REDACTED: Declassified Mysteries with Luke Lamana - The Tuskegee Experiment

Episode Date: April 1, 2025

In 1972, Alabama farmer Charlie Pollard discovered a horrifying truth. For 40 years, he thought he was getting treatment for syphilis. Instead, he was part of a secret government study. Hundreds of Black men were denied medicine while doctors watched the disease destroy their bodies. The truth about this cruel experiment stayed buried until one whistleblower finally came forward.Be the first to know about Wondery’s newest podcasts, curated recommendations, and more! Sign up now at https://wondery.fm/wonderynewsletterFollow Redacted: Declassified Mysteries with Luke Lamana on the Wondery App or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to new episodes early and ad-free on Wondery+. Join Wondery+ in the Wondery App, Apple Podcasts or Spotify. Start your free trial by visiting https://wondery.com/links/redacted/ now.See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Love unsettling stories? Wondery Plus subscribers can listen to redacted, declassified mysteries early and ad-free, as well as another twisted tale from Ballin Studios and Wondery called Wartime Stories, also hosted by me, early and ad-free on Wondery Plus. Start your free trial today. On a sweltering summer day in July 1972, Charlie Pollard led his teenage grandson, along with a few cows, into a stockyard near Montgomery, Alabama. As he went about his routine, the 66-year-old farmer heard a voice cut through the air, asking if he was Charles Pollard. about his routine, the 66-year-old farmer heard a voice cut through the air, asking

if he was Charles Pollard. Pollard turned to see a woman approaching. She first explained that she had been trying to track him down for a while. Then identifying herself as a journalist, she posed an unexpected question. Had Pollard participated in a medical study 40 years ago, one involving a nurse named Eunice Rivers. The familiar name made Pollard pause. He said that yes, he had been involved in the study, starting back in the 1930s, when

he was a young man. Doctors from the United States Public Health Service had come out to Macon County, Alabama, offering free medical care to the residents. After an examination, Pollard, along with other black men around his age, were diagnosed with bad blood. Back then, bad blood was a catch-all term to describe many illnesses, from sexually transmitted infections to fatigue or anemia. As Pollard spoke, memories came flooding back from the decades he spent in the study. He recalled regular visits with doctors for blood tests and injections. He hadn't seen the doctors in the last few years, but apart from his arthritis, he felt

okay for a guy his age. The journalist asked Pollard a few more questions, then thanked him and abruptly left. Pollard stood there, puzzled. Her questions about a long ago study left him with a sense of unease. But when he got home that night and read the newspaper, it became all too clear. A whistleblower from the US Public Health Service

had exposed a chilling truth. The bad blood study Pollard had participated in had been nothing but a lie. The government had been using Pollard and his friends as unwitting subjects in a cruel experiment, tracking the long-term effects of untreated syphilis in black men. The newspaper said that for at least four decades, government doctors deliberately withheld a proper diagnosis and treatment from them. The participants were guinea pigs who later developed infections, heart problems,

and brain damage. Many unwittingly infected their wives who passed syphilis along to their children, all in the name of an experiment. Pollard suddenly realized that he too had an untreated case of syphilis All in the name of an experiment. Pollard suddenly realized that he too had an untreated case of syphilis that his own doctors had hidden from him for decades. Feeling both stunned and betrayed, Pollard rose from his chair.

He was just a small town farmer, but he knew he couldn't sit by idly and let this injustice stand. He knew he had to speak out, both for himself and for all the other men who had suffered. I'm Raza Jafri and in the latest season of The Spy Who, we open the file on Ewan Montagu and Charles Chumley, the spy who duped Hitler. 1943, Winston Churchill wants to capture Sicily, the key to breaking Hitler. Churchill's spy chiefs devise Operation Mincemeat, one of the war's most daring deceptions, that hopes to make the enemy look in the wrong direction.

