Catholic fans, welcome back.

After just a week, our Catolic Life finale is already halfway sold out.

Early bird pricing only lasts through this Thursday, February thirteenth.

After that, all the prices go up.

The best remaining deals were the combo packages for the Catlic Walking Tour, so be sure to check those out.

It's all going down the weekend of March the fourteenth, so go grab your tickets now at catlick dot com.

That's catlick dot com, all right, enjoy the episode.

The summer of nineteen thirteen was a wild one around Atlanta, pure crazy from top to bottom.

July thirty, first Constitution headline equine Jack the Ripper gets his tenth mule.

This drama was unfolding south of Atlanta, where some unknown person had been sneaking into barns late at nine in killing mules and horses, slashing them with a knife.

Hence the Jack the Ripper reference.

This particular article notes that this was the tenth time this had happened.

Police were baffled, and we're looking for the killer.

On a more positive note, the Fisk Jubilee Singers performed in Atlanta that same month, They were a well known African American choir that hailed from Fisk University in Nashville, Tennessee.

They were the earliest known group to record the Negro Spiritual Swing Low Sweet Chariot.

While in Atlanta, they performed at one of Atlanta's legendary black churches, First Congregational.

You may remember from episode five.

That's where Pastor Henry Hugh Procter preached a fiery sermon about the Atlanta ripper.

Way back in the summer nineteen eleven, The Constitution reported that the voices of the Fisk Jubilee Singers quote blended together in perfect unison when they visited Atlanta.

They were so popular they had to add a second performance, and that quote, white as well as colored are invited.

There was additional news in Atlanta's black community when Alonzo Herndon swung open the doors of his newly remodeled barber shop.

Alonzo Herndon is one of the all time epic names in Atlanta's black history.

He was born into slavery under circumstances far too common for the time.

He was the child of an enslaved woman who'd been raped by her white master, Frank Herndon once emancipated in eighteen sixty five.

Herndon's family was dirt poor, and even as a young kid, he did what he could to support the family.

Eventually he learned how to cut hair.

After saving enough money, he moved to Atlanta and opened a barbershop.

Over time, his reputation grew.

The Atlanta Journal once called him efficient, spectful, and thrifty, and eventually he became the go to barber for Atlanta's prominent white men, government officials, businessmen, bankers, and more.

It was big news when he opened a new barbershop on Atlanta's flashy Peachtree Street.

It was, for a while, the only black owned business located in the city's mostly white business district.

In the summer of nineteen thirteen, Herndon opened his newly remodeled shop, which was heralded for its high end features and finishes.

He loved to travel and collected design inspiration from the finest shops in Europe, so when the shop opened in Atlanta, patrons were in awe at the sixteen foot mahogany doors, white marble, and Brounze electric chandeliers.

Years later, Alonso Herndon would pivot to a new industry, insurance.

He founded the Atlanta Life Insurance Company, which would make him one of Atlanta's earliest black millionaires.

The summer of nineteen thirteen also saw a new outbreak of violence in Atlanta's long running whiskey wars.

In the early nineteen tens, there were two rival whiskey gangs operating in distinct turfs across Atlanta.

Think of these groups like the predecessors of modern day drug traffickers, but instead of drugs, they trafficked in Atlanta's favorite liquid vice, whiskey.

Referred to back then as Blind Tiger, these gangs directed a sophisticated supply chain, buying barrels of whiskey at wholesale from out of state distillers, then smuggling it into the city using wagons, trucks, and rail, storing it at secret warehouses, and finally distributing it to an army of peddlers who'd sell bottles and the smokey gambling halls and dark alleys of downtown Atlanta.

Atlanta's whiskey gangs were led by Dan king Shaw and hub Tally.

The local newspapers referred to them as Tiger kings Kingshaw was a former mechanic and prize fighter.

He was arrested dozens of times over the years for selling illegal booze, and he one time told the Constitution that he'd made five hundred thousand dollars selling Blind Tiger over three years.

