In this country, when a Black woman dares to speak — dares to name what was done to her — the system doesn’t listen. It searches for a reason to discredit her. To demonize her. To make her the problem. That’s not new. It’s what they did to our mothers. Our sisters. Our grandmothers. And it’s exactly what they did to Florence Akers — a young Black woman arrested during a carnival in Kansas and cast as a criminal before the facts were even clear. Hers is the fourth and final story in our Injustice By Design series — a series built on one hard truth: that injustice didn’t happen by accident. It was written into law, protected by courts, and normalized by society. And in every story we’ve told, a Black person paid the cost.
What We Know About Florence
Florence Akers was born around 1885 in Lawton, Oklahoma. That’s about all we know.
We don’t know what her childhood was like. Don’t know what brought her joy. Don’t know what she carried — or what carried her.
All that survives in the record is the injustice.
At some point, by 1905, Florence made her way to Kansas. Though Kansas was known for its anti-slavery legacy, it was no refuge for Black life. In the 50 years after the Civil War, the state saw more than 600 incidents of racial violence — including at least 37 lynchings and four major race riots. Black residents faced not only segregation but exclusion: over 60 towns in Kansas operated as sundown towns, places where Black people were not allowed after dark.
Florence walked into that world — a world that had already drawn its lines.
A New Town. A Dangerous Time.
Florence made her way to Chanute — a railroad town in southeast Kansas that had become a hub for economic growth. As the regional headquarters of the Southern Kansas Railroad, the city had seen a boom in industry and infrastructure.
That boom drew laborers, including a small but growing Black population. By 1905, Chanute even had its own Black baseball team — the Black Diamonds — who won the local championship that year.
Every summer, a traveling carnival came to town, bringing with it an influx of temporary workers — many of them Black. It’s unclear whether Florence was connected to the carnival directly. At the time of her arrest, she was working as a cook in town. But what is clear: she wasn’t from Chanute. And in a town like that, in a time like that, being Black and from “somewhere else” was dangerous.
Chanute’s Black population was small — less than 3% of the city by 1910 — and that made them vulnerable. This was Kansas in 1905. Just forty years after emancipation. In a town where white anxieties simmered just beneath the surface, a Black outsider was an easy target.
And Florence Akers became that target.
The Night Everything Changed
It was a Tuesday evening — May 23, 1905 — when 19-year-old Herbert Porter was attacked.
Porter had just left a traveling carnival in Chanute. He wasn’t from the town, but he wasn’t a stranger either. He’d once been a jockey, and had married into a horse-breeding family in Pittsburg, Kansas. The year before, he had worked the scorecards for the races. That spring, he had come back to do it again.
As he walked along North Malcolm Street, heading toward Elm, a white man reportedly jumped out from behind a tree and told him to put his hands up. Porter kept walking. That’s when someone else rushed him — stabbed him in the arm — and stole a roll of cash. Around $50, they said. Roughly $1,800 in today’s money.
Wounded and bleeding, Porter made his way back toward town. He eventually collapsed and was found by a local officer, Henry Anderson, who called for medical help.
When they asked Porter who had stabbed him, his answer was simple: He didn’t know.
A Narrative Takes Shape — Without Evidence
Despite having no clear suspect, no witness identification, and no weapon, police quickly formed a theory: that a group of Black women — including Florence Akers — had been working with a “gang” of men to rob carnival-goers.
That theory wasn’t built on evidence. It was built on fear. And Florence — a young Black woman from out of town with no community ties — was an easy target.
After Herbert Porter’s death, police began rounding up Black women they labeled as “streetwalkers.” Then they raided the home of Jake Goodseal — a Black widower who housed traveling Black carnival workers, including Florence. Officers arrested multiple people in and around his home, charging them with prostitution and fighting. The local papers called the area dangerous. A judge even authorized residents to carry weapons after dark.
This wasn’t about justice. It was about image. Blackness was treated as threat. Presence was treated as guilt. And Florence — the outsider — became the center of it all.
False Ties, Faulty Witnesses
Police said they had witnesses. They said people had seen Florence Akers hand off both a knife and a roll of cash to a man named Al Lowe — a Black man they described as her husband.
But that wasn’t true. Al Lowe was real. But he wasn’t her husband.
It didn’t matter that the details were thin. It didn’t matter that the relationships were made up. The case was no longer about truth. It was about closing in on Florence.
A Case Built on Pressure
Florence Akers and Al Lowe were both charged with the murder of Herbert Porter. Their bonds were set at $5,000 each — the equivalent of about $170,000 today.
But the way the case was handled tells us something was deeply wrong from the start.
Two other Black women — Parthenia Matthews and Cora Richardson — were initially arrested alongside Florence. Then, quietly, their charges were dropped. They weren’t set free. They were flipped into prosecution witnesses. That alone raises serious questions about the credibility — or the coercion — behind their testimony.
