What's Happening in Vestavia Hills ·
Allison Black Cornelius
Tribute to Judge Teresa Tanner Pulliam
I looked everywhere for a quote or a poem that might capture what I feel about Teresa’s sudden death — something to comfort me or make sense of this loss. I couldn’t find anything. So I will write what is in my heart.
There is no way to put into words what Birmingham, Jefferson County, and our state have lost. Judge Teresa Tanner Pulliam wasn’t only a friend to me and my family. She was a force — the fiercest and most audacious woman I have ever met. Pearls on her neck and a pitchfork in her hands. And always hugs for a dog.
When I was seven, my Sunday school teacher, Leon Albert Prince, raped me. He threatened to kill my family, even my dog if I ever told. For nearly twenty years, no one was willing to listen to me. But Teresa, along with Bob McGregor, did. In 1991, she prosecuted him in what became the oldest rape case ever convicted in Alabama. And she won. Prince was sentenced to 30 years and served 15.
And she didn’t just take the case — she stayed with it. For four long years, through hearings, delays, pushback, and pressure. Do you know how rare that kind of commitment is? Most people would have walked away, but not Teresa. She held steady. She was a rock, and she never let go of me or of the truth. That strength is what carried me through.
That victory wasn’t just justice for me. It was a turning point that saved lives. Because when Prince was released in 2006, he offended again. In 2022, he was convicted of abusing another child and sentenced to 99 years before dying in prison seval months ago. Teresa’s courage to fight when no one else would, meant that at least for 15 years, children were safe from him. And her precedent set the stage for others to find justice, too.
She risked everything — her career, her reputation, her future — because she believed in truth. And because she believed in me. That kind of courage is rare. Teresa changed the law, she changed the course of my life, and she spared countless children from the pain I knew. And she taught me how to turn that anger into advocacy.
But she was more than that one case. She kept fighting — for victims, for the voiceless, even for the redeemed. She taught me courage and forgiveness. She modeled grace. She showed me how to stand up and speak truth to power without flinching — and also when to hold my tongue (still struggle with that.) She taught me how to dress, how to act like a lady, how to carry myself with dignity and fire.
She once told me if a man thinks your brash - your probably doing something right - their problem not yours, but try sugar more than not if you can.
She was there every single time I stumbled, with advice or a sharp “what for.” And she was there clapping, every single time I soared. That’s what I will miss most — her steady presence. The texts, the calls, the counsel, the laughter, the inspiration.
I will miss her pearls. Her scarves. Her suits. But most of all, I will miss her voice. Guiding. Correcting. Encouraging. Inspiring.
People will never fully know what she gave to this world. But I do. My family does. And the children who were spared because of her courage will, even if they never knew her name.
Teresa, tell Bob hello. Tell all the others. Especially the dogs you’ll see over the bridge.
I love you. I will never forget you. And I can never, ever, ever repay you.
With so much sadness and love,
Allison
Granny
Our whole family
And all the children who will enjoy the lightness of childhood and the joy of innocence because of you.
P. S. And I will never stop fighting the good fight, no matter how tired I get or how often I get whipped. And I will keep an eye on Leslie too. She’s so Amazing.