The success of the plan relies on the unlikeliest of heroes, a deceased homeless man named Glendor Michael. Glendor is given a new name, a cache of fake war plans, and is dropped into enemy waters. Montague and Chomley now wait to see if German intelligence have been fooled by their ruse. If it fails, then it could spell disaster for Europe. Follow the Spy Who on the Wanderi app or wherever you listen to podcasts. Or you can binge the full season of The Spy Who Duped Hitler early and ad free

with Wanderi Plus. When Gareth was 14, he was in a relationship with an attractive young teacher at his school and he thought he was the luckiest boy in the world. But when she walked out of his life, everything started to unravel. 35 years later, everyone's acting like it never happened and Gareth wants to understand why. How about the truth? How about we do that first and then we work out where we're going to go from there? How about the truth? This new four-part series is about who gets to be a perpetrator and a victim. To listen, just search for Lucky Boy wherever you get your podcasts.

From Ballant Studios and Wondery, I'm Luke Lamanna, and this is Redacted Declassified Mysteries, where each week we shine a light on the shadowy corners of espionage, covert operations and misinformation to reveal the dark secrets our governments try to hide. This week's episode is called The Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment. In the 1930s, the Great Depression was ravaging America, and the promise of free government health care was a beacon of hope for poor communities. But for certain residents of Macon County, Alabama, this offer masked a sinister agenda. Unknowingly, they became subjects in one of the most unethical medical studies in U.S.

history. It was a study in which hundreds of men were deliberately not given proper treatment for a life-threatening condition for years just to see what would happen. To grasp the full impact of this deception, we need to understand a sexually transmitted disease that was devastating the country at the time. Syphilis. A century ago, untreated syphilis could be a death sentence. This silent patient killer often began unnoticed, then erupted into visible, highly contagious

symptoms. It could go dormant for years, only to emerge in a final devastating phase, often leading to insanity and painful death. By the early 1930s, the US Public Health Service discovered a disturbingly high rate of the disease in Macon County, Alabama. 36% of those tested in this poor black community were infected.

In response, doctors proposed a perfectly reasonable study to provide testing and beneficial treatment. But government budget cuts ended the program after just a year. Unwilling to lose this research opportunity, some of the doctors then devised a radically different study and named it the Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment. They claimed noble intentions, but the reality was far more insidious. This experiment was so controversial that they hid it from the public for 40 years. The doctors promised to save lives.

Instead, they caused people to die. On a fall day in 1932, Dr. Talia Farrow Clark stood at the front of a conference room at the Tuskegee Institute in Tuskegee, Alabama. The Institute was a point of pride for Macon County. It was a black-run college and hospital in the heart of the segregated South. Clark, who was white and in his 60s, had traveled from Washington, D.C. on a mission. He needed to convince the Tuskegee Institute's medical director, Dr. Eugene Dibble,

to join him in a revolutionary experiment. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, then started his pitch. Clark began by reminding Dibble of his own credentials. The surgeon general had personally selected him to lead the Public Health Service's syphilis treatment program in Macon County. Clark expressed his deep disappointment over the program's end due to budget cuts. He insisted that the welfare of rural Black Americans was a cause very near and dear to his heart. Dr. Dibble nodded in agreement. He was all too familiar with how the disease had

ravaged his community. Clark smiled and continued in a self-assured tone. He announced that he had brought good news. Though the Public Health Service no longer had resources to treat the local community, they had approved a groundbreaking but unconventional new study. The plan was to observe how untreated syphilis progressed in black men. Clark's proposal sounded scientific, but it was rooted in racist beliefs popular among doctors at the time. They believed that syphilis affected black and white people differently, attacking the cardiovascular system in black patients and the central nervous system in white patients. Macon County, with its high rate of infection among black residents, seemed the perfect

place for Clark to test whether black men really did suffer different symptoms from syphilis than white men. He continued to lay out his proposal to Dr. Dibble. A medical team would go out into rural areas and recruit black men who were at least 25 years old with the promise of free healthcare. Then they'd test them all for syphilis and create a study group of all the men who tested positive. But the men with syphilis would not be given their diagnosis.

Instead, they would be told they had a vague blood disorder. Over follow-up visits, Clark would track the progress of the disease, while never offering treatment even as the men got sicker and sicker. Now, it's likely that Dibble, and later other members of his team, would have been alarmed at this deliberate lack of care for sick patients. but Clark knew exactly how to reassure them. He promised that the study would be a short-term experiment, from six to eight months at the most, and the sick participants would eventually be given some minor form of treatment. Clark stressed how important the Tuskegee Institute was to improving black healthcare. Its black doctors, trusted by the local community, could provide a safe, familiar environment

for patients. This connection, he argued, was invaluable. As an added incentive, Clark offered Dibble an interim position as a public health service official, elevating him to the same status as Clark himself. Dibble paused, then said he'd need to consult his superiors. But it was clear to Clark as Dibble left the room that his pitch had left an impression. The next day, Clark got his answer.