In early June, Florence appeared for a preliminary hearing. The purpose of that hearing wasn’t to prove guilt or innocence. It was just to decide whether there was enough to send her to trial.
But what unfolded in that courtroom made one thing clear: This wasn’t a search for the truth. It was a case being constructed.
Witnesses Under Lock and Key
Deputy County Attorney Charles S. Denison declared that Florence was the prime suspect — and that “all the evidence” pointed to her.
But that “evidence” came almost entirely from Black witnesses — many of whom had been arrested, pressured, or held in custody. One woman, Clerk Penny, claimed she heard Porter say a woman hugged him, tried to rob him, and then stabbed him. Others testified that Florence had a bloody handkerchief and washbasin in her room.
Matthews and Richardson — now testifying for the state — repeated their claims that they saw Florence in a struggle with a man. Another woman, Pearl Syms, said she saw Florence wash up after the attack — and even claimed she saw her sharpening the knife beforehand.
It was a pile-on. A string of statements. But no direct evidence. No cross-examination. And no physical proof. At one point, Florence broke down and screamed in the courtroom. It was too much for her to bear. She did testify. She tried to explain what happened. But no one seemed to be listening.
By the end of the hearing, Florence was ordered to stand trial. And every single one of the Black witnesses who had testified against her?
They were jailed until the trial. Held — not for protection. But to control their words.
A Trial in Name Only
Florence Akers’s trial began just a few weeks after her preliminary hearing.
She was appointed two attorneys — Shelby C. Brown and Bruce Grigsby — but they were given almost no time to prepare a proper defense. Meanwhile, the prosecution had kept its witnesses in jail for weeks, ensuring their testimony would align exactly as planned.
Florence’s attorneys did what they could. They tried to challenge the evidence. Tried to cross-examine. Tried to show the gaps and contradictions in the state’s case. But it didn’t matter.
The jury deliberated for eight hours and returned with a verdict: guilty of first-degree manslaughter. They nearly hung — not over whether Florence was guilty, but over whether she should be convicted of murder instead. The manslaughter charge meant they couldn’t say she intended to kill Herbert Porter. But the message was still clear:
Evidence or no evidence — Florence Akers was not getting out of that courtroom free.
She was sentenced to serve between five and twenty-one years in the Kansas State Penitentiary. Her attorneys filed an appeal. It went nowhere. Because by then, the system had done exactly what it came to do.
The Fight to Be Seen
So there she was. Florence Akers — a young Black woman, far from home — sitting in a prison cell. Not because she was guilty. But because she was convenient. She sat there day after day. Year after year. Labeled as a villain. Cast as a threat.
The story told outside the prison was familiar: A dangerous Black woman. A gang member. Someone who sharpened a knife with glee and washed her hands after the act.
But inside the prison? They saw someone different. They saw Florence. Not the caricature. Not the monster. Just a young Black woman in her twenties. They saw her — and they believed her.
A Campaign from the Inside
When Florence came up for parole in September of 1909, prosecutors stuck to their script. They repeated the same claims: that she was part of a gang, that she was dangerous, that she was a symbol of criminal Blackness.
Florence wrote a statement in her own defense. She didn’t pretend to be perfect. But she made one thing clear: She was not who they said she was. Her parole was denied.
But behind the walls of the prison, something was building. Correctional officers. Jail staff. Local officials. They had seen her. And they began to speak up.
Letters started making their way to the governor of Kansas, Walter Stubbs — letters from people who had watched Florence closely and believed she was innocent. One came from Sheriff M.L. Ogg. Another from the local jailer. And one from a Black prison guard named J.G. Bowers.
They all said the same thing: She doesn’t belong here.
Sheriff Ogg put it plainly: Florence had served long enough for someone else’s crime.
And in 1910 — five and a half years after her nightmare began — Governor Stubbs granted Florence Akers a pardon.
She walked free.
The Story Doesn’t End With Freedom
Yes — Florence was pardoned.
Yes — she was released.
But freedom didn’t mean healing. And it didn’t mean justice. It just meant the state was done with her. Not that it had made anything right.
Florence was never compensated.Never given her time back. Never given the apology she deserved. And after her release in 1910, she disappears from the public record — like so many Black women whose stories were never seen as worth preserving.
But we carry her with us.
Because Florence’s story is part of a larger truth — one we’ve been tracing through this entire Injustice By Design series: That injustice has never been accidental. It has always been structured.
It has always been strategic. And it has always found a way to put its weight on the backs of Black women.
Florence Akers didn’t choose that fight. But she lived it. And now — we remember her. Not just for what was done to her. But for what she survived.
Florence’s story is the final chapter in our series, Injustice By Design — but it’s not the only one that matters.
Be sure to watch the other stories we’ve told:
Ned Thompson. George and Mary Green. Gertrude Perkins.
Each one helps reveal the same truth:
Injustice wasn’t accidental. It was built.
