Muskogee Audio-Tour: Gerichtsgebäude-Chroniken und historische Spukorte

Look to your right. You might see an empty lot now, but try to picture a ten-story skyscraper looming over the street. This was the Baltimore Hotel, built in 1910 for about $115,000-roughly three and a half million today. It was once considered the most intact example of the Chicago Commercial style in the state. While other local landmarks were successfully protected on the National Register in the nineteen-eighties, the Baltimore’s owner formally objected. Under federal law, if a private owner refuses the listing, historic significance does not matter. The nomination was withdrawn, the protection vanished, and the building was eventually demolished to make way for the parking you see now. But before it was paved over, this place was a fortress of secrets. Inside those walls, the lobby was a shark tank. During the oil boom, leases and fortunes were traded on a handshake by visiting investors. But the most famous guest wasn't checking in... he was locked in. In nineteen-twenty-six, the hotel became a makeshift prison for Jackson Barnett, a Creek man the newspapers called the "world's richest Indian." After his land produced a massive oil fortune, everyone wanted a piece of him. His new wife, Anna Laura Lowe-dubbed an "adventuress" by the press-tried to whisk him away to California. Federal authorities intercepted them and dragged Barnett back here. They held him in a room at the Baltimore under twenty-four-hour guard. For days, three men watched him to ensure his wife didn't make a run for the state line, all while the courts debated if he was competent enough to handle his own millions. Barnett didn’t seem to mind the chaos, telling reporters, "She smart woman... she count my money." The drama didn't end there. In 1930, during the investigation of a murder at the nearby see-vurz Hotel, suspects were held here while officers searched their luggage one last time. Wrapped inside a dirty undershirt, they found a diamond wedding ring belonging to the victim, cracking the case wide open. It is a shame the building is gone. It stood as a monument to how quickly this town grew up, and how ruthless it could be. Let’s head to the scene of that crime I mentioned. We are walking to the see-vurz Hotel next, built by a man who made his money the old-fashioned way, long before the black gold started flowing.

Look for the ten-story high-rise on your right, a solid rectangular block of red brick crowned by a heavy, decorative metal cornice that hangs noticeably over the street. This is the see-vurz Hotel. If you recall our earlier discussion about Jackson Barnett... well, Frederick see-vurz represented a very different kind of wealth. He didn't just find himself with a fortune; he carved it out of the landscape with sheer will. see-vurz was known as the "Cattle King." He was an Arkansas native who served as a Confederate Captain, yet he was so integrated into this region that he was formally adopted into the Creek Nation and married the daughter of a Creek Chief. He was a man who successfully straddled the line between the rugged Indian Territory and the polite society that was replacing it. In 1911, see-vurz decided to build a monument to that success. He actually tore down his own family home, which sat on this very lot, to construct what he envisioned as the finest hotel in the Southwestern United States. And he certainly didn't cut corners. He hired the firm Mariner & luh-bohm from St. Louis to design this sul-uh-vun-esk structure. You'll recognize the style from the Manhattan Building-vertical lines emphasizing height and intricate ornamentation, built upon a skeleton of reinforced concrete. When it opened, it was a marvel of modern comfort. Like the Manhattan Building, it featured ice water circulated directly to the guest rooms. Along with electric refrigeration, these were rare luxuries that signaled muh-sko-gee had truly arrived. They even roasted their own "see-vurz Blend Coffee," sold in cans that became prized souvenirs across the state. But grand ambition often demands a high price. Frederick see-vurz died in April 1912, just months before the grand opening. He never saw the lobby filled with muh-sko-gee’s elite. He missed the night in 1920 when Alice Robertson stood in the ballroom and celebrated her election as the first woman from Oklahoma sent to the U.S. Congress. He even missed the New York Yankees, who chose to stay here in 1922 because they could walk to the ballpark to play the Brooklyn Dodgers. The hotel also holds darker memories. In 1930, room 817 became the scene of the infamous "see-vurz Hotel Murders." Two brothers from Connecticut were found shot to death in their room. Their business associate, a seventy-three-year-old man named Powell Seeley, was found in the bathroom with shaving cream still on his face. He claimed he was hard of hearing and simply hadn't noticed the double homicide happening a few feet away. Despite the absurdity of his story, and the damning evidence found at the Baltimore, the prime suspect escaped custody and the crime was never officially solved. Today, the building has transitioned into office space, hosting tenants like the Bank of Oklahoma. Yet, the façade remains exactly as see-vurz intended... a permanent legacy for a man who never got to check in. Let's continue to the Railway Exchange Building, the last of our skyscraper tour, which is just a three-minute walk away.

