”
“You mean all you drink in that sack’s Coca-Cola?
“You mean all you drink in that sack’s Coca-Cola?
Lee, Harper - To Kill a Mockingbird
“He says you goddamn whore, I’ll kill ya.
”
“Then what happened? ”
“Mr. Finch, I was runnin‘ so fast I didn’t know what happened. ”
“Tom, did you rape Mayella Ewell? ”
“I did not, suh. ”
“Did you harm her in any way? ”
“I did not, suh. ”
“Did you resist her advances? ”
“Mr. Finch, I tried. I tried to ‘thout bein’ ugly to her. I didn’t wanta be ugly, I didn’t wanta push her or nothin‘. ”
It occurred to me that in their own way, Tom Robinson’s manners were as good as Atticus’s. Until my father explained it to me later, I did not understand the subtlety of Tom’s predicament: he would not have dared strike a white woman under any circumstances and expect to live long, so he took the first opportunity to run—a sure sign of guilt.
“Tom, go back once more to Mr. Ewell,” said Atticus. “Did he say anything to you? ”
“Not anything, suh. He mighta said somethin‘, but I weren’t there—”
“That’ll do,” Atticus cut in sharply. “What you did hear, who was he talking to? ” “Mr. Finch, he were talkin‘ and lookin’ at Miss Mayella. ”
“Then you ran? ”
“I sho‘ did, suh. ”
“Why did you run? ”
“I was scared, suh. ”
“Why were you scared? ”
“Mr. Finch, if you was a nigger like me, you’d be scared, too. ”
Atticus sat down. Mr. Gilmer was making his way to the witness stand, but before he got there Mr. Link Deas rose from the audience and announced:
“I just want the whole lot of you to know one thing right now. That boy’s worked for me eight years an‘ I ain’t had a speck o’trouble outa him. Not a speck. ”
“Shut your mouth, sir! ” Judge Taylor was wide awake and roaring. He was also pink in the face. His speech was miraculously unimpaired by his cigar. “Link Deas,” he yelled, “if you have anything you want to say you can say it under oath and at the proper time, but until then you get out of this room, you hear me? Get out of this room, sir, you hear me? I’ll be damned if I’ll listen to this case again! ”
Judge Taylor looked daggers at Atticus, as if daring him to speak, but Atticus had ducked his head and was laughing into his lap. I remembered something he had said about Judge Taylor’s ex cathedra remarks sometimes exceeding his duty, but that few lawyers ever did anything about them. I looked at Jem, but Jem shook his head. “It ain’t like one of the jurymen got up and started talking,” he said. “I think it’d be different then. Mr. Link was just disturbin‘ the peace or something. ”
Judge Taylor told the reporter to expunge anything he happened to have written down after Mr. Finch if you were a nigger like me you’d be scared too, and told the jury to disregard the interruption. He looked suspiciously down the middle aisle and waited, I suppose, for Mr. Link Deas to effect total departure. Then he said, “Go ahead, Mr. Gilmer. ”
“You were given thirty days once for disorderly conduct, Robinson? ” asked Mr. Gilmer.
“Yes suh. ”
“What’d the nigger look like when you got through with him? ” “He beat me, Mr. Gilmer. ”
“Yes, but you were convicted, weren’t you? ”
Atticus raised his head. “It was a misdemeanor and it’s in the record, Judge. ” I thought he sounded tired.
“Witness’ll answer, though,” said Judge Taylor, just as wearily. “Yes suh, I got thirty days. ”
I knew that Mr. Gilmer would sincerely tell the jury that anyone who was convicted of disorderly conduct could easily have had it in his heart to take advantage of Mayella Ewell, that was the only reason he cared. Reasons like that helped.
