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Wednesday, May 1, 2024 | Back issues
Courthouse News Service Courthouse News Service

Tim Scott touts grandfather as inspiration. Records show he was once a murder suspect

Artis Ware looms large in Republican presidential candidate Tim Scott's campaign narrative. But his grandfather’s story has some unusual twists.

CHARLESTON, S.C. (CN) — It was a Saturday night at Solomon Ford's Place. Men lingered outside the raucous piccolo joint in Union Heights as Jake Varner quietly ducked inside.

The local laborer returned after a few moments, dressed in a yellow sport shirt and blue trousers with striped yellow socks. Old scars marred his arms, and a silver ring adorned his right hand.

Without word or warning, Varner pulled out an ice pick and stabbed another man twice in the chest and once more in the back. The victim told police he fled down the street to his vehicle.

“He kept following me and I got a gun out of the glove compartment,” the man said in a statement. “He turned around and I shot at him once. I didn’t know whether I hit him or not, but as I fired, he turned around and started back towards me and I shot again.”

The shooter was Republican presidential candidate Tim Scott’s grandfather, Artis Ware.

Varner died from gunshot wounds that night — Sept. 5, 1953.

Ware was charged with murder.

Ware looms large in Scott’s campaign narrative. The South Carolinian left grade school to pick cotton in the Jim Crow South, Scott has told crowds, but lived long enough to see his grandson become the first Black senator elected in the South in more than a century.

For Scott, the family’s ascent from “cotton to Congress” is proof of progress toward racial equality in the United States, even as the nation continues to reckon with the brutalities of slavery.

“Today, I am living proof that America is the land of opportunity and not a land of oppression,” he told supporters as he announced his presidential bid in North Charleston.

It’s difficult to parse the facts of a homicide after 70 years. Police misspelled the names of some witnesses in documents and recorded the wrong age for Ware. The accounts differ in the details, sometimes in important ways, and the case's resolution is ambiguous.

But the narrative belies the messy realities of Ware’s life. Using city directories, newspaper accounts and other historical materials, Courthouse News verified information in the court record to piece together details about a man who would inspire his grandson to pursue the nation's highest office.

A spokesman for Tim Scott's campaign declined to comment for this story.

Homicide at the neighborhood bar

A 1965 map of "The Neck" region in Charleston, South Carolina. (Courtesy of the Charleston County Public Library via Courthouse News)

In 1953, Ware was a 32-year-old laborer living in the Daniel Jenkins Homes, a segregated federal housing project constructed 10 years earlier to accommodate the influx of shipyard workers who thronged Charleston during World War II. A Charleston city directory from 1950 shows he lived there with his wife, Louida, and their four children, including Scott’s mother, Frances.

The project was built on land leased from the Virginia-Carolina Chemical Company in “The Neck,” a skinny tongue of land that connects the Charleston peninsula to the mainland. The company’s fertilizer plant belched foul-smelling fumes that dirtied windows and dulled the paint on residents’ cars. Tests would later show lead and arsenic from phosphate mills contaminated the land.

Ware told police he went to Solomon Ford's Place for a dance the night of the shooting. The piccolo joint, or small bar, was about a mile east of the Jenkins Homes in Union Heights, a predominantly Black community founded after the Civil War by former slaves.

Ware went to the bar around 9:30 p.m. with his friend, Leo Fleming, he told police. He drank a beer and chatted on the street with several men before he spotted Varner, 30, enter the bar.

Two men, Moses Pringle and Burnie Witherspoon, witnessed the violence.

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“Jake Varner walked up and didn’t even say nothing, but stabbed Otis with an ice pick,” Pringle told police, using a nickname for Ware. Witherspoon confirmed Varner struck first.

Ware told police he grabbed a pistol from his truck and shot Varner as he approached. A friend then gave Ware a ride to the hospital.

Pringle and Witherspoon do not mention Ware retrieving the weapon from his truck. Pringle said Ware “pulled out a gun,” and Varner ran away. Ware fired at least two rounds before Varner fell.