Look to your right at the tall, rectangular eight-story building made of red brick, distinguished by the vertical bands of masonry separating the windows and its flat, unornamented roof line. This is the Railway Exchange Building. If it looks a bit like something you might see in a much larger metropolis, that is entirely by design. You are looking at the definitive example of Chicago Style Architecture in the city. Notice the stark, rectangular shape and that completely flat roof? That is the signature. It is a style that prioritizes business over decoration. The design emphasizes vertical lines, using pilasters-those flat, column-like strips between the windows-to draw your eye upward, making the building feel even taller than it is. It was completed in 1912, right at the peak of the oil boom that was flooding this region with black gold and new money. muh-sko-gee wasn't content being a rough-and-tumble frontier outpost anymore. It wanted to be a cosmopolitan hub. It wanted to be the Chicago of the South. So, they didn't just build big; they imported the architectural language of the big city to prove they had arrived. But to build the future, they had to bury the past. The ground beneath this skyscraper has a story of its own. Before 1912, this corner held the old Federal Court building. Back in 1899, a massive fire ripped through downtown muh-sko-gee. It destroyed almost everything in its path, except for that court building. Its sturdy brick walls actually stopped the flames and saved the southern half of the business district from incineration. You might think a building like that would be preserved as a local hero. But in the rush for modernization, sentimentality is often the first casualty. They demolished the savior of the city to make room for this eight-story tower. For a long time, the gamble paid off. This place became the nerve center of the region. It housed the Missouri, Oklahoma & Gulf Railway, run by J.J. Culbertson, the powerful developer who owned this building. Imagine the lobby in the 1920s... frantic telegraphs about oil prices, coal magnates from the Swift Coal Company negotiating deals in suite 704, and the constant rumble of a city on the make. Decades later, the building found a second life as a downtown campus for Connors State College, filling these halls with students. But when the college moved its operations to a new bypass, the life drained out of the masonry. Today, the building stands empty. Plans to renovate it were in the works, but in 2016, the state faced a budget shortfall. The tax credits needed to remove asbestos and bring the systems up to code were cut off, leaving the project in indefinite limbo. It is a sleeping giant now, waiting for a check that might never come. It serves as a stark reminder that while ambition can build skyscrapers, it cannot always keep the lights on. We are leaving the skyline behind to explore a different kind of history at the site of the ess-koh Building. Follow me, and let's head that way.

Look at the space on your right. It is quiet now, but this was once the heartbeat of muh-sko-gee’s independent Black economy. You would have been standing in front of the ess-koh Building. It was the handiwork of W.T. ess-koh, a pioneer businessman who didn't just construct a building; he created a sanctuary. In 1908, ess-koh designed the two-story brick structure with distinct flair, featuring a blind arcade... essentially a row of decorative arches built flat against the wall without any openings. Inside, he founded the Peoples Bank and Trust, the first bank in Oklahoma owned and operated entirely by Black citizens. For decades, this was the nerve center where African American doctors, lawyers, and dentists could practice, as they were barred from renting space in the white-owned buildings downtown. This address was about power. Later, an oil tycoon named Jake Simmons Jr. took over. They called him the Kingfish. From his second-floor office, he brokered massive oil deals in Nigeria and Ghana, building a fortune he used to fund Supreme Court battles against segregation. He kept working right here, even after attackers fired shotguns through the windows of his home to try and stop him. The building survived the violence of the Jim Crow era. It was even listed on the National Register of Historic Places. But it couldn't survive... indifference. In 1988, the historic structure was razed to make way for a state employee parking lot. A physical link to international Black economic power was erased for a patch of asphalt. Turn your attention toward the large modern structure nearby, the Arrowhead Mall. We will head there next, just a four-minute walk away.

