Judge Marion Humphrey of Pulaski County Circuit Court in Little Rock had a problem on his hands. One of his probation officers had had a fling with a probationer, and the matter had hit the papers. He needed to hire a replacement fast, someone who would help dispel the stench, someone of instant impeccability. He thought of Elizabeth Eckford. To put it mildly, it was an unconventional choice.
By this point, after all, Elizabeth had not held a job in twenty years. She had toyed periodically with returning to work, but had never gotten past the interviews: too much baggage, potential employers presumably concluded. And as a probation officer? Aside from the problems with her sons, she had no experience in criminal justice. She knew nothing about computers, and her typing skills, such as they were, had atrophied. And of course she had more than her share of problems. Hiring Elizabeth, whom Judge Humphrey had never met, was a risk.
But he had his reasons. Elizabeth embodied for him the oldfashioned values and pride he found lacking in so many of the young black defendants passing through his court. He felt, too, that he had a debt to discharge. As a black boy in Pine Bluff, he had followed the fortunes of the Little Rock Nine, then followed in their footsteps. Elizabeth had opened doors for him and lots of people like him and, he felt, was owed far more than she had ever received. Humphrey was a religious man—he doubled as pastor of the Allison Memorial Presbyterian Church—and the same second chances he often bestowed on the men and women who came before him on the bench he now wanted to give to Elizabeth.
He checked with several people about her—Rett Tucker, the real estate developer who had worked with Elizabeth on the anniversary observances; Morris Thompson, the neighbor who had helped out her and her boys; Annie Abrams. All thought hiring her was a wonderful idea. Why, asked Judge Humphrey when she came in to be interviewed, would he ever consider her? Not because he felt sorry for her or was doing her any favors, he replied, but because he needed her. So thrilled was she at the prospect of working again that she never asked what the job paid, or balked upon learning that it wasn’t very much. Instead, quietly, unobtrusively—in the ten years she was to spend at the court, the Democrat-Gazette never thought she warranted a story—she went to work.
Elizabeth’s coworkers were pleased to have someone of her fame alongside them, but also a bit perplexed. They, too, had seen her around town, always alone, head down, seemingly in her own world, and they thought her, well, a bit off. To them, she remained what she’d been for forty years: a lonely figure at a bus stop. And suddenly here she was, counseling others. But she quickly impressed them with her conscientiousness and intelligence. Like Judge Branton, they were amazed that someone who had always been so mute was so well-spoken. (As she talked, one coworker surreptitiously scribbled down some of the big words she used, so she could look them up once Elizabeth wasn’t around.) Forgoing the bus and treating herself to cabs, Elizabeth spent much of her discretionary income getting to and from work. But with whatever was left over, she started to treat herself with respect. She began wearing eye shadow and lipstick; the court officers and bailiffs complimented her on her appearance. Boxes began piling up outside the chambers: Elizabeth was ordering clothes, from Appleseed’s and Chadwicks and other places with plus sizes. She moved from polyester to blends and even, occasionally, to linen or wool. (When she changed her mind about something or it didn’t fit, she’d give it to a probationer she liked, whose closet was soon filled with her castoffs.)
Elizabeth’s clients were almost always poor, often semiliterate, in trouble for passing bad checks or credit-card fraud or taking or selling drugs. They were usually young; for a time Elizabeth dyed her hair (and tried wearing a wig) so that she wouldn’t remind them of their grandmothers. Many couldn’t afford lawyers; few were hardened criminals. She could be compassionate—keeping peanuts around for prisoners who had missed breakfast, letting them make toll calls to their mamas, giving them bus fare home. But she could also be harsh. “Aren’t you ashamed to show your underwear?” she might ask. Or, to someone sporting gold teeth, “How are you going to get a decent job looking like that?” She would ask someone wearing drooping, beltless pants whether he was practicing for prison. Or she’d tell a scantily clad woman to go home and put on some clothes. Such comments sometimes made her colleagues wince. They were bothered, too, by her willingness to send probationers back to prison, recommendations Judge Humphrey might diplomatically ignore. But they understood her thinking: she had endured, and surmounted, so much herself that she had little truck for the weaknesses of others. Woe betide anyone telling Elizabeth, who had taken buses all her life, that he couldn’t work without a car. If a probationer was especially handsome, though, she might cut him a break. Coworkers knew to steer such “eye candy” to her.
To get the job Elizabeth had to learn how to shoot a gun, which did not come easily to her. Handling a computer was even harder—so hard, in fact, that she’d had the new terminal on her desk removed so she could still do everything by hand. But for all the adjustments, she cherished the job. Though she had begun at an age—fifty-six—when people contemplated retirement, she told people they’d have to carry her out feet first. Few of the probationers realized who she was. But every once in a while, after a documentary aired or the picture appeared somewhere, someone would exclaim, “Miss Eckerd, I didn’t know that was you!” Treat her as they always had, she’d tell them.