That's the equivalent of about thirteen million dollars today.

Kingshaw, however, was a church boy compared to his chief rival, hub Tally.

Tally was the crazy one, a violent tyrant known for shooting up saloons, snitching on his rivals, and threatening to kill anyone who testified against him in court.

The Constitution once reported that he'd shot three men in one week, and he was judged criminally insane and sentenced to time in an asylum.

This was a very rough guy.

Well.

In nineteen thirteen, hub Tally makes one of his final appearances in the newspapers of Atlanta.

As the story goes, he calmly approached one of his rivals down on Peter Street, pulled out a revolver, and shot him in the chest at point blank range.

Months later, police were thrilled to finally see hub Tally get a twelvemonth jail sentence after having the rest of him forty eight times previously for smaller offenses.

Another big story from the summer of nineteen thirteen was that of the Atlanta Motor Drome.

A wealthy New Yorker, Jack Prince, had been approved to build an enormous motorcycle racing track east of downtown Atlantic.

Now, FYI here the track no longer exists, but if you've ever been to the King Center in Atlanta's old Fourth Ward, you're right around the area where the track used to be.

Jack Prince got his start in bicycle racing, but he'd made the shift of motorcycles once they became popular in the early nineteen hundreds.

Prince opened his first motor drome in Los Angeles in nineteen o nine.

The La Motordrome was a hit with spectators, and Americans quickly became obsessed with the sport that would pit racers head to head had unheard of speeds, So when the papers announced that Jack Prince was bringing a motordrome to Atlanta, it was all the rage.

This from the constitution.

This track will be entirely different from the old style of tracks, being steeper and much more attractive than with a flood of light that will make it as bright as day, everything being new and painted in new colors.

It then describes what the opening day will be like, banners flying, a big band of music and the puttering motorcycles with daring riders speeding along at a ninety mile per hour.

Clip will show people the very latest beat sports now.

The motordrome track was made of wooden planks, and the grade of the Atlantic track itself was designed at a terrifying fifty six degrees.

I've seen pictures of several motor dromes.

They're posted in the vault and it's wild.

It literally looks like these guys are driving on a vertical wall.

Because of this, motordromes were incredibly dangerous, lots of big crashes, with guys getting maimed and sometimes killed.

At a race in Newark, a couple of racers jumped the track and were launched into the grand stand.

Eight people were killed in the fiery crash, including four little boys.

Newspapers eventually started referring to them as murder dromes.

Nevertheless, the Atlanta Motor Drome opened in June of nineteen thirteen.

Racers from around the world came to Atlanta for the grand opening, seven thousand spectators packed into the stands on opening day.

Harry Glenn, the top racer in Georgia, was there that day.

Sadly, the hometown favorite was beaten by a guy from Paris.

Races continued throughout that summer, but drama flared up when it was announced that the Black Streaks would be allowed onto the track.

The Black Streaks was an all black racing group based in Atlanta.

These guys had incredible nicknames owns the Outlaw Midnight and haul Demon Wade War.

I can't tell the whole crazy story here, but you can find it inside the Vault.

We've got a special half lick all about the Black Streaks just for you Vault subscribers.

And of course, what's in Atlanta summer in the nineteen tens without fresh ripper news.

The Ripper murders had peaked a couple of years earlier nineteen eleven nineteen twelve.

However, there were still several Ripper style murders that happened in Atlanta in nineteen thirteen, one of them in late August headline Miss Grace has made is murdered.

Eighteenth victim of Ripper.

Martha Ruffian was a young black housemaid.

She was found murdered.

Her body had been dragged fifty feet and dumped him some bushes off Ponts Da Leon Avenue.

She'd been killed by a single knife wound to the throat in what the article referred to as the Jack the Ripper style.

Police had launched an investigation into her murder.