Dr. Dibble said he and his medical staff would participate in the groundbreaking study. Clark was elated that his world-changing research was about to begin. Not long after Dr. Clark's meeting with Dr. Dibble, Charlie Pollard heard a knock at his Alabama farmhouse door that would alter the course of his life. The 26-year-old farmer went outside

and saw a group of white men. It was an unsettling sight for a black man in the rural, segregated old South. The men identified themselves as government doctors, and as part of a public health initiative, they were offering medical exams at a local schoolhouse, for free. All Pollard had to do was come on down. The men left, and Pollard smiled. Finally, some good news. Life was hard in Macon County.

Most residents were sharecroppers descended from slaves, and they only earned a dollar a day raising and harvesting cotton. Indoor plumbing was a luxury, and most people around Pollard's age had never been seen by a doctor. Pollard felt luckier than most. He'd been to school through the seventh grade, which was more education than a lot of the other locals got. And his parents owned farmland

where they raised corn, cotton, and cattle. Despite Pollard's advantages, the promise of healthcare was still a huge draw. So the next day he went to the schoolhouse, along with a lot of other men around his age who'd heard about the free exams. Doctors examined Pollard and drew his blood. Later a physician delivered the news.

Pollard had, quote, bad blood. The diagnosis worried Pollard, but the doctors were quick to reassure him. They promised to work tirelessly to cure his condition. All he had to do was come for follow-up appointments in the coming years. Nurses would draw more blood, check on his well-being, and give him helpful pills and tonics. There would be other perks too, like free lunches. Of course, Pollard accepted. If he was sick, then who better to heal him than these smart government doctors? The doctors never told Pollard his actual diagnosis,

syphilis. Instead, he was one of the 600 men tricked into signing up for the Tuskegee Syphilis experiment, believing that the government doctors were there to help them. It was 1933, almost a year since the start of the study. In an exam room at the Tuskegee Institute, nurse Eunice Rivers shook a few aspirin tablets from a bottle while chatting with her patient, Charlie Pollard. Rivers was a black woman in her early 30s, polite and studious in glasses, her hair swept back in a braided bun. She was the Tuskegee Syphilis Experiments Coordinator and she took her job seriously.

Rivers was raised by her father, who worked two jobs to give her an education, and encouraged her to get a nursing degree at the Tuskegee Institute. She went back to her alma mater, supervising night shift nurses at the institute's hospital. Dr. Eugene Dibble called Rivers one of the best, most experienced public health workers he'd ever seen. So, when the liaison position in the Tuskegee study opened up, he recommended her for it. At first, Rivers was scared. She wasn't sure she knew enough about syphilis to help.

But soon, she found the confidence to effectively manage the study's patients. Those patients included Charlie Pollard. Right now, he was trying to look calm. But when Rivers wheeled over a tray with a three-inch needle and syringe on it, his eyes went wide. Pollard asked why this needle looked so much bigger than the shots he usually got. Rivers told him it was because this shot was going into his back. Pollard shuddered and asked whether it would hurt.

She said it would, but just a little. But she wasn't telling Pollard the whole truth. He thought he was getting an injection, but Rivers was actually preparing him for a spinal tap, the extraction of fluid from around his spine and brain. Today it's a safe procedure. Back in the 1930s, it was dangerous and painful. The slightest error could permanently paralyze a patient, and even a successful spinal tap could still cause excruciating headaches.

