Behind the Old Courthouse in St. Louis, two monuments stand in quiet conversation — the statue of Dred and Harriet Scott and the Freedom Suits Memorial. Together, they tell a story that is too often flattened into a footnote — a story not just of law and politics, but of human courage, endurance, and the refusal to accept bondage as fate.
The Scotts’ statue is striking in its simplicity. There is no grand pose, no dramatic flourish — only Dred and Harriet, standing side by side, hands clasped. They do not look out at the city with defiance or triumph, but with a kind of quiet resolve. This is not the image of warriors or martyrs — it is the image of two people who held on to each other in the face of unimaginable hardship.
That’s what makes their story so powerful: before they were symbols, they were simply a husband and wife trying to secure a future for themselves and their daughters. The Scotts' decision to sue for their freedom was not just a legal maneuver; it was an act of profound hope — a belief that justice might be possible, even in a system designed to deny them their humanity.
Dred Scott had spent much of his life enslaved, following his owner, John Emerson, across state lines — from Missouri into free territories like Illinois and the Wisconsin Territory. It was during this time that Dred married Harriet, a woman enslaved by the same family. Their bond was both a risk and an act of defiance. To marry, to raise children, to love — all of these were deliberate acts of resistance in a world that sought to reduce enslaved people to property.
When Emerson died, the Scotts tried to purchase their freedom, believing that their years spent in free territories made them legally free. When Eliza Sanford, Emerson’s widow, refused their offer, the Scotts filed suit in 1846 at the Old Courthouse — the very building that now stands in their shadow.
The legal battle that followed dragged on for more than a decade. The Scotts won their initial case in a Missouri circuit court, only to have the decision overturned by the state Supreme Court. From there, their case moved to the U.S. Supreme Court, where in 1857 Chief Justice Roger B. Taney’s infamous ruling declared that Black people, enslaved or free, were not citizens and had no right to sue in federal court. The decision not only denied the Scotts their freedom but effectively strengthened slavery’s grip on the nation.
It’s easy to focus on the legal outcome — to treat the Scotts as symbols of a system that failed them — but their story didn’t end with the Supreme Court's ruling. After the case drew national attention, Taylor Blow, a member of the family that had once enslaved Dred Scott, stepped in and purchased the Scotts’ freedom. Dred Scott lived just over a year as a free man before dying in 1858. Harriet lived several more years, seeing their daughters grow into freedom.
Just steps away from the Scotts' statue, the Freedom Suits Memorial stands as a quiet but powerful expansion of their story. A bronze book, its pages carved with over 300 names, commemorates the enslaved men, women, and children who filed lawsuits seeking their freedom in Missouri courts between 1814 and 1860. The names are stark and simple — no embellishments, no lengthy stories, just the names of individuals who risked everything to claim their place as free citizens.
Each name represents a story, most of them forgotten — yet here they are, etched into bronze for all to see. The Freedom Suits Memorial is not about one famous case but about the collective courage of those who believed justice was worth pursuing — even when it seemed out of reach.
These lawsuits were often long, drawn-out battles. The enslaved plaintiffs had to build detailed cases, secure witnesses, and endure the constant threat of violence or retaliation. Many suits failed, and those who lost faced the crushing consequences of being returned to their enslavers — often under harsher conditions than before. And yet they persisted. They stood in those courtrooms — exhausted, frightened, uncertain — and demanded to be seen not as property, but as people.
The Scotts' story — and the stories of those listed in the memorial — remind us that courage often happens in quiet places. It happens in courtrooms where the odds are stacked against you. It happens in the decision to speak when silence is safer. It happens in the belief that no matter how many times the world tells you that you are less than human, you can still demand to be seen.
Dred and Harriet Scott’s statue feels deeply personal because it depicts them not as icons but as people — two individuals who held hands and stepped into the unknown together. Their faces show no bitterness, only quiet strength. They are not standing as symbols of loss — they are standing as proof that the fight for freedom, however painful, is never wasted.
And beside them, that bronze book stands open, its pages still turning in the wind — as if to say the story is not yet finished.