However, right next to this story about the eighteenth Ripper victim was an even bigger headline, the biggest story of the summer of nineteen thirteen, the Constitution August twenty fifth headline, Leo Frank's fate may be decided by Monday night.

The summer of nineteen thirteen wasn't primarily about whiskey wars, or motor dromes or the Fisk Singers.

Oh No.

At was completely obsessively, manically consumed with one story and with the twelve men who had to decide.

Was Leo Frank an innocent man falsely accused of a heinous crime or was he a child killer the face of pure undeluded evil.

By the end of August, they were about to find out.

You're listening to episode seventeen of Catolic Prosecuted or Persecuted by the end of August, the trial of Leo Frank had become one of the longest trials in Georgia's state history.

Hundreds of witnesses had taken the stand, and court stenographers had recorded more than one million words in the official transcripts of the proceedings.

But by August twenty first, things were winding down and closing arguments were set to begin.

On the twenty first, court opened just like it had many days before, Judge Rohne presiding a crowded press corps and several dozen spectators.

It was time for closing arguments and the prosecution got to deal the first blows.

They began by attacking Frank's character.

They reminded the jurors of the women who testified that they'd seen Frank being friendly with the factory girls on more than one occasion.

Next, Dorsey's right hand man, Frank Hooper, invoked a story that everyone in the courtroom was familiar with Doctor Jekyll and mister Hyde.

He used this to frame his belief that beneath the superintendent's professional exterior, a sinister killer lurked.

After that, Hooper attacked Jim Conley, insinuating that he was too dumb to have written the murder notes.

You know these negroes, you know their traits, he said.

A big part of the prosecution's case was that this plan to kill Mary Fagan was so diabolically complex it must have been committed by a white man, because no black person could pull off such a ruse.

Next the defense, when defense attorney Reuben Arnold rose to address Hooper's opener, he took a surprising angle.

He claimed that there was only one reason Leo Frank was even being charged with this crime.

He was a Jew.

Now, this tension, this idea that Leo Frank had been treated so poorly in the media because he was Jewish, was always sort of lurking in the background of the trial, but it hadn't been addressed until now.

To prove his point, Arnold referenced one of the prosecution's witnesses, a streetcar driver named George Kinley.

Apparently someone had heard Kinley say quote that damn jew they ought to hang him.

Arnold used Kinley as just one example, but he believed that other witnesses likely held similar biases.

So why were the locals so anti Jewish?

Well, Arnold had a theory, saying quote, Frank comes from a race of people that have made money.

Quote.

These witnesses, Arnold maintained, had trashed Frank for one simple reason.

They were jeal of his wealth.

Now, now you've probably figured out that Atlanta wasn't exactly the most inclusive place.

In the early nineteen hundreds, African Americans faced the fiercest levels of discrimination, but the city's Jewish community had their fair share as well.

Jewish immigrants began flooding into Atlanta during the late eighteen hundreds.

Many of them set up shops in downtown and became successful business owners.

Others bought real estate, and by nineteen hundred there were several very successful Jewish families in Atlanta.

But despite their wealth and success, many of Atlanta's Jews still found themselves on the outside looking in on the white Christian culture of the Old South.

Another example of the anti Jewish gate keeping in Atlanta social clubs.

Atlanta was known for its elite social clubs, which catered to the city's wealthiest and most influential citizens.

The two most prominent were the Capital City Club and the Piedmont Driving Club, and both of them refused membership to African Americans.

And Jews.

In response to this, Atlanta's Jewish community started its own social clubs, which were exclusive in their own right.

The Atlanta newspapers didn't help either.

They often reinforced anti Semitic stereotypes.

It wasn't uncommon for them to use the word Jew as a verb or to refer to someone as a quote honest Jew, which of course implies that most Jews couldn't be trusted in business dealings.

In addition to being Jewish, Leo Frank was also a Northerner, which was an identity also maligned by working class white Southerners.