On your left stands the Arrowhead Mall. It looks quiet now, doesn't it? Back in 1987, this sprawling structure was a fifty-million-dollar gamble by a developer named Ed wor-mack. He bet that a massive enclosed shopping center would save downtown muh-sko-gee from losing shoppers to Tulsa or Fort Smith. They even threw a massive "indoor picnic" when it opened, inviting the town to celebrate a new era of prosperity. But that prosperity came with a heavy price tag, and I don't mean the construction costs. This concrete footprint sits directly on top of what was once the historic Black neighborhood and business district we just discussed. To build this retail giant, the city used an urban renewal initiative to bulldoze a community hub. It left a deep scar of resentment among black citizens who watched their heritage get erased for the sake of a food court and department stores. For a while, the gamble seemed to work. But in 2010, the violence of the old frontier seemed to return, only this time, inside the air-conditioned corridors. On a Saturday afternoon in April, gunfire erupted between two rival gangs, the Northsiders and Southsiders. It was absolute chaos. Shoppers scrambled into stores and restrooms for cover as a loudspeaker ordered an evacuation. A seventeen-year-old named juh-rod Reed was killed in the crossfire. Five others were wounded, including a thirteen-year-old girl leaving a pretzel shop and a retired police officer. The legal aftermath was just as messy. Witnesses suddenly developed memory lapses or changed their stories, likely due to intimidation. That tragedy cast a long, dark shadow over the mall’s reputation. By the 2020s, the anchor stores-Sears, Dillard's, JCPenney-had all vanished. The mall became a destination for "dead mall" explorers documenting the eerie silence of the skylit hallways. A few stubborn survivors, like a small stand called Juice Express, managed to hold on, but today, much of the space is a hollow shell, slowly being backfilled by federal offices. It is a somber reminder that new developments often bury old stories. We are going to move on to a community pillar that had to navigate this shifting landscape. Stand near where the neighborhood's heart once beat, and let's walk five minutes to the Central Baptist Church.

If you look to your right, you’ll see the long, flat facade of the Arrowhead Mall, anchored by its heavy brick exterior and commercial glass entrances. However... what we are really here to see is a ghost. You are standing on the site of the Central Baptist Church. Before the mall took over this block in the mid-eighties, a magnificent brick sanctuary stood right here. It featured twin two-story towers and a hipped roof-a style where all sides of the roof slope downwards to the walls, which was a common feature in the ambitious architecture of that time. The congregation was born from a stubborn theological argument at the nearby First Baptist Church, where the pastor insisted that new converts be re-baptized. The problem was, many members had already been baptized and didn't feel like getting wet a second time. The disagreement was absolute. Reverend J.W. Lee took thirty-eight supporters and walked out to form Central Baptist. Their luck was hard at first. Their initial wooden building burned down just months later when a kerosene chandelier crashed to the floor during an evening service, igniting a massive fire. But they persisted. By 1917, they had purchased this land and completed the brick structure for over nine thousand dollars... that is roughly two hundred and fifty thousand dollars today. For decades, under the steady hand of Reverend E.R. Henderson, the church was the beating heart of muh-sko-gee’s African American community. It was a safe harbor through the Great Depression and the segregation era, offering stability when the world outside offered very little. But in 1985, the city decided that history was less important than retail space. In a push for urban renewal, the church was seized and demolished to build the Arrowhead Mall. Leaders promised the development would be a "commercial catalyst" for the region. Instead... the mall faltered. It eventually fell into receivership-a situation where a company is so broke that a court has to step in and manage its assets. While the mall became a hollow shell with few tenants, the congregation it displaced built a new home and survived. It is a heavy price to pay for a shopping center. Let’s head to the place where that original argument started. We are walking to the First Baptist Church, just seven minutes down the road.

On your left stands First Baptist Church, a striking Romanesque Revival structure defined by its deep red brick, a steep gabled roof, and two asymmetrical towers topped with castle-like battlements. This building was completed in 1903, but the soul of this place goes back much further. It began in 1877 as a mission school specifically for freedmen and Native Americans. It is a reminder that the frontier here wasn't just two groups colliding... it was a complex Tri-Racial society where Black and Indigenous histories were often deeply intertwined. When the congregation laid the cornerstones here in 1900, muh-sko-gee was transforming. The African American population would soon make up nearly 31 percent of the city. We talked earlier about the thriving Black business district... well, this was the spiritual anchor to that economic power. Building this massive structure with its rusticated limestone detailing wasn't just about faith. It was a declaration of permanence and pride in a segregated era. It functioned as a secondary civic center. For decades, the historic black high school, Manual Training, held its graduations here because their own auditorium simply couldn't hold the crowds. Imagine hundreds of families packing these pews to celebrate the next generation of doctors and educators. By the 1920s, the church was so influential it hosted the National Baptist Convention, flooding the city with thousands of delegates. And when the Great Depression hit, they ran a soup kitchen to feed the unemployed when other public services were segregated or unavailable. There is one final, fascinating chapter here. By the 1980s, the neighboring Jewish congregation had shrunk to just a few families. So, they made a unique property swap. The church took the synagogue's land to expand, and in exchange, the Baptists built a new, smaller temple for their Jewish neighbors... even carefully installing the original Jewish stained glass and holy ark doors. It is a rare example of interfaith cooperation that preserved a legacy. Now, let’s continue our walk to another historic pillar of this community. We are heading to Ward Chapel AME Church, about an eight-minute walk from here.

