I introduced myself, explained the purpose of the school, and for the rest of the morning, we worked on how to fill out the forms and answer questions about the state constitution. The class went well, I thought, but afterward Steptoe looked worried.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Didn’t you like the class?”
“It was lovely,” he said. “It ain’t that. Whilst you was teachin’, the sheriff was watchin’ from across the road. I saw him, but I didn’t say nothin’.”
“They would have been frightened.”
“That’s right. He was lookin’ at tags, people’s cars.”
“How did he know we were here?”
“Someone from church.”
“But they’re your friends.”
“There is always a Judas,” Steptoe said sadly.
The next day the people came back, and the day after that, until we decided that three—an old man from the Tangipahoa community, Ernest Isaac, and two middle-aged women, Bertie Lee Hughes and Matilda Schoby—were ready to register to vote.
3
Liberty, the county seat of Amite, was a back-road farming community of about six hundred. The tree-shaded town square was distinguished by a white-brick courthouse from the 1820s with four massive square columns in front supporting a double-tiered set of porches and a small-windowed octagonal cupola on its shingled roof. Whoever built the courthouse had big plans. But even though Liberty was the home of Borden’s Condensed Milk and Tichenor’s Antiseptic and had been important enough to merit a raid during the Civil War, the town clearly had not prospered. In spite of its name, Liberty was a stringent, oppressive place whose spirit was epitomized by a remark that Tichenor, a Civil War doctor, made about his famous antiseptic: “All you need for our boys,” he said, “but not one drop for the damn Yankees!”
Early the next morning, we set out for the courthouse. Mr. Isaac and the ladies were dressed in their Sunday best. The night before it had rained; misty haze hung over the House of Justice. A plaque on the front door proclaimed the town’s motto: Liberty . . . it works.
It almost didn’t work for us.
When we presented ourselves to the registrar, he looked up, stunned; then his face reddened.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
I stood aside, waiting for someone to speak, but all three were frozen with fear.
Finally, I broke the long silence.
“They would like to register.”
“Who the Sam Hill are you?”
“My name is Bob Moses.”
“Are you here to register too?”
“No. I am here to assist these people who would like to fill out registration forms.”
“Is that right? Well, you’ll have to wait.”
He nodded toward a bench on the far wall, gave a sickly grin to someone standing in the doorway, then turned his back on us.
All day we waited. The sheriff, his deputies, people coming for tax assessments or driver’s licenses, the whole town it seemed, gawked and gave us hate stares and muttered remarks. Not until late afternoon were the three, who hadn’t had anything to eat all day, allowed to fill out the forms. As they struggled with the questionnaire, a highway patrolman entered, leaned back in a chair, and watched them go through the whole painstaking process. They smiled with satisfaction when they finished, but weren’t surprised when the registrar, after a cursory glance at their answers, announced the results.
“None of you passed,” he said. “The law says you gotta wait at least six months if you want to try again.”
When we left the courthouse, the patrolman and one of the Liberty deputies followed. As we drove out of town, they pulled up close and tailed us down the road. Ernest Isaac’s hands shook so badly on the steering wheel he could barely keep the car under control.
“I knowed we shouldn’t oughta done this,” he said.
“Slow down to the side,” I said, “and let him pass.”
The patrol car sped by, but only to make a U-turn, and then another, in order to follow us again. For about ten miles we crept down the highway with his car nosing our bumper until he flicked on his flashers and pulled us over.
“Get out of your car and come here,” he ordered. Mr. Isaac gave me a forlorn look and did what he was told.
I walked over to provide moral support.
“What’s the trouble?”
“Go back to your car,” the patrolman said. “I’ll let you know if I need you.”
“I just want to know what the problem is.”
“You’re the problem, coming down here and stirring these people up.”
“I only want to know why you stopped us.”
“That’s none of your business. Now get back in your car.”
I took out a small pad and wrote down the information on their badges.
“What the hell do you think this is?” He threw open his door and grabbed me by the arm. “You’re interfering with what I’m doing here.”
He and the deputy manhandled me back to the car.
“Get in, nigger.” He pressed one hand down on my head and shoved. “Follow me.”
The justice of the peace held forth at his blacksmith shop on Highway 51 south of McComb. I was charged with interfering with an arrest.
“But I’m the only one you arrested,” I pointed out.
They exchanged perturbed glances, then conferred in a corner.
“We’re charging you with obstructing justice. Are you ready to stand trial?” the justice of the peace asked.
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
“Can I make a phone call?”
“I guess you can. Where to?”
“Washington.”
“Washington! Who the hell do you know in Washington?”
“John Doar, at the Civil Rights Division of the United States Department of Justice.”
“You want to call them over a little thing like this? Boy, we can’t afford to let you dial long distance.”
“I’m calling collect.”
“Collect!” the justice of the peace scoffed. “You can go right ahead and try.”
The call went through; their faces dropped.
“It’s a case of intimidation,” I told John Doar, “in clear violation of the Civil Rights Acts of 1957 and 1960.”
“Call the FBI collect,” Doar told me, “and tell them the story too.”
And so I did.
“Boy, you’ve sure got some friends,” the deputy said. “Too bad they’re all the way up there in Washington.”
The trial was swift; I was guilty as charged.
“The fine is fifty dollars plus five in court costs,” the justice of the peace said, “but I’ll suspend