In his book Strangers at the Gate, author Stephen Hertzberg summarizes the tension.

Mary Fagan's death channeled the fears and disillusionments of a society undergoing industrial transformation and rapid social change, and projected these collective resentments onto a Northern Jewish industrialist who had settled in Atlanta only six years earlier.

The degree of Atlanta's anti Jewishness in the nineteen tens is still debated today, but it was definitely a thing to one degree or another.

After bringing up the anti Jewish bias that had been swirling around Atlanta, Ruben Arnold shifted to the topic of Leo Frank's character.

He noted that virtually all the factory girls who'd spoken against Frank were former factory workers ie disgruntled employees.

With an axtagrin.

He then addressed Jim Conley and began to articulate the defense's belief that he and he alone was the murderer of Mary Fagan.

This is Ruben Arnold speaking in court.

Conley admits he was right there behind the elevator when that little girl came into the factory, and he was right there when she came down.

Probably his aim was robbery.

Here was a drunken, crazed negro, hard up for money.

The little girl probably held to it.

When he grabbed it.

He struck her in the eye and she fell.

It is but the work of one moment, gentlemen, to push her into that elevator shaft.

Why go further than this black wretch there by the elevator shaft, fired with liquor, fired with lust and crazy for money.

Why negroes rob and ravish every day in the most peculiar and shocking way.

But Frank's race don't kill.

They are not a violent race.

Some of them may be immoral, but they go no further than that.

Yeah, this whole thing was in fact a gigantic cluster of racist tropes and wild accusations.

After Arnold spoke, it was Luther Rosser's turn to advocate for Frank, and he made several strong points.

For one, Frank could never have known exactly if or when Mary Fagan would come in to pick up her pay on that Saturday.

Therefore, there's no way he could have set an elaborate trap which required a look out, precise timing, and an empty factory.

He also explained that if Frank appeared nervous the day after the murder, it was merely the natural result of seeing a dead child lying on a cold Morgue table.

Anyone would have been nervous.

However, Luther Rosser reserved the bulk of his rage for Jim Conley.

He proclaimed to the jury that Conley was nothing more than the prosecution's puppet, that he was coached, that every word was a lie scripted by the prosecution, and in case there was any doubt about how Rosser really felt about Conley, he had this to say.

Conley is a plain, beastly drunken, filthy, lying negro with a spreading nose through which probably tons of cocaine have been sniffed, but you weren't allowed to see him as he is.

Once again, negro was not the word he used, and in Luther Rosser's final monologue, he made a direct appeal to the jury and an unfiltered appeal to white supremacy.

If you, as white men, should believe Jim Conley, it will be a shame on this great city and on this great state, and will be until the end of time.

For the record, we have no indication that anyone objected or thought that this was out of place.

With his final appeal, Luther Rosser took his seat.

It was now Hugh Dorsey's turn to make his case, and he wasted no time.

He began by punching back at the claim that the trial had been skewed by anti Jewish prejudice.

Hugh Dorsey turned to the men and the jury and addressed them directly, gentlemen, do you think that I or that these detectives are actuated by prejudice?

Would we, as sworn officers of the law, have sought to hang Leo Frank on account of his race and religion and passed up Jim Conley, a Negro.

Now he's basically saying, listen, fosso prejudiced, we would have just gone after the easy target, the black guy.

He doesn't know he's doing it, but Dorsey is validating the existence of the social hierarchy of Atlanta white Christians, white Jews, then blacks.

Next, Dorsey declared that the defense brought up the issue of anti Semitism only when they realized their case was a sinking ship.

This, he hypothesized, was simply a desperate attempt to get some sympathy from the jury.

Hugh Dorsey then turned his attention towards the Jews.

He began by listing off the noble Jews of the past, those who'd accomplished great things on behalf of humanity, But then he followed it by naming several scoundrels of Jewish history, even invoking the name of Judas Iscariot.

