distant look. “When I saw that dog, I thought about 1965 , when we gathered at the Edmund
Pettus Bridge in Selma and tried to march for our voting rights. They beat us and put those
dogs on us.” She looked back to me sadly. “I tried to move, Attorney Stevenson, I wanted to
move, but I just couldn’t do it.”
As she spoke it seemed like a world of sadness surrounded her. She let go of my hand and
walked away. I watched her get into a car with some other people I had seen in the
courtroom earlier.
I drove back to the motel in a more somber mood to start preparing for the last day of
hearings.
I arrived at the court early the next morning to make sure there were no problems. As it
turned out, very few people showed up to support the State. And though the metal detector
and the dog were still there, no deputy stood at the door to block black people from entering
the courtroom. Inside the courtroom, I noticed one of the women I’d seen leave with Mrs.
Williams the night before. She came up to me and introduced herself as Mrs. Williams’s
daughter. She thanked me for trying to console her mother.
“When she got home last night, she was so upset. She didn’t eat anything, she didn’t speak
to anybody, she just went to her bedroom. We could hear her praying all night long. This
morning she called the Reverend and begged him for another chance to be a community
representative at the hearing. She was up when I got out of bed, dressed and ready to come to
court. I told her she didn’t have to come, but she wouldn’t hear none of it. She’s been through
a lot and, well, on the trip down here she just kept saying over and over, ‘Lord, I can’t be
scared of no dog, I can’t be scared of no dog.’ ”
I was apologizing again to the daughter for what the court officials had done the day before
when suddenly there was a commotion at the courtroom door. We both looked up and there
stood Mrs. Williams. She was once again dressed impeccably in her scarf and hat. She held
her handbag tight at her side and seemed to be swaying at the entrance. I could hear her
speaking to herself, repeating over and over again: “I ain’t scared of no dog, I ain’t scared of
no dog.” I watched as the officers allowed her to move forward. She held her head up as she
walked slowly through the metal detector, repeating over and over, “I ain’t scared of no dog.”
It was impossible to look away. She made it through the detector and stared at the dog. Then,
loud enough for everyone to hear, she belted out: “I ain’t scared of no dog!”
She moved past the dog and walked into the courtroom. Black folks who were already
inside beamed with joy as she passed them. She sat down near the front of the courtroom and
turned to me with a broad smile and announced, “Attorney Stevenson, I’m here!”
“Mrs. Williams, it’s so good to see you here. Thank you for coming.”
The courtroom filled up, and I started getting my papers together. They brought Walter
into the courtroom, the signal that the hearing was about to begin. That’s when I heard Mrs.
Williams call my name.
“No, Attorney Stevenson, you didn’t hear me. I said I’m here.” She spoke very loudly, and I
was a little confused and embarrassed. I turned around and smiled at her.
“No, Mrs. Williams, I did hear you, and I’m so glad you’re here.” When I looked at her,
though, it was as if she was in her own world.
The courtroom was packed, and the bailiff brought the court to order as the judge walked