The exam room door opened and Dr. Raymond Vonderleer rushed in. He was in a hurry, so Rivers quickly prepped a syringe. She watched as he raised it to Pollard's spine. She saw the needle puncture flesh and remained calm as she heard Pollard cry out in pain. Young and ambitious, Vonderleer was in charge of the day-to-day operation of the syphilis experiment. Spinal taps would give him insight on how the disease affected the brain and the nervous system, so he made that a focus of the experiment. Vendelaire spent days puncturing spines. Rivers was dismayed by his poor technique and could only watch as patients endured multiple

attempts and severe pain. Rivers would then drive the men home and reassure them that the pain would fade and that they'd never have to do a tap again. It's easy to wonder how Rivers could stand by while white doctors misled and harmed men from her community. But as a black woman in the 1930s, working in a field dominated by white men, she was likely too fearful to speak out, and perhaps she was comforted by the idea that the study was going to end soon. But the study didn't end. In the summer of 1933, Dr. Clark retired and von der Lehr took over. He promptly lobbied his superiors to extend the syphilis study, arguing there was more to learn, proposing another 5 to 10 years of research. River's contract was extended and phase 2 of the study began. But the tragedies of this phase would test her conscience even more. exciting news that we want to share. If you want to go on an adventure with Generation Y, we'd love for you to join us. January 26th through the 30th, 2026, we'll be sailing from

Miami to the Bahamas on Wondry's first ever True Crime Cruise aboard the Norwegian Joy. Aaron and I will be there to chat, hang out, dive into all things true crime, and we're thrilled to be joined by some familiar voices in the true crime podcasting world. Surti and Hannah from Red Handed, Sashi and Sarah from Scam Fluencers, and Carl Miller from Kill List. Super excited to hang out with them too. We've got some cool activities, interactive mysteries we can solve, testing our forensic skills with a blood spatter expert, and so much more. So for some sun, fun, and just the right amount of mystery solving, come join us. Ready to jump on this seriously epic adventure? Book your cabin right now at exhibitseacruise.com.

In the 1950s, America was glued to its television screens watching contestants battle it out for big money on quiz shows like 21 and the $64,000 question. But behind the scenes, producers were feeding answers to the most popular contestants to keep audiences hooked. Hi, I'm Lindsey Graham, the host of Wondry Show American Scandal. We bring to life some of the biggest controversies in US history. Presidential lies, environmental disasters, corporate fraud. In our latest series, quiz shows dominate 1950s TV until a disgruntled contestant blows the whistle and reveals that the shows are rigged. Follow American Scandal on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. Experience all

episodes ad-free and be the first to binge the newest season only on Wondery+. You can join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify. Start your free trial today. In 1934, Nurse Rivers walked up to a ramshackle farmhouse outside of Tuskegee. She approached a tired-looking woman who sat on the porch. Rivers deeply wished that she wasn't there at all, but she didn't really have a choice. She cleared her throat and told the woman that her husband, one of the participants in the study, had passed away at the hospital. Rivers didn't mention that his death was likely due to complications from untreated syphilis. The woman burst into tears, and Rivers rushed to console her.

Over the last two years, she'd grown close to the men in the study. She was the one who made follow-up visits to their homes, who drove them to the hospital for appointments and consoled them when they were sick. Some men acted playfully jealous when they saw her tending to other patients. Others told jokes around her, insisting that she was one of the guys. Rivers felt real affection toward each one, even if she was lying to them about what was making them sick. It was a tough situation, but Rivers was committed to her duty. And right now, that meant making a difficult request. She paused for a moment to find the right words, then told the man's wife that she needed

a favor. Rivers wanted the woman's permission for the doctors to perform an autopsy on her dead husband. And though she phrased it as a favor, she needed the woman to say yes. Autopsies were key to the study's second phase, and the main reason Dr. Vandelaer insisted on extending it. X-rays and blood tests from living patients could only tell the doctors so much about how syphilis affected them.

Analyzing whole organs after their deaths would lead to more conclusive results. The dead man's horrified wife asked why they wanted to cut her husband open. Would it be just his body or his head too? Rivers told her that the doctors wanted to find out why he died. And yes, that meant removing his brain and studying it so they could help others. This was another half-truth, but one she hoped was persuasive. The wife shook her head, feeling torn. She couldn't have a funeral and display a body that had been taken apart. What would

her family think? Rivers assured the widow that her husband would be sewn back up. With funeral clothes on, nobody would notice. The dead man's wife looked at her for a long time, then nodded. Rivers let out a quiet sigh of relief. She'd done her job, and she could only hope this process would get easier and that it really would help science advance. In 1939, five years and countless autopsies later, Nurse Rivers knocked on Dr. Vandelaar's office

and walked inside. From the way he looked up at her, she could tell he was troubled. Then he broke the news. Under the orders of a new Surgeon General, the Public Health Service had launched a new effort to combat sexually transmitted infections across the country. A mobile treatment unit was coming to Macon County to test and actually treat people. The mobile unit would almost certainly target participants in the Tuskegee study, and if they were diagnosed with syphilis, they would be given treatment.