At one point, Dorsey summarized, this great people rise to heights sublime, but they sink to the depths of degradation.

Two after this, Solicitor Dorsey laid out his final theory on what had transpired on that Saturday at the pencil factory.

Frank, he claimed, had planned his attack for weeks, maybe even months.

When Mary arrived at the factory that day, Frank lured her into the metal room for sex.

When she refused him, he struck her.

Then Dorsey turns to Frank, sitting across the courtroom, and lets this scorcher fly.

You assaulted her, and she resisted, she wouldn't yield.

You struck her, and you ravished her, and she was unconscious.

At this very dramatic moment, Fanny Coleman, Mary's mother, let out a loud scream and began to weep.

Dorsey continued with his theory, which held that after raping and unconscious Mary Fagin, Frank strangled her with a cord and then enlisted the help of Jim Conley to clean up his mess.

He first conned Conley into writing the murder notes, and then he bribed him with two hundred dollars to burn the body in the basement furnace.

As Dorsey wrapped up his final thoughts, he turned to the jury his final admonition, Gentleman, every act of that defendant proclaims him guilty.

Gentleman, every word of that defendant proclaims him responsible for the death of this little factory girl.

Gentleman, every circumstance in this case proves him guilty of this crime.

Extraordinary, yes, but nevertheless true, just as true as Mary Fagin is dead.

She died a noble death, not a blot on her name.

She died because she wouldn't yield her virtue to the demands of her superintendent.

Your Honor, I have done my duty, and I predict may it please your honor that under the law that you give in charge, and under the honest opinion of the jury of the evidence produced, there can be but one verdict, and that is we the jury find the defendant, Leo M.

Frank guilty.

Guilty guilty.

Closing arguments wrapped up on Monday, August twenty fifth, at one thirty five pm.

The jury left the courtroom and began their deliberations.

The press corps alerted their newsrooms that a verdict was imminent.

Words spread like fire through Atlanta, and within about an hour, a crowd of five thousand people had gathered outside Atlanta City Hall to hear the verdict.

Now, during this time, Judge Rone made a surprising decision.

Neither Leo Frank, nor any member of his family, nor his legal team should be present in the courtroom when the verdict was written.

Like everyone else in Atlanta, Judge rone knew what the people wanted.

All summer long at Lantin's had been hanging on every word of the Frank trial, and variety of reasons, public sentiment had only moved in one direction towards the guilt of Leo Frank.

By August, most of Atlanta believed Frank was guilty.

Judge ron knew that if Frank was acquitted, the threat of mob violence towards Frank, his family, and his attorneys was very real.

He knew that even in the supposedly cosmopolitan city of Atlanta, lynching fever was a threat.

In nineteen thirteen, the South was the South, both in the backwaters of Forsyth County and amongst the skyscrapers of downtown Atlanta.

Judge rone was taking no chances.

After just an hour and forty five minutes, word was sent that the jury had reached their decision, a ripple of excitement spread through the crowd down on the streets.

In the courtroom, things were tense.

Judge rone called the court to order.

Turning to the jury box, the gray haired roan asked, gentlemen, have you reached her verdict?

Juror fred Winburne was the foreman.

It was his job to communicate the jury's decision.

Newspapers reported that he spoke with a trembling voice, we have your honor, We have found the defendant guilty.

Within seconds of the verdict being read, reporters raced to an adjoining room, where a tangled web of phone lines had been set up precisely for this moment.

Frank guilty, they shouted into the handsets.

Back at the newsroom, the printing presses sprang to life.

Moments later word reached the crowd gathered on the streets.

Their reaction was exactly as you'd imagine.

A reporter described the scene.

The cry of guilty took winged flight from lip to lip.

It traveled like the rattle of musketry.

Then came a combined shout that rose to the sky.

Hats went into the air, women wept and shouted by turns.

Solicitor Hugh Dorsey bounded down the stairwell inside Atlanta City Hall and out into the light.