“Robinson, you’re pretty good at busting up chiffarobes and kindling with one hand, aren’t you? ”
“Yes, suh, I reckon so. ”
“Strong enough to choke the breath out of a woman and sling her to the floor? ”
“I never done that, suh. ”
“But you are strong enough to? ”
“I reckon so, suh. ”
“Had your eye on her a long time, hadn’t you, boy? ”
“No suh, I never looked at her. ”
“Then you were mighty polite to do all that chopping and hauling for her, weren’t you, boy? ”
“I was just tryin‘ to help her out, suh. ”
“That was mighty generous of you, you had chores at home after your regular work, didn’t you? ”
“Yes suh. ”
“Why didn’t you do them instead of Miss Ewell’s? ”
“I done ‘em both, suh. ”
“You must have been pretty busy. Why? ”
“Why what, suh? ”
“Why were you so anxious to do that woman’s chores? ”
Tom Robinson hesitated, searching for an answer. “Looked like she didn’t have nobody to help her, like I says—”
“With Mr. Ewell and seven children on the place, boy? ”
“Well, I says it looked like they never help her none—”
“You did all this chopping and work from sheer goodness, boy? ”
“Tried to help her, I says. ”
Mr. Gilmer smiled grimly at the jury. “You’re a mighty good fellow, it seems— did all this for not one penny? ”
“Yes, suh. I felt right sorry for her, she seemed to try more’n the rest of ‘em—”
“You felt sorry for her, you felt sorry for he? ” Mr. Gilmer seemed ready to rise to the ceiling.
The witness realized his mistake and shifted uncomfortably in the chair. But the damage was done. Below us, nobody liked Tom Robinson’s answer. Mr. Gilmer paused a long time to let it sink in.
“Now you went by the house as usual, last November twenty-first,” he said, “and she asked you to come in and bust up a chiffarobe? ”
“No suh. ”
“Do you deny that you went by the house? ”
“No suh—she said she had somethin‘ for me to do inside the house—”
“She says she asked you to bust up a chiffarobe, is that right? ”
“No suh, it ain’t. ”
“Then you say she’s lying, boy? ”
Atticus was on his feet, but Tom Robinson didn’t need him. “I don’t say she’s lyin‘, Mr. Gilmer, I say she’s mistaken in her mind. ”
To the next ten questions, as Mr. Gilmer reviewed Mayella’s version of events, the witness’s steady answer was that she was mistaken in her mind.
“Didn’t Mr. Ewell run you off the place, boy? ”
“No suh, I don’t think he did. ”
“Don’t think, what do you mean? ”
“I mean I didn’t stay long enough for him to run me off. ” “You’re very candid about this, why did you run so fast? ” “I says I was scared, suh. ”
“If you had a clear conscience, why were you scared? ”
“Like I says before, it weren’t safe for any nigger to be in a—fix like that. ”
“But you weren’t in a fix—you testified that you were resisting Miss Ewell. Were you so scared that she’d hurt you, you ran, a big buck like you? ”
“No suh, I’s scared I’d be in court, just like I am now. ”
“Scared of arrest, scared you’d have to face up to what you did? ” “No suh, scared I’d hafta face up to what I didn’t do. ”
“Are you being impudent to me, boy? ”
“No suh, I didn’t go to be. ”
This was as much as I heard of Mr. Gilmer’s cross-examination, because Jem made me take Dill out. For some reason Dill had started crying and couldn’t stop; quietly at first, then his sobs were heard by several people in the balcony. Jem said if I didn’t go with him he’d make me, and Reverend Sykes said I’d better go, so I went. Dill had seemed to be all right that day, nothing wrong with him, but I guessed he hadn’t fully recovered from running away.
“Ain’t you feeling good? ” I asked, when we reached the bottom of the stairs.
Dill tried to pull himself together as we ran down the south steps. Mr. Link Deas was a lonely figure on the top step. “Anything happenin‘, Scout? ” he asked as we went by. “No sir,” I answered over my shoulder. “Dill here, he’s sick. ”
“Come on out under the trees,” I said. “Heat got you, I expect. ” We chose the fattest live oak and we sat under it.
“It was just him I couldn’t stand,” Dill said.
