One hot afternoon last week, the prison trucks pulled up at State Highway Camp 18, a dreary collection of wooden buildings in the piney woods and palmetto lowlands of Georgia's coastal plain. They were bringing back the road gang from its grass-cutting job along Jesup Highway. The Negro convicts were hustled out and herded in front of one of the barracks. There was a confusion of orders and shouting. Then, as quick as a shimmer of summer lightning, something happened.
Warden W. G. Worthy strode toward the knot of convicts, gun in hand. There was a single report from his .38-cal....
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