When the crowd laid eyes on him, another massive cheer rolled through the streets of Atlanta.

Three burly men emerged from the crowd and grabbed Dorsey, hoisting him onto their shoulders.

The Constitution says that they then quote passed him over the heads of the crowd and across the street, which I can only assume means they crowd served the guy in that moment.

Hugh Dorsey was the most popular man in the South's grandest city, and he would forever be known as the man who took down Leo Frank.

Meanwhile, just down the road, a group of Leo Frank's closest allies sombrely ascended the stairs to his cell in the Fulton Tower.

They had to deliver the news.

When they arrived, both Lee and Lucille were sitting quietly alone, but together.

Frank's doctor, Howard Rosenberg, delivered the bad news.

Leo Frank, ever, the stoic, reportedly responded by saying, quote, my god, even the jury was influenced by mob law.

His wife understandably fell apart.

A reporter was there.

He described the grief.

Miss Frank huddled closer to her boyish looking husband.

There was a wild stare in her eyes.

She threw her arms about his neck and sobbed bitterly.

He stroked her head and pleaded with her to be brave.

Later that day, Leo Frank released an official statement, just eleven words, I am as innocent today as I was one year ago.

That's it.

The city of Atlanta continued to buzz throughout the day of officials, with Southern bell later A hoarded that more calls were placed that day than any other day in Atlanta's history.

Each newspaper kept special editions rolling off the presses into the night.

The Georgian alone sold one hundred and thirty thousand copies in a single day.

The next morning, there was one final bit of business.

Sentencing Judge Rone held a secretive meeting to announce Leo Frank's fate.

Only Frank's attorneys and a few reporters were present.

Judge Rone's decision was anything but surprising his words, it is ordered and adjudged by the Court that on the tenth day of October nineteen thirteen, the defendant, Leo M.

Frank, shall be executed by the Sheriff of Fulton County, that said defendant on that day between ten o'clock am and two o'clock pm shall be hanged by the neck until he shall be dead, and may God have mercy on his soul.

It was official.

Leo Frank was set to hang for the murder of Mary Fagan.

By the next day, Leo Frank's legal team was hard at work preparing their appeal.

They immediately filed a motion for a new trial.

That motion couldn't be addressed until early October, which meant the original date of Frank's capital punishment, October tenth, would have to be pushed back.

When October came, Frank's attorneys put forth their best case, but to no avail.

Judge Rohan refused Leo Frank a new trial and rescheduled his execution for April of the next year.

Leo Frank's defense team, however, would not be discouraged.

They were already planning their next appeal.

Through the final fall and winter months of nineteen thirteen, the name Leo Frank began to fade from the papers.

Not completely, oh no, this story was far from over, but the frenzy of day Lee coverage was dialed back to occasional mentions in the papers, usually about the ongoing appeals.

Though coverage of the story faded, the unrest in Atlanta's Jewish community certainly did not.

The Frank case blasted shock waves of fear to Atlanta's Jews, and there was a sense of deep betrayal by a city they'd believed had accepted them.

After all, if one of their best men, Leo Frank, could be sentenced to hang for a crime he didn't commit, then no one was safe.

The making Telegraph of Paper, located a few hundred miles south of Atlanta, perfectly captured the division caused by the Frank trial.

The long case and its bitterness has hurt the city greatly, and that it has opened a seemingly impassable chasm between the people of the Jewish race and the gentiles.

It has broken friendships of years, has divided the races, brought about bitterness deeply regretted by all factions.

The friends who rallied to the defensive Leah Frank feel that racial prejudice has much to do with a verdict.

They are convinced that Frank was not prosecuted but persecuted, not prosecuted but persecuted.

This would become the firm belief of Atlanta's Jews that Leah Frank was unjustly convicted of a crime he didn't commit due to a flood of anti Jewish bias generated by the media, the prosecution, and even every day at Lanton's.

