me. It took them a while to feel that I was on something of a right track. I don’t know that they were hostile, but they were just disappointed. Hellard: Let me just drop a few names and see if—see what your reaction is to these folks are. I. C. James. This may be—I’m not sure the time frame of this but ( ). Prichard: I. C. James. Well, I. C. James and I been friends for a long time. I don’t know how you stumbled on that name.

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Hellard: Why research, Mr. Prichard. [laughs] Prichard: I. C. James was a great friend of Rod Keenan’s, they both from Harrodsburg. And Rod Keenan and my father were very close friends, and Rod Keenan and I were close friends. And— Hellard: Well, would you, would you describe him as a fairly colorful— Prichard: Very colorful— Hellard: —political— Prichard: —very colorful county politician, trotting horse aficionado, a real vintage country politician, Bud James. I can’t remember a time when he and I weren’t on the same side. And when he came to the legislature, that pleased me greatly, because when I’d known him he was, I guess, county attorney over at Harrodsburg. Yes indeed, we were great friends. He and I would often have breakfast together in the leg-, when he was in the legislature. I think he stayed at the Southern Hotel, if he didn’t stay there he ate over there a lot. And we’d eat breakfast together, talk over times that we had known together. Hellard: I’m told he had one burning issue. Do you recall what that was? Prichard: About the railroad trains going through Harrodsburg? Hellard: Absolutely. Prichard: He was—he, he, he, he, he was hell on wheels about the Southern Railroad trains going through Harrodsburg too fast and not stopping at the intersection, wasn’t that it? Hellard: That’s it, that’s it. I’m told that whenever he ran for anything he ran against the railroad. Prichard: Yes, the Southern Railroad. And— Hellard: I understand he was a fairly large man. Prichard: Well— Hellard: Physically large. Prichard: Fairly. Died behind his trotting horse didn’t he? Hellard: I’m not certain. Prichard: Used to be a trotting—drove, drove trotting horses, and I think he died behind—in a sulky behind a trotting horse. Hellard: Well, I don’t know.

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Prichard: And his boy, now his boy was bigger than he was. Hellard: I. C. junior. Prichard: I. C., yeah, the one that’s county judge executive over there now, I believe isn’t he? Hellard: I think he is. Prichard: Was sheriff. He’s a great friend of mine. And, but he was, you know, just a kid working for Doc Beauchamp in the agricultural department. And he and I became great cronies because he and his—because his dad and I had been. Hellard: What do you think people like I. C. James contributed to this, Kentucky, did they really make a contribution? Prichard: Sure. Hellard: What, what part? Prichard: Color, ambiance, knew all the scandals and the stories about this one and that one, and had ties with the past. I can see Bud now, always had that cigar in his mouth. He was a plain spoken, colorful fellow, full of good stories. And he loved to talk about old Mr. Johnny Morgan who’d been sheriff over there and was an old timer, Colonel Chinn, people like that. Hated the Ingrams, you know, Hoppy Ingram and all that. He hated Hop, hated Happy Chandler. He goes back to the Tom Rhea faction, Bud James does, or did. Yes, he was a great, great friend. Hellard: What about Colonel George Chinn? Prichard: I was always fond of Colonel Chinn. He’s cranky as hell, peculiar as hell, but colorful. He was a friend of my father’s. And when Nathan went to work for the [Kentucky] Historical Society, he and Colonel Chinn became great cronies. And Colonel Chinn would tell him about—stories about my father and— Hellard: It’s told that Colonel Chinn use to test weapons on— Prichard: Well, Colonel Chinn was— Hellard: [unintelligible] Prichard: —is a great authority on ballistics. He’s employed, you know, by the army even now, on weapons testing and wes-, weapons research. He’s one—he’s