But Rivers actually had qualms about the treatment. At the time, syphilis was cured by dangerous injections of heavy metals into the bloodstream, a course of treatment which often lasted a year. Rivers had seen patients suffer, and even die, from the side effects. She didn't trust the medications. And even though her patients were being lied to, she believed they were still getting more medical attention than anyone else in their communities.

Vandelaer's motives were more self-serving. Treating his syphilis patients would end his study prematurely, and he hadn't gathered enough data. He clung to the belief that denying treatment to black patients served a greater good. They would help develop techniques that might one day help black patients all over the country. So he informed Rivers that she was going to serve as a liaison to the new unit. Officially, she'd be there to coordinate follow-ups for men who were being seen by both the Tuskegee study and the new PHS unit. But her real task was more

sinister. Rivers was supposed to ensure that any Tuskegee study participants identified for treatment by the new unit did not receive medication. Over the next few years, Rivers continued to follow Dr. Vandelaer's orders, even as the available treatments for syphilis improved and her personal concerns about them became harder to justify. By the 1940s, penicillin had emerged as a safe, effective treatment for syphilis. And when the US entered World War II in 1941, many Tuskegee participants were drafted, meaning that they would face mandatory medical exams where syphilis would be both detected and

treated with the new medicine. But Dr. Vandelaer convinced the army to exempt his participants from treatment. Even worse, he made sure that the men in his experiment did not get treated anywhere else. In one instance, Rivers herself pulled a participant from a bus line to an army clinic in Birmingham, firmly telling him he wasn't allowed to go. It was a truly insidious effort, and a successful one too. In the first 20 years of the experiment, 144 families allowed doctors to perform autopsies on their loved ones after they died from an untreated disease, all in the name of so-called progress, and it didn't look like anyone would be able to stop them.

In late 1966, Peter Buxton ambled into the break room in the San Francisco office of the Public Health Service. The 29-year-old was new to his job as something called a contact tracer, which required him to track down the sexual partners of people with sexually transmitted diseases. The work involved detailed record keeping, long phone calls, and often difficult conversations, so Buxton was looking forward to his lunch break. While he was eating his sandwich, he overheard colleagues discussing a curious case

in Tuskegee, Alabama. The Center for Disease Control, the CDC, had chastised a local doctor for giving penicillin to an old man with advanced syphilis. The CDC had said the doctor was ruining some sort of study by administering the treatment. Buxton was bewildered. The CDC's goal was to eradicate these infections. What kind of study would deny treatment to patients? Over the next few weeks, Buxton couldn't let that thought go. Soon he requested information from the CDC and learned all about the Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment, which was being run by the same agency Buxton worked for, the Public Health Service. He was stunned that so many men were denied basic medical care and that the study went on for so long, almost four decades. What disturbed Buxton even more was that the government had kept the study hidden from the general public,

even though it was an open secret among public health officials who didn't seem too upset about it. It seemed to Buxton that the ultimate goal of the syphilis study was to let the participants die so their organs could be autopsied. That resonated for him in a deeply ominous way. Buxton was the son of Jewish refugees who fled Hitler's regime in the 1930s, and he saw unsettling parallels between Nazi experiments on prisoners and the U government's treatment of these vulnerable men in Tuskegee. He needed to take action, so he shared his opinion in letters to CDC officials, which only infuriated his public health service bosses. They informed Buxton that if he got in trouble, they would not protect him. Buxton had put himself in a tough position. All he could do now was wait

and see if anyone at the CDC was paying attention. Fortunately, someone was. In early 1967, he was invited to a CDC medical conference about syphilis in Atlanta. Buxton suddenly realized that he might actually have a chance to stop the Tuskegee experiment. In March 1967, Buxton arrived in Atlanta for the conference, anxious but excited to speak out. But any heroic visions that Buxton might have had of talking to a large room of America's public health officials,

