Tuskegee Tragedy: The Medical Study That Hid a Genocide

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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.

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 U.S.

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 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 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.

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From Ballin Studios and Wondery, I'm Luke Lamana, 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 Tuskegee Tragedy, the medical study that hid a genocide.

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 U.S.

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 Farrell 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 news 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 a promise of free health care.

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 health care.

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 health care 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 von der Laer 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, Von der Lair 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.

Von der Lair 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 Vonderlair took over.

He promptly lobbied his superiors to extend the syphilis study, arguing there was more to learn, proposing another five to ten years of research.

Rivers' contract was extended, and phase two of the study began.

But the tragedies of this phase would test her conscience even more.

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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.

Vondeley 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.

Vondeleyer'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.

Vondelaire'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.

Vondeleyer'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 U.S.

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.

Vondeleer 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 a 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.S.

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.

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, Lederer phoned Buxton with news.

She'd slipped the story to her DC-based colleague at the Associated Press, a journalist named Jean Heller.

Heller was intrigued, and what she found horrified her as well.

Finally, on July 25th, 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.

On July 27, 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 syphilis 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 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 the 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 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 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.

65 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 American.

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 City 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 Rivers' 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 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 Lamana, on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts.

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From Balin Studios and Wondery, this is Redacted, Declassified Mysteries, hosted by me, Luke Lamana.

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 Renikay and Molly Quinlan Artwick.

Fact-Checking by Sheila Patterson.

For Ballin 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 Lamana.

Executive producers are Mr.

Ballin and Nick Witters.

For Wondery, our senior producers are Laura Donna 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.