Look for the building on your right with the yellow painted brick façade, rising one-and-a-half stories high with a long, rectangular shape extending back from the street. This is Ward Chapel AME. It was built in 1904, just three years before the region transformed from Indian Territory into the state of Oklahoma. The church is named after Bishop Thomas Ward, a pioneering missionary who evangelized throughout this region. He was deeply committed to that 'tri-racial society' we just discussed at the last stop. In fact, he was famous for preaching that the African American and Native American communities here shared a special connection. He called it a... bond of sympathy... forged in suffering. That bond was put to the test almost immediately. In October 1907, just weeks before statehood became official, this building hosted the Fourth Session of the Indian Mission Annual Conference. Now, that might sound like a routine calendar event... but the tension in the room would have been palpable. The congregation included many Freedmen-formerly enslaved people of the Five Civilized Tribes. They knew that the ambition to create a modern, cosmopolitan state came with a steep price. The new laws being written were about to strip away the relative freedoms of the frontier and replace them with rigid segregation. So, for the seven thousand members of muh-sko-gee's Black community, this wasn't just a house of worship. It was a political headquarters. Inside these yellow brick walls, they weren't just praying; they were strategizing on how to navigate the complex, often hostile landscape of the new Oklahoma. This identity as a 'social institution' stuck. In 1919, the church even hosted a national convention demanding reparations for cotton taxes collected on slave labor-a remarkably bold move for the time. To keep up with all this activity, the building had to evolve. You might notice the scale of the structure; they added a substantial extension to the rear in 1948 just to accommodate the school reunions, NAACP meetings, and community organizing that kept the place buzzing long after statehood was settled. We now move from the spiritual centers to the residential showpieces, starting with the trum-boh House.

Look to your right at this distinctive residence, characterized by its high-peaked central roof, wide overhanging eaves that stretch horizontally, and the whimsical two-story turret with a conical cap on the corner. This house feels a bit like a daydream that solidified into brick and stucco. And honestly, that is exactly what it is. In 1906, Arthur C. trum-boh and his new bride went on their honeymoon to Hartford, Connecticut. While there, they toured the home of the famous author Samuel Clemens, better known as Mark Twain. The trum-bohs were absolutely captivated by Twain’s Victorian Gothic mansion. They were so smitten, in fact, that they decided to bring a piece of that New England literary charm back here to the Oklahoma prairie. The result is what you see today. It isn't an exact copy, but that turret on the northwest corner is a direct tribute to the complexity of Twain’s house. It was designed by the firm muh-kib-un & muh-kib-un, who you might remember were the architects shaping the look of the whole city. They mixed the Victorian turret with the trendy "Prairie Style" architecture of the time. You can see the Prairie influence in the way those long eaves hang far out over the walls, emphasizing the horizontal lines of the landscape. Unlike the commercial district, which we saw earlier copying the serious "Chicago Style" of office buildings, this house was about pure romance and social ambition. You see, A.C. trum-boh was a man who believed anything was possible here. He was the son-in-law of A.W. Patterson, and together they co-founded the Bank of muh-sko-gee in 1901. These two men were the financial engine of the town. Just a year after this whimsical house was finished, they personally financed the Convention Hall for the Trans-Mississippi Commercial Congress. This was a massive event held just days after statehood in 1907, designed to crown muh-sko-gee the "Queen City of the Southwest." trum-boh and Patterson were gambling that they could make this former Creek Nation settlement more important than Tulsa. For a while, this house was the center of that high society, hosting the elite during the heady days of the oil boom. But... ambition carries a heavy price tag. trum-boh’s banking empire eventually faced severe turbulence. In 1924, his bank merged with another to try and stay afloat, but it wasn't enough. The institution went into receivership-a failure we saw play out later with the Arrowhead Mall. The man who tried to build a metropolis ended up managing farm properties, a much quieter chapter for someone who once lived in a replica of Mark Twain’s castle. Speaking of his partner, let’s go see what trum-boh's father-in-law built for himself. It is just a short stroll away. Walk with me toward the next stop, the A.W. Patterson House. It is about a four-minute walk.

