Cold Open

It’s May 30th, 1942, in San Leandro, California.

Neatly dressed in a pressed shirt and cap, 23-year-old Fred Korematsu walks alone down a sunbaked street.

He checks his wristwatch and quickens his pace. Because he’s running late to meet his girlfriend.

The air shimmers with heat. All across California, temperatures are rising, and so are suspicions. America is at war with Japan. And on the West Coast, that doesn’t just mean curfews and blackouts. Thousands of Japanese Americans like Fred have been detained as potential spies or saboteurs. But Fred has some protection—in his pocket are forged documents that list him as Spanish-American.

But Fred still wonders if they'll be enough, and out of the corner of his eye, Fred notices a police officer across the street, speaking into his radio. Fred doesn’t break stride, though. He tries to act like he has every right to be here. But then the officer crosses the street and demands to see Fred’s ID. Fred reaches into his pocket and produces a beige card—a draft registration listing him as Clyde Sarah, born in California to Spanish and Hawaiian parents.

The officer studies the card, glances at Fred, then back at the card. Fred’s palms begin to slick with sweat, and his heart starts pounding. After a pause, though, the officer hands the card back. Fred exhales, forces a smile, then continues down the street.

But before he’s gone more than a few steps, the officer blows his whistle.

Fred turns to see a police car swinging around the corner. It screeches to a halt by his side, and two officers leap out.

They seize Fred and cuff him. As they push him into the car, his forged ID slips from his hand and falls face up on the sidewalk. The name “Clyde Sarah” stares back—a name that belongs to no one.

Fred Korematsu is just one of thousands of Japanese Americans caught up in the government crackdown after Pearl Harbor. But his case will become unique when a local civil rights lawyer offers to defend him in court. The legal battle that follows will eventually reach the highest authority in the land. And the Supreme Court will deliver one of its most controversial judgments when it rules on the limits of federal power in wartime, on December 18th, 1944.

Introduction

From Noiser and Airship, I’m Lindsay Graham, and this is History Daily.

History is made every day. On this podcast—every day—we tell the true stories of the people and events that shaped our world.

Today is December 18th, 1944: The Korematsu Case.

Act One: An Order

It’s the morning of December 7th, 1941, six months before the arrest of Fred Korematsu.

In a parked car overlooking San Francisco Bay, 22-year-old Fred lounges in the driver’s seat, his left arm resting on the open window, his right draped around his girlfriend’s shoulder. The couple takes in the glittering water and the red arc of the Golden Gate Bridge. A soft tune drifts from the car radio—until suddenly, the music cuts out.

It’s a breaking news bulletin. The announcer’s voice trembles as he reveals that the American naval base at Pearl Harbor in Hawaii has been attacked. Several ships have been sunk, and thousands of servicemen are dead or wounded.

Fred stares at the crackling radio, horrified by the enormous loss of life. Then, when news emerges that the Japanese air force is responsible, a cold dread settles over him. Even though he’s thousands of miles away from Pearl Harbor, Fred knows that this attack will have consequences for him too.

Fred was born in Oakland, California, but the third son of Japanese immigrants, who had moved to the United States in 1905. Like so many other newcomers before them, Fred’s parents strived to achieve the American Dream, and they started a flower nursery where Fred often worked as a child.

But being Japanese American has never been easy. After diplomatic relations between Japan and America soured in the 1930s, Fred endured racist taunts at school. Then, after graduating, he tried to join the Army but was rejected—and the officer dealing with his application left Fred in no doubt that it was because of the way he looked. No matter what his birth certificate said, or how American Fred felt, many others only saw him as Japanese.

And then, the day after the attack on Pearl Harbor, the United States declares war on Japan. And on the West Coast, the shock quickly hardens into anger and anti-Japanese hysteria. Shops ban Japanese American customers. FBI agents arrest Japanese American priests and community leaders. LIFE magazine even publishes a guide on how to tell between the wicked Japanese and the friendly Chinese by the shape of their noses.