vanished when he was summoned to a meeting at CDC headquarters. In this massive conference room decked out with American flags, Buxton faced off with high-ranking CDC officials, including William Brown, the director of the Venereal Diseases Division. Brown exploded in anger about Buxton's letters, telling him he sounded like, quote, a lunatic. Brown called the Tuskegee experiment a vital program that needed to continue, and one that

had to be shielded from outside attention, especially the press. Buxton was shocked by what he was hearing, but his response was just as passionate. These men weren't patients, he said, they were guinea pigs. The study was biased when it started back in 1932, and now, in 1967, it was unconscionable. The civil rights movement was causing extreme tension across the country, with marches and clashes in every major city. If news of this leaked to the public, it would serve as a lightning rod for even more upheaval. Buxton begged Brown to put an end to the syphilis experiment, but the CDC higher-ups refused.

So Buxton returned home. He was still incensed, but he was out of options in his quest to end it. In fact, he was pretty certain he was about to be fired, and the Tuskegee participants would continue to suffer. and the Tuskegee participants would continue to suffer. Five years later, in early July 1972, Buxton waited nervously at a secluded table in a San Francisco cafe. He held on tightly to a stack of documents in his lap.

Life had changed since his confrontation with the CDC in Atlanta. Buxton wasn't fired from his job as he had feared, but he did end up leaving the public health service to enroll in law school. After the dismissive treatment he had received when he tried to get the syphilis experiment shut down, he needed a change. But Buxton never forgot about the horrors he'd uncovered. The Tuskegee study had turned into an obsession. He discussed it constantly with friends and classmates, but most people only offered polite sympathy. Finally, Buxton was taking a big step to make things right. He decided to leak his research

to the press. The cafe door swung open, and a woman walked in. It was his friend, Edith Lederer, a reporter for the Associated Press's San Francisco Bureau. He had mentioned the Tuskegee experiment to her in the past. This time he came with documents. She sat down, and Buxton laid out the whole story in detail. Then he placed the documents in front of her. He watched anxiously as Lederer flipped through all the reports he'd collected. First she looked confused, then horrified. Lederer said she finally understood. The world had to know about this.

But Lederer couldn't help him. This story would need on-site reporting and more research, and her office wouldn't send a California reporter to Alabama to do that. Buxton left, feeling defeated once again. But a few days later, letterer phoned Buxton with news. She'd slipped the story to her DC-based colleague at the Associated Press, a journalist named Gene Heller. Heller was intrigued, and what she found horrified her as well. Finally, on July 25, 1972, she broke the story in the Washington Star newspaper, and an avalanche of coverage followed.

The idea that the government had carried on a racially biased study that let black men die for decades was truly a shock to the general public. And no one was more stunned than the participants themselves. In the early hours of December 4th, 2024, CEO Brian Thompson stepped out onto the streets of Midtown Manhattan. This assailant starts firing at him. And the suspect. He has been identified as Luigi Nicholas Mangione. Became one of the most divisive figures

in modern criminal history. I was meant to sow terror. He's awoking the people to a true issue. Listen to Law and Crime's Luigi, exclusively on Wondery+. You can join Wondery+, in the Wondery app, Spotify, or Apple podcasts. In the early hours of December 4th 2024, CEO Brian Thompson

stepped out onto the streets of Midtown Manhattan. This assailant pulls out a weapon and starts firing at him. We're talking about the CEO of the biggest private health insurance corporation in the world. And the suspect he has been identified as Luigi Nicholas Mangione became one of the most divisive figures in modern

criminal history was targeted premeditated in Minnesota terror. I'm Jesse Weber host of Luigi produced by law on crime and twist this is more than a true crime investigation we explore a uniquely American moment that could change the country forever. He's awoken the people to a true issue. I mean maybe this would lead rich and powerful people to acknowledge the barbaric nature of our health care system.

Listen to law and crimes Luigi exclusively on one degree plus enjoying one degree plus the one degree at Spotify or Apple podcasts. On July 27th, 1972, Charlie Pollard walked into the Montgomery, Alabama offices of Fred Gray, a black lawyer who was instrumental in the civil rights movement. He represented Rosa Parks and Dr. Martin Luther King. Simply put, Gray was a legal superstar. Pollard hoped the attorney would listen to his story.

