Economic View; John V. State

Portrait of John Mann

When I first read about State v. Mann, I couldn’t shake the feeling of moral whiplash. In 1829, the North Carolina Supreme Court ruled that John Mann—a white man who had leased an enslaved woman named Lydia—was not guilty of assault and battery after shooting her when she tried to escape his whipping. The court’s reasoning? Slaveholders (and even temporary custodians like Mann) had “absolute authority” over enslaved people, and any act of violence was legally permissible under that dominion. 

It’s hard to wrap my head around the fact that this ruling wasn’t just a one-off miscarriage of justice—it was a reflection of the economic and legal systems that defined North Carolina at the time. The decision, written by Judge Thomas Ruffin, is infamous for its chilling clarity. Ruffin acknowledged the moral conflict he felt, stating that “the struggle… in the judge’s own breast between the feelings of the man and the duty of the magistrate is a severe one,” yet he still ruled in favor of absolute control over enslaved bodies. 

In the early 1800s, North Carolina’s economy was deeply entangled with slavery. By 1790, enslaved people made up roughly one-quarter of the state’s population (Digital Library on American Slavery). As the Cotton Belt expanded westward, North Carolina became a key supplier of enslaved labor, especially to states like Mississippi and Alabama. The sluggish economy of the 1820s and 1830s only intensified this trend, leading to the sale of thousands of enslaved individuals to more profitable territories (NCpedia – Slavery). 

This wasn’t just about labor—it was about wealth. Enslaved people were treated as capital assets, and their value was protected by law. The legal system, including the ruling in State v. Mann, was designed to safeguard those assets. Ruffin’s opinion emphasized that any limitation on a master’s authority would “relax the bonds of obedience,” threatening the entire institution of slavery. In other words, cruelty wasn’t just tolerated—it was legally necessary. 

What’s particularly striking is how unevenly slavery’s economic benefits were distributed. Over half of North Carolina’s enslavers owned five or fewer enslaved people, while only 2.6% of enslaved individuals lived on plantations with more than 50 others (Growth of Slavery in North Carolina). This paints a picture of a society where slavery wasn’t just a tool of the elite—it was embedded in the daily lives of small landowners and renters like Mann. 

Statistics over 70 years of Slavery

That’s what makes this case so chilling. Mann wasn’t a wealthy planter—he was a poor white man renting Lydia for a year. Yet even he was granted unchecked power over her body, backed by the full force of the law. The court’s decision reinforced the idea that enslaved people had no legal personhood. They were property, and violence against them was not a crime—it was a right. 

The State v. Mann decision became a cornerstone of pro-slavery jurisprudence. It codified the idea that enslaved people had no legal recourse against violence, reinforcing a racial hierarchy that was both social and economic. Northern abolitionists later cited Ruffin’s opinion as evidence of slavery’s moral depravity, using his own words to highlight the cruelty embedded in Southern law. 

Today, this case forces me to confront how law can be weaponized to uphold injustice. It’s a reminder that legality doesn’t equal morality—and that economic interests often shape legal outcomes in ways that dehumanize the vulnerable. It also underscores the importance of historical memory: understanding how systems of oppression were built helps us recognize their echoes in modern institutions. 

AI Disclosure: After taking notes while using different historical websites, I used Microsoft Copilot to smooth the text and format in a reliable way. I then edited the AI generated text. I added photos and captions. I also broke up the text with subheadings. I expanded text by adding some of my personal thoughts and opinions.