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written their manuals. George Chinn is one of the great authorities in this country on ballistics and weapons, certainly. Hellard: Have you ever visited his home? Prichard: No, well, yes once. Hellard: Is it true that he has a, an arsenal— Prichard: Yes— Hellard: —at his home in a cave? Prichard: —oh yes, and, and he use to operate a placed called, what is it, called the Cave House over there, kind of a joint, he operated for years. It was cut out of the rock over there. Hellard: Best ham sandwiches around. Prichard: That’s right. Hellard: Yes sir. Prichard: Country ham sandwiches. I’ve been there. And, of course, his uncle, Colonel Phil Chinn, was one of my great cronies, the horseman, you know. Colonel Phil T. Chinn here in Lexington. He was a great friend of my father’s and a great friend of mine, and one of the most colorful—they had a dinner for him here in Lexington back in the late ’50s, and Clyde Buckley took me to it, and we had a great time. And Roscoe Goose, the jockey, was there. And it was a great tribute to Colonel Chinn. Hellard: What about a gentleman named Edwin Freeman? Prichard: Edwin is still there. Edwin was a friend of mine. Edwin was in the legislature. Edwin Freeman’s been a great success in financial affairs and—and was— had a very, I thought, a very easy going, pleasing personality, and was a very effective member of the legislature. Hellard: Now, he was an anti-Chandler— Prichard: But he had been a kind of a little bit for [Harry Lee] Waterfield, but he, he didn’t like Chandler, and after Waterfield’s time, he, he, he became a supporter of the anti-Chandler faction, that’s right. And he was in the legislature during Combs’ and Breathitt’s administration. He and I got along just fine. Edwin helped me—you ever heard them talk about the Mug Bill? I was, I was employed, retained by a concern who wanted to leg-, legislation

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passed to put a, a photograph on the driver’s license, and they called it the Mug Bill. And Combs and I almost fell out over it because he ran out on me. I got it passed in the house and in the senate. I had thirty votes for it. And some of the circuit clerks got worried about it—later on when they got a fee out of it they all changed around and got it passed. And Combs got it killed in the senate, and he and I got in a little difficulty about it. But Edwin Freeman was one of those that helped me pass it. And Edwin was effective on the floor of the house. Hellard: What about a gentleman named Eulin Dean? Prichard: Well, I, I knew, I knew Eulin fairly well, but not as well as—you seem to have a kick on Mercer County here. Hellard: Well, it’ll take a little bit of time. Prichard: I had a, a closer relationship with Earl Dean who was his brother, older brother. Earl Dean is one, you know, one of the most colorful trial lawyers around. And Earl is very emotional and has sort of a very vivid personality and is an excellent jury lawyer. And you can’t beat him in Harrodsburg in a jury trial. Yes, I’ve known Earl. I knew Eulin fairly well, but not like I did Earl. Hellard: What about Hop Ingram? Did you know Hop very well? Prichard: I knew Hop, but he and I were usually on opposite sides. He was a, he was an old timer. You know, you really had two factions over there, and that was Bud James’ faction and Hop Ingram’s. The Ingrams have been influential there for many, many years. I use to have an old cousin over at Harrodsburg, cousin Jim Cook, and he hated the Ingrams. And I remember going to a funeral, cousin Will Cogar’s funeral over at Midway, he lived over there at Midway where his son James Cogar lives now, and cousin Jim Cook was at the funeral and he was way up in years. And I said, “Cousin Jim, what are you doing these days?” And he pulled pieces of paper out of his pocket, and he says, “I’m exposing some rascals in our city government.” And he pulled out this tirade he had written in George Boner’s newspaper over there against old man J. T. Ingram, Hop’s daddy, about stealing all the blankets from the WPA when they had them over there for the relief of the poor. And he

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claimed old man Ingram had stolen all the blankets [laughs] and sold them. And so I was never on the same side as the Ingrams. Hellard: And what about one last fellow named David Taylor. Prichard: Nero? [Hellard laughs] One of my good friends. David Taylor and I—he was in law school with Marvin Coles, who started out in my office, and then got so dissolute and degenerate that we had to split up. [Hellard laughs] But he was in law school with David Taylor, and that’s where I got to know him. And Nero and I have been good close friends ever since he came on the scene. And I believe he went in the, in the, Bud James’ firm, isn’t that right? Hellard: Started out, yes sir. Prichard: And started out as his junior partner. And he’s been my buddy all those years. And I think David Taylor and I most of the time have been on the same side, although I’m told he may be for Martha Layne this time, I don’t know, but we have usually been on the same side, and very close, and I’m very fond of David Taylor. Hellard: It’s almost—well it’s right at four o’clock, so I think we’ll conclude, if that’s okay with you? Prichard: How—well let me ask you how you got on this Mercer County? Are you going to get me on Jessamine County? Hellard: Oh, I’m going to get you on as many as I can. Prichard: John Watts— Hellard: I’m going to— Prichard: —Bernard Monahan— Hellard: The only counties we’ve talked about so far are Bourbon and Woodford, and we’ve still got a lot more to talk about in Bourbon and Mercer County. Prichard: Uh-huh. Hellard: There are just all kind of counties. I want to get you up in eastern Kentucky and I want to— Prichard: Well, in Combs’ period, in Combs’ time, when he was governor and a candidate— Hellard: Now, I’m still taping this.