When they were face to face, Pollard asked if he'd heard the news about the Tuskegee Civilist study. Gray said that he had, but only recently, despite the fact that he lived so close to Tuskegee. Pollard took a deep breath, then admitted he was one of the men in the study, and he needed help. Unlike other participants, Pollard had been lucky. His case of syphilis had gone dormant, and he'd never infected his family or suffered

from serious side effects. His farming career was prosperous, and he'd become an activist in local civil rights groups. But other people from the experiment hadn't been so lucky. The doctors had kept them in the dark for 40 years and never told them they could have been cured. Now Pollard wanted Gray to represent him in a lawsuit against the government. He thought of the 128 participants who had died from syphilis or related complications. He thought of the 40 wives who'd caught syphilis from their husbands and the 19 children who'd

been infected in the womb. They were likely to suffer from deformed bones, skin issues, blindness, and deafness. Gray sat back in his chair, absorbing the enormity of taking on this case. Then he leaned forward and agreed. He would help Pollard and all the other victims of the syphilis experiment. But they needed to know that this wasn't going to be an easy fight. Throughout 1972, Gray's legal team gathered evidence and testimony for the lawsuit against the U.S. government and the Public Health Service.

Gray believed this would be a landmark case. It was a clear example of the United States violating citizens' constitutional and medical rights in a flagrantly racist way. But even though the case seemed clear-cut, Gray faced difficult choices, like whether he should name defendants, particularly regarding the Tuskegee Institute, which hosted the study. He also grappled with Nurse Eunice Rivers' role. Even if her intentions were good, her years of knowingly misleading participants and actively preventing their treatment were hard to overlook. Still, Gray decided not to name them. The institute was cash strapped and

couldn't afford to turn down government work. Plus, they had little say in how its resources were used. Though Rivers may have been the face of the study to its participants, Gray felt she was a cog in a much larger machine. As a black female nurse working for white male doctors, she had no power to take action. In fact, Gray saw her as a victim too. Meanwhile, as the national scandal deepened,

the government assembled a panel of doctors and educators that was chaired by a black university president to review the case. After combing through the evidence, it took little time for them to issue an order. The Tuskegee Syphilis experiment was to be shut down immediately. That was a victory, but Gray was still intent on getting surviving victims the restitution they deserved.

Within a few months, Gray and his plaintiffs were invited to Washington, D.C. to testify before a Senate subcommittee on health. Gray was ready to lay out all the facts, but ultimately, he knew that the most meaningful testimony could only come from the men who'd been hurt by this awful experiment. In early March 1973, Charlie Pollard sat in a hot seat in a Senate office building in Washington D.C., face to face with Senator Ted Kennedy. It was a world away from his simple life in Alabama, but Pollard knew he had to be there.

Along with his lawyer and three other survivors of the Tuskegee Syphilis experiment, he was ready to speak truth to those in power. He told Senator Kennedy about how he was never even told he had syphilis, how he had been subjected to repeated blood draws and an excruciating spinal tap, and how he had been given pills and tonics that were supposed to help cure his so-called bad blood, but which were really just placebos and painkillers. And after 25 years of being in a study that endangered his life and the lives of his loved ones, all he was given was a $25 reward.

He was also given a sheet of paper, which he lifted up to show the Senator. It was a certificate of merit from the U.S. Public Health Service, thanking him for his participating in the U.S. Public Health Service, thanking him for his participating in the study. A year later, in 1974, the government offered Gray and his plaintiffs a $10 million settlement. Each living survivor received $37,500, or around $240,000 in today's money. Money was also allotted for the families of the deceased,

and every plaintiff was guaranteed free healthcare for the families of the deceased, and every plaintiff was guaranteed free health care for the rest of their lives. No amount of money could ever make up for the suffering that the study caused its participants and their loved ones. But Gray took the deal. He knew it was the best they could get, and he wanted to avoid a drawn-out trial that might delay payments for years. Then, in 1974, Congress passed the National Research Act, which introduced ethical standards for human studies, including mandatory informed consent. This ensured future participants would be fully briefed on risks, unlike Pollard and the other Tuskegee victims. But the victories

were bittersweet. There was still a sense that the doctors and officials involved with the study had no regrets, and the Tuskegee survivors had yet to receive a public apology from the officials who'd caused them a lifetime of sickness and suffering. They'd have to wait another 20 years for that. On May 16, 1997, Charlie Pollard, now 91, was joined by Fred Gray and seven other Tuskegee survivors at the White House. Sixty-five years after the study began, they would finally hear an official apology. Survivor Herman Shaw was invited to the podium.