Then, in early 1942, President Franklin D. Roosevelt gives this prejudice the government’s stamp of approval. He signs Executive Order 9066, giving the military the power to remove Japanese Americans from vulnerable areas. The Army immediately posts bulletins on telephone poles, ordering every person of Japanese descent living on the West Coast to report for relocation.

Soon, tens of thousands of Japanese Americans are languishing in remote “relocation centers.” With barbed wire and guard towers, these facilities are little more than concentration camps, and Fred Korematsu has no intention of going to one voluntarily.

So, when the bulletins appear in his neighborhood, Fred helps his parents and brothers pack their belongings and close up their home. But he refuses to join the others and hand himself to the authorities. He cannot bring himself to obey an order he believes is not only unjust but is a violation of everything that America stands for.

So he stays behind, hoping that no one will notice him. But as the weeks pass, his task becomes harder and harder. Military patrols roam the streets. And President Roosevelt declares all Japanese nationals over the age of fourteen to be “alien enemies.”

Fred feels like a hunted man. So, he cuts his hair short and moves between rented rooms in Oakland and San Leandro. He keeps off main streets whenever he can and carries forged papers that identify him as a Spanish-Hawaiian laborer by the name of Clyde Sarah. He even has an operation to alter the shape of his nose, hoping it will hide his Japanese features.

And for a while, it all works. But on May 30th, 1942, Fred’s luck runs out. A police officer spots him walking through San Leandro and isn’t fooled by Fred’s papers. He is arrested and charged with violating military law.

And at first, Fred's arrest is just one among hundreds of others. But soon, his plight catches the attention of a local civil rights advocate. And with his help, Fred Korematsu will put his name to a case that will challenge the limits of government authority—and test the strength of liberty in America.

Act Two: A Case

It’s May 31st, 1942, in the San Leandro jail, the day after Fred Korematsu’s arrest.

Fred sits on a metal cot in the cell where he’s spent the night. The walls are bare, the air is stale. It’s a bleak place to wake up in—and Fred knows he could spend months, or maybe even years, in a cell just like this one.

Fred looks up to the sound of keys jangling and the crunch of metal in the lock. He rises to his feet as a guard opens the cell door and tells Fred to follow him—he has a meeting with his lawyer.

Fred frowns because he doesn’t have a lawyer. But he follows the guard to the conference room anyway, where a smartly dressed man in his late 30s is waiting for him. After the guard has gone, the man introduces himself as Ernest Besig, the director of the Northern California branch of the American Civil Liberties Union.

Ernest explains that the ACLU is concerned by the arrests of Japanese Americans. For months, they’ve been debating how to challenge the constitutionality of Executive Order 9066, and they’re looking for a test case—and Ernest thinks Fred is the perfect candidate.

Fred listens carefully, then nods. This is a chance to expose the injustice of Japanese internment. It’ll be a long fight—but Fred’s ready.

His first appearance in federal court comes just over three months later, in September 1942. Fred is represented by a team of lawyers from the ACLU, who argue that the government has violated Fred’s constitutional rights. He's being punished not for what he’s done, but who he is, and the law has been applied differently because of his race.

The government attorney counters that national security demands swift action. America must be protected from sabotage and invasion—and that is of greater importance than any one individual’s rights. The judge agrees, and the ACLU’s suit is dismissed. Fred is then convicted of illegally entering a “military zone” and placed on five years’ probation.

So he’s avoided prison time, but he isn’t free. He’s still subject to the orders excluding Japanese Americans from the West Coast—and the authorities aren’t about to let him get away again. As soon as he leaves the courtroom, Fred is taken into custody. And while his lawyers lodge an appeal, he’s transferred first to an assembly center at a racetrack outside San Francisco. And from there, he’s sent to Topaz War Relocation Center in Utah, 100 miles south of Salt Lake City.

This camp stretches across a barren desert plain. Dust storms sweep through the rows of wooden barracks. The floors are just dirt, and the walls are cracked. Each room is lit only by a single lightbulb.

And though here at Topaz, Fred is reunited with his parents and brothers. The family reunion is a strained one. The others worry Fred’s public defiance will make them targets for the authorities. And it’s not just his family who give Fred the cold shoulder. In the mess hall and in the barracks, he’s treated like an outcast. No one wants to risk making their own situation worse by associating with a troublemaker like him.