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Prichard: —I, you know, I made a lot of forays into eastern Kentucky. I made many speeches in Pike County and Letcher County and Floyd County and Knott County and Perry County up there. Hellard: Well, do you mind—you don’t mind revisiting all those with me do you? Prichard: Uh-uh. Hellard: It’ll take us some time, but I think it’s— Prichard: Oh, I know. And I formed a lot of close friendships up there in the mountains in those days. I remember a speech I made for Ned Breathitt in Prestonsburg, we had five thousand people there, one of the biggest rallies up there. Had it in the high school gym and they were all pouring out all over the grounds. And we had a great rally up there, people would—even now talk about that occasion. Combs set that all up, and made speeches in Jackson, that’s how I got close with the Turners, that’s another family we’ll have to talk about. I’ve had close relationships with the Turner family all through those years, still close. Marie, Irvine Turner, Triva [??] and Jeff Howell and, well in Floyd County, I could just name them almost by the score. Hellard: That’s why I think we need to go county by county, [laughs] because I think you could name a—ain’t no doubt you could name a lot over in Mercer County— Prichard: Well, those are the main ones— Hellard: —given, given time to think about it. Prichard: —those are the— Hellard: Let me ask you about one person though that I, that I am a little embarrassed to say, I’ve only recently come to, to know anything about, and that’s Irvin Cobb. Would you—would you— Prichard: Yeah, I never met him, but I’ve read all his stories. I’ve heard him on the radio give his little talks and anecdotes. He was colorful. Did you ever read his Judge Priest stories? Hellard: Yes, that’s the ones I read. Prichard: Aren’t they fascinating? Hellard: Well, they certainly are. Prichard: Yeah, I love to read the Judge Priest stories.

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Hellard: And, of course, especially start talking about the Tillmans, because my mother was a Tillman, you know, in McCracken County. Prichard: Well, the Tillmans were on both sides in the Civil War weren’t they? Hellard: Well, that’s typical of the Tillmans. Prichard: That’s right, they were on both sides— Hellard: [unintelligible] Prichard: —General Lloyd Tillman was in the Confederate army and the other Tillman was in the Union army, and I guess the high school in Paducah is called Tillman, isn’t it? Hellard: Yes sir, no, Augustus Tillman High School I think it is. Prichard: That’s right, yes. And—but I didn’t realize how many ties I had with Mercer County till you began to call those names. Hellard: Yes sir. Prichard: But—and one of the most colorful families, and the Chinns are kin to them, and that’s the Thompson family. You know, there was a famous killing or two over there done by the Thompsons. Little Phil Thompson who killed the man that seduced his wife. He was in Congress from Harrodsburg. He and his twin brother Colonel John B. Thompson were very famous characters over there. And Phil Chinn’s name was Phil Thompson Chinn. Hellard: Well, their not, their not the Burgin Thompsons? Prichard: Well, Phil Thompson killed this man Davis in the train at Burgin. Hellard: That’s interesting. I didn’t know that. Prichard: Uh-huh. And was acquitted, had a famous trial. And they—his lawyer read a telegram to the jury, which of course he shouldn’t have done, and the telegram says, “Thirty thousand Confederate soldiers say Little Phil did right.” [Hellard laughs] He was a little fellow, they were little tiny fellows, twin brothers. Hellard: That sounds almost like a Judge Priest story. Prichard: And when Phil Thompson was in Congress and didn’t want to answer a roll call, he sent his twin brother over to answer the roll call for him. [Hellard laughs] Judge Priest, as I recall, loved—he ate his supper at the hotel there, it

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said in the stories, and it was, and he was always ate the same thing for supper, country ham and red eye gravy and hot biscuit. [Hellard laughs] Hellard: Which would sound awful good today. Prichard: That’s right. But I remember, I remember, I remember reading the Judge Priest stories forty, fifty years ago. When did you read them? Hellard: When I was recovering from my heart attack. Prichard: They’re good reading aren’t they?