With deep emotion, the elderly man shared his thoughts on moving past this tragedy. In order for America to reach its full potential, we must truly be one America. Black, red, white together, trusting each other, caring for each other, and never allowing the kind of tragedy which has happened to us in Tuskegee study to ever happen again. Following Herman's powerful words, President Clinton took the podium.

The United States government did something that was wrong. Deeply, profoundly, morally wrong. Then at last, President Clinton uttered the words, pollard, and the other Tuskegee survivors had waited for, for decades. To our African American citizens, I am sorry that your federal government orchestrated a study so clearly racist. That can never be allowed to happen again. Though the Tuskegee experiment ended in 1972, it caused irreparable damage to the way black Americans viewed and sought out health care in their own country.

In the following decades, several studies showed that a significant portion of the black community had developed a deep distrust of doctors and U.S. public health policy. Distrust that led to black men getting less medical care and causing a drop in their life expectancy. And when they were asked why, many said the same thing. Tuskegee happened before, and it might happen again. The doctors behind the Tuskegee Syphilis experiment claimed to want to help black people, but the reality is the experiment did not provide much new or significant information,

making it a cruel and mostly useless study. In 1986, nurse Eunice Rivers died, just a little over a decade before President Clinton apologized for the experiment. Before her death, she never showed remorse. In her training, she had been taught to take care of her patients and follow the doctor's orders, not to question them. They had their patients' consent, and in Nurse River's mind,

she didn't believe that they hurt these men, though the president and many others would disagree with her. It's difficult to reflect on the horrors of the Tuskegee experiment, but this shameful racist incident can't be forgotten. The story of the experimentkegee experiment. But this shameful, racist incident can't be forgotten. The story of the experiment and its victims reminds us of a simple truth. If science is really to move forward,

then nobody should be left behind. Follow redacted, declassified mysteries hosted by me, Luke Lamanna, on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. If you're looking to dive into more gripping stories from Ballin Studios and Wondery, you can also listen to my other podcast, Wartime Stories, early and ad-free with Wondery+. Start your free trial in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify today.

Before you go, tell us about yourself by completing a short survey at Wondery.com slash survey. From Ballin Studios and Wondery, this is Redacted, Declassified Mysteries, hosted by me, Luke Lamanna. A quick note about our stories. We do a lot of research, but some details and scenes are dramatized. We used many different sources for our show, but we especially recommend The Tuskegee Syphilis Study by Fred D. Gray and Bad Blood, The Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment by James H. Jones. This episode was written by Amin Osman. Sound design by Ryan Patesta. Our producers are Christopher B. Dunn and John Reed. Our associate producers are Ines Renike

and Molly Quinlan-Artwick. Fact Checking by Sheila Patterson. For Ballen Studios, our head of production is Zach Levitt. Script editing by Scott Allen. Our coordinating producer is Samantha Collins. Production support by Avery Siegel. Produced by me, Luke Lamanna. Executive Producers are Mr. Ballin and Nick Whitters.

For Wondery, our Senior Producers are Loredana Palavota, Dave Schilling and Rachel Engelman. Senior Managing Producer is Nick Ryan. Managing Producer is Olivia Fonte. Executive Producers are Aaron O'Flaherty and Marshall Louie. For Wondery. Hi, everyone. This is Kara Swisher. And I'm Scott Galloway. And we want to tell you about Pivot, our twice weekly podcast.

That's right, Kara. What a thrill. It's a chance for us to break down all the big things happening in tech, business, and politics. Yes, and I keep you in check so people can make it through each episode, whether it's digging into constant changes in the world of AI and social media or trying to keep up with whatever the f*** Elon is doing. We're here to give you our take on all of that. Every Tuesday and Friday morning we drop a new episode about some of the major stories of the moment. And Scott is a prediction machine gazing into his crystal ball to tell you about where it's all heading.

That's right! So if that sounds like a good time for you, especially Mr. That's Right, you can follow us on your favorite podcast app to get new episodes every week.