But despite his isolation, Fred refuses to withdraw his appeal against the sentence. The principle is too important to him. His case is still working its way through the courts, though, when the government begins to ease the internment program. Later in the fall of 1942, those who can find employment outside the coastal exclusion zone are allowed to apply for release. Fred can’t do that and remains stuck behind barbed wire. But a year later, he gets his own chance to leave. Every detainee at Topaz is given a questionnaire to test how American they really are. The final two questions are the most important. Are the respondents willing to serve in the U.S. Army, and will they forswear all allegiance or obedience to the Japanese emperor. Fred answers yes to both questions and applies to be released.

In January 1944, after more than 18 months of imprisonment and internment, Fred’s application is approved. He eventually moves to Detroit with two of his brothers. But he can’t shake the shadow of injustice. Fred still faces prejudice wherever he goes. And what’s worse, the American court system seems to endorse it.

Fred’s appeal against his conviction in 1942 is rejected. The judges repeat the original court’s finding that Executive Order 9066 was justified by military necessity. But Ernest Besig and the rest of Fred’s legal team refuse to give up—and in March 1944, the Supreme Court agrees to hear Fred’s case. This is the final opportunity to get his conviction overturned and to right the wrongs of Japanese–American internment.

Nine justices will hold Fred’s fate in their hands. And in one of the most infamous decisions the court will ever hand down, they will decide whether the government can imprison American citizens without charge, trial, or conviction.

Act Three

It’s December 18th, 1944, in Washington, D.C., eight months after the Supreme Court agreed to hear Fred Korematsu’s case.

Associate Justice Hugo Black takes his position on the bench in the nation’s highest court. He glances around the crowded chamber. Attorneys from both sides wait tensely at their tables, and reporters fill every spare seat. This is no ordinary ruling—it’s a case that has gripped the nation.

Two months earlier, the nine Supreme Court justices heard arguments over whether the United States can detain citizens without trial. Government lawyers claimed the policy was a matter of wartime necessity—that the mass evacuation of Japanese Americans protected the country from espionage and invasion. Fred’s lawyers countered that national security did not justify the incarceration of innocent people based solely on their race.

Now, as the chamber falls silent, Justice Black clears his throat and begins to read a summary of the majority decision.

The court has accepted the government’s argument that the exclusion of Japanese Americans was “not based on hostility to race.” Fred Korematsu’s conviction for defying military orders is upheld. But the decision is not unanimous. Three dissenting justices say the military orders “go over the very brink of constitutional power and fall into the ugly abyss of racism.” They also warn that the decision will lie around “like a loaded weapon” for any future administration that might claim military necessity overrules the rights of an entire ethnic group.

The highest court in the land has ruled, and Fred Korematsu has lost, but the publicity around the case does pressure the government to act. President Roosevelt rescinds Executive Order 9066, allowing Japanese Americans to return to the West Coast. And most of the remaining concentration camps begin to close.

Still, it will be decades before the full story behind this dark chapter comes to light. In the early 1980s, researchers will uncover documents proving that officials knowingly hid evidence that Japanese Americans posed no threat to national security.

That revelation will allow Fred Korematsu’s conviction to finally be overturned. In later, in 1998, he will be awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the highest civilian honor in the United States. This award will recognize his long fight for justice, a struggle that Fred began when the orders targeting Japanese Americans were first introduced. and one he continued even after the Supreme Court ruled against him on December 18th, 1944.

Outro

Next on History Daily. December 19th, 1843. Charles Dickens introduces readers to grumpy miser Ebenezer Scrooge in his festive classic, A Christmas Carol.

From Noiser and Airship, this is History Daily, hosted, edited, and executive produced by me, Lindsay Graham.

Audio editing by Muhammad Shahzaib.

Sound design by Mollie Baack.

Music by Thrumm.

This episode is written and researched by Olivia Jordan.

Edited by Scott Reeves.

Managing producer, Emily Burke.

Executive Producers are William Simpson for Airship and Pascal Hughes for Noiser.