Look for the massive three-story home constructed of rough-cut grey limestone, featuring a red clay tile roof and a wrap-around porch defined by heavy, cavernous stone arches. A.C. trum-boh, whose home we just passed, was actually A.W. Patterson’s son-in-law. It really was a tight-knit circle running this city. In nineteen-o-one, these two men co-founded the Bank of muh-sko-gee together. It makes sense that they built their homes within shouting distance of one another. It wasn't just about family barbecues... it was about consolidating influence. This house, completed in nineteen-o-six, is a perfect example of what they call Richardsonian Romanesque architecture. That is a bit of a mouthful, but it essentially means the architect wanted the building to feel permanent, weighty, and immovable, like a fortress. You can see it in those heavy, rough-cut limestone blocks. That stone was quarried all the way over in Carthage, Missouri, and they actually brought the stone masons down from Missouri just to install it. Patterson was trying to make a statement here. In the chaotic days before Oklahoma officially became a state, he was planting a flag that said muh-sko-gee was civilized, stable, and here to stay. Patterson used that same drive to put muh-sko-gee on the map commercially, playing a key role in the Trans-Mississippi Commercial Congress we mentioned at the trum-boh House. He wanted the world to see this city as a cosmopolitan hub, not a dusty frontier outpost. After the Patterson era, the home passed to L.R. kur-shaw in nineteen-forty-one. Now, kur-shaw was a lawyer and a banker, but he was also a cattleman with a flair for the dramatic. Long before he bought this house, during World War One, he donated a prize steer named "muh-sko-gee Boy" to a charity auction for the Red Cross. The auction took place in a hotel lobby, of all places. That steer sold for nearly six thousand dollars. In today's money, that is well over one hundred thousand dollars. The story goes that the meat was shipped to France for General Pershing’s staff, and the hide was tanned to make an overcoat for President Woodrow Wilson. That is the kind of reach these muh-sko-gee businessmen had. They weren't just local big shots... they were dealing with Presidents and Generals. kur-shaw lived here for decades, raising five children. He even installed an electric elevator to make getting up to the third floor a little easier. The house eventually passed to Dr. Phil Couch in the late seventies. He and his wife had to do some serious work-rewiring, plumbing, the works-because for all its grandeur, the house was a bit of a dinosaur by modern standards. But thanks to them, it is still standing tall. It is a lot of house, built by men with a lot of ambition. Our final stop is the home of the people who made sure we didn't forget any of this history. Let’s head over to the Grant Foreman House.

Look to your left at the modest, two-story white farmhouse featuring a simple covered porch and asymmetrical windows, all shaded by the heavy branches of a massive red oak tree in the northwest corner. It looks peaceful now, doesn’t it? But the history inside this house, known as the Grant Foreman House, bridges the gap between the wild, often violent frontier and the refined city muh-sko-gee strove to become. When Judge John R. Thomas built this place in 1898, this wasn't a leafy neighborhood. It was a tract of raw prairie purchased from Pleasant Porter, the Principal Chief of the Creek Nation. There was nothing here but grass and a single log cabin. The Judge, a man who appreciated order, decided to civilize the landscape personally. He planted three hundred and fifty trees to provide fruit and shade. That large red oak you see? That is the last survivor of his original three hundred and fifty plantings. Judge Thomas came here to bring the rule of law to the territory-a true agent of frontier justice. But in a cruel twist of irony, the violence of the era eventually found him. In 1914, the Judge was visiting a client at the state penitentiary in muk-al-iss-tur. A riot broke out. Three convicts burst into the warden’s office. The Judge, suffering from an old Civil War injury, reached for his cane to stand up. The convicts mistook the movement for aggression, thinking he was reaching for a weapon. In the chaos, they shot and killed him. His body was brought back here, to this house, and laid in the parlor. It’s said that leaders of the Five Civilized Tribes filled the home to pay their respects alongside politicians, mourning the end of an era. But the house’s legacy didn't end with the Judge. It passed to his daughter, Carolyn, and her husband, Grant Foreman. They were married right there in the front parlor. Grant Foreman and Carolyn became the premier historians of Oklahoma. While the Judge fought for order in the courts, the Foremans fought for truth on paper. They spent decades documenting the complex history of this region, capturing the nuances of the Tri-Racial Society we've traced throughout this tour. Carolyn was indispensable; she had no legal training, but she could translate old French and Spanish documents that Grant couldn't read, unlocking archives that would have otherwise remained lost. They were also people of deep character. There is a wonderful story about a young African American caretaker they hired. Impressed by his intelligence, the Foremans paid his tuition for dental school. He became a successful dentist but never stopped visiting them, helping the aging couple out of pure gratitude. Today, the house is cared for by the Three Rivers Museum. Some say the Judge is still here, too. Caretakers have reported hearing the rhythmic tapping of a cane on the floorboards... perhaps the Judge, still pacing the halls of the home he built on the prairie. Standing here, we see the physical proof of muh-sko-gee's ambition. From a house on a treeless pasture to a center of history and culture, the Foremans ensured that while the frontier faded, its stories would never disappear.