One such member of Atlanta's Jewish community that had likely been following the Frank case very closely was Jacob Elsis.

Jacob Elsis founded and owned one of the largest factories in town.

Known for his relentless innovation, hard work, and philanthropy, Jacob Elsis had become one of the pillars of Atlanta's Jewish community.

Elsis had constructed his industrial facility way back in eighteen eighty one on a desolate tract of land on the eastern edge of Atlanta.

Over several decades, he'd grown it into a massive operation, employing upwards of fifteen hundred people.

By nineteen thirteen, it was one of the top five hundred largest corporations in America.

But success always comes with a price, and by December of nineteen thirteen, Jacob Elsis was just tired.

He'd spent thirty years as the company's president, and retirement was calling his name.

It was now time to pass the reins to his son, Oscar.

When he took over as president.

Oscar, Jacob's son was only forty three years old.

Though relatively young, he wasn't a newcomer to the textile industry.

He'd been working at his dad's factory for the last twenty years.

While Jacob the father was a risk taking entrepreneur with big dreams, Oscar was anything but he was more of a manager, more of a details guy.

And as a details guy, the new president of the Fulton Bag and Cotton Mill kept meticulous records, and all those records, all that paperwork ended up in one place, yep, a vault tucked away in the back of the executive suite inside a red brick factory building with two enormous smokestacks that towered over a tiny mill village that would one day be known as Cabbage Town.

Have forgotten about that hidden vault, have you?

I hope not, because we're going back there now.

We're going to keep following the Leo Frank story.

It's far from over, however.

As nineteen thirteen turns to nineteen fourteen, rumors begin flying around Atlanta's rough and rowdy Cabbage Town.

Rumors of rebellion, rumors of an uprising, rumors of a revolt.

Our fourth and final story is about to begin and you're not gonna want to miss it.

That's next time on Catlick once again.

This is your final reminder that early bird ticket pricing is about to expire for our Catolic Live Finale, which happens on March the fourteenth, So go get your tickets to both the finale and one of our Catolic Walking tours right now at catlic dot com.

The venue is a huge and we've already sold more than fifty percent of the available seats.

We've got an amazing night plan and I would love to meet you as we wrap up the catlic saga once again.

You can look at all the ticket options over at catlic dot com and don't forget early bird pricing runs through February of the thirteenth.

Catolic is recorded in Atlanta's historic Cabbage Town neighborhood.

Executive producer walnut Ridge Harmon.

Original music and sound design by Doucel Cover art by Rachel Eleanor Catolic Store manager Brett Harmon.

Additional research for this episode by Jack Lindsay Catolic Instagram.

Follower of the Week Janetta Larous Catolic Instagram commenter of the Week Chris Lanier, Catolic Twitter Follower of the Week Sam Holmes, and your favorite.

The Catolic hater of the week comes from Apple user atl Boy for two zero, who says, quote I got ten episodes in I really tried him.

Quote well, atl Boy four twenty number one, thank you for listening.

Number two.

I have a sneaking suspicion you're still listening, but I'm sending you all the cat lick in love either way.

Hey, remember when I talked about the Atlanta Motor Drum.

Well, number one, don't forget.

We have a special halflick all about that inside the vault.

But number two, we designed a really sweet Motor Drum T shirt that's for sale inside the Catholic store.

Now, they didn't have graphic keys back then, but if they did, this is what we think a grand opening T shirt would have looked like when the Motor Drum opened in the summer of nineteen thirteen.

Go check it out and hick one up for yourself at you guessed it catlick dot com.

Are you enjoining Catolic?

If so, would you mind leaving a review on Apple Podcasts or wherever you listen to great podcasts, it makes a huge difference in helping others discover the show, and finally, Catholic is independently written and produced by me bt Harmon signing off, I'd like to remind you to sabled buildings, build bike lanes and vote for public transit.

We'll see you in the next episode.