Varner was shot twice with a .38 caliber pistol, according to a necropsy report. One round entered his right buttock and exited his abdomen. A second bullet penetrated the top of his skull. The head wound explained his “sudden death,” according to the report.

Ware was arrested Sept. 7, 1953, on a warrant. A judge ordered him to remain jailed until his trial.

Ware would be indicted on a murder charge three months later, but the case never went before a jury. A handwritten note on the indictment indicates Solicitor Gedney M. Howe Jr. dismissed the case on Dec. 9, 1953.

It’s unclear from the records why Howe dismissed the case.

Pringle's statement and the necropsy report suggest Varner may have been shot while he ran away, meaning he no longer presented a threat of violence to Ware. Under the doctrine of self defense, a person may only defend themselves against imminent violence and should retreat when it is safe and reasonable.

Miller Shealy, a professor for the Charleston School of Law who reviewed the case file, said Ware would have had the advantage at trial regardless of whether Varner was fleeing.

Varner was armed with a deadly weapon and started the fight, Shealy said. Ware was an average person, presumably untrained in the use of deadly force, thrust into a chaotic situation against his will.

Even today, it would be a hard case for prosecutors, Shealy said.

“The attitude of some jurors — the dude deserved it,” the professor said.

Shealy said he was surprised Howe dismissed the charge, but not because of the facts of the case. Black people accused of violence rarely went free in the Jim Crow South. Any use of force by a Black man, even when justified, was seen as a threat to whites.

“That’s just not something casually done,” he said.

Moonshine and magnolias

The case records provide no motive for the violence.

At the time, Varner was a married father of three young children. He was wanted for questioning in a shooting in 1952, but it’s unclear if he faced charges.

Other men hanging around the bar that night had prior run-ins with the law, too.

The bar’s owner, Solomon Ford, was at the time of the shooting a key witness in a federal corruption case against Charleston County Police Chief Julian T. Williams.

Williams and 20 of his officers were indicted in February 1953 on allegations they conspired to control the bootleg whiskey market in Charleston County. Police officers collected protection money from bars and escorted runners as they transported untaxed whiskey from distilleries hidden in the rural swamps of the lowcountry.

Ford testified at trial in 1954 he paid the police chief and his officers protection money to sell moonshine at his establishment. He told jurors he promised a sergeant a $200 bribe to get a whiskey-laden truck returned after he crashed it near the Charleston Naval Shipyard. When he failed to pay, the sergeant took his truck back.

Williams was convicted of conspiracy to violate federal tax laws. Evidence showed the police department was “honeycombed with graft,” an appellate judge later wrote.

Ford wasn’t the only bootlegger in Ware’s orbit. The friend he attended the dance with, Fleming, was arrested in 1954 with 33 gallons of moonshine in his car. Pringle, who ran his own piccolo joint, was also subpoenaed in the corruption case. It’s unclear if he testified.

Finally, Jake Varner’s wife, Estelle, was arrested in 1948 after she got caught with a suitcase containing three jars of moonshine.

Sister recalls brother's homicide

Varner’s sister, Sarah Simmons, turned 90 years old in June. She celebrated the occasion with family at her home in rural Berkeley County.

Simmons said the killing of her older brother happened when she was a newly married 19-year-old. They were two of 13 children born to Lucinda and Walter Varner. Their father worked at Yeamans Hall, a colonial plantation reborn as a country club in the 1920s.

Simmons said she did not know the details of the shooting, but her brother was tough. He had a reputation for never backing down from a fight.

“I heard everyone was scared of him,” she said.

She could not say whether her brother was a bootlegger, but it wouldn’t surprise her. Many Black people sold moonshine back then, she said. Farming paid a meager wage, and a jar of whiskey could sell for $3 — almost $40 after inflation.

“They didn’t have anything hardly,” she said. “That’s how they lived and made money.”

It’s unclear what impact the shooting had on Ware. City records show he lived in the Jenkins Homes until at least 1958, working as a truck driver for a pulp mill.

Simmons said her family never knew what happened to the criminal case. Her father died in 1952, and her mother never asked questions about the case.

“No one did anything,” she said. “This is the first time I heard about it since it happened.”

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