“Who, Tom? ”
“That old Mr. Gilmer doin‘ him thataway, talking so hateful to him—”
“Dill, that’s his job. Why, if we didn’t have prosecutors—well, we couldn’t have defense attorneys, I reckon. ”
Dill exhaled patiently. “I know all that, Scout. It was the way he said it made me sick, plain sick. ”
“He’s supposed to act that way, Dill, he was cross—”
“He didn’t act that way when—” “Dill, those were his own witnesses. ”
“Well, Mr. Finch didn’t act that way to Mayella and old man Ewell when he cross- examined them. The way that man called him ‘boy’ all the time an‘ sneered at him, an’ looked around at the jury every time he answered—”
“Well, Dill, after all he’s just a Negro. ”
“I don’t care one speck. It ain’t right, somehow it ain’t right to do ‘em that way. Hasn’t anybody got any business talkin’ like that—it just makes me sick. ”
“That’s just Mr. Gilmer’s way, Dill, he does ‘em all that way. You’ve never seen him get good’n down on one yet. Why, when—well, today Mr. Gilmer seemed to me like he wasn’t half trying. They do ’em all that way, most lawyers, I mean. ”
“Mr. Finch doesn’t. ”
“He’s not an example, Dill, he’s—” I was trying to grope in my memory for a sharp phrase of Miss Maudie Atkinson’s. I had it: “He’s the same in the courtroom as he is on the public streets. ”
“That’s not what I mean,” said Dill.
“I know what you mean, boy,” said a voice behind us. We thought it came from the tree-trunk, but it belonged to Mr. Dolphus Raymond. He peered around the trunk at us. “You aren’t thin-hided, it just makes you sick, doesn’t it? ”
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Chapter 20
“Come on round here, son, I got something that’ll settle your stomach. ”
As Mr. Dolphus Raymond was an evil man I accepted his invitation reluctantly, but I followed Dill. Somehow, I didn’t think Atticus would like it if we became friendly with Mr. Raymond, and I knew Aunt Alexandra wouldn’t.
“Here,” he said, offering Dill his paper sack with straws in it. “Take a good sip,
it’ll quieten you. ”
Dill sucked on the straws, smiled, and pulled at length.
“Hee hee,” said Mr. Raymond, evidently taking delight in corrupting a child.
“Dill, you watch out, now,” I warned.
Dill released the straws and grinned. “Scout, it’s nothing but Coca-Cola. ”
Mr. Raymond sat up against the tree-trunk. He had been lying on the grass. “You little folks won’t tell on me now, will you? It’d ruin my reputation if you did.
”
“You mean all you drink in that sack’s Coca-Cola? Just plain Coca-Cola? ”
“Yes ma’am,” Mr. Raymond nodded. I liked his smell: it was of leather, horses, cottonseed. He wore the only English riding boots I had ever seen. “That’s all I drink, most of the time. ”
“Then you just pretend you’re half—? I beg your pardon, sir,” I caught myself. “I didn’t mean to be—”
Mr. Raymond chuckled, not at all offended, and I tried to frame a discreet question: “Why do you do like you do? ”
“Wh—oh yes, you mean why do I pretend? Well, it’s very simple,” he said. “Some folks don’t—like the way I live. Now I could say the hell with ‘em, I don’t care if they don’t like it. I do say I don’t care if they don’t like it, right enough— but I don’t say the hell with ’em, see? ”
Dill and I said, “No sir. ”
“I try to give ‘em a reason, you see. It helps folks if they can latch onto a reason. When I come to town, which is seldom, if I weave a little and drink out of this sack, folks can say Dolphus Raymond’s in the clutches of whiskey—that’s why he won’t change his ways. He can’t help himself, that’s why he lives the way he does. ”
“That ain’t honest, Mr. Raymond, making yourself out badder’n you are already —”
“It ain’t honest but it’s mighty helpful to folks. Secretly, Miss Finch, I’m not much of a drinker, but you see they could never, never understand that I live like I do because that’s the way I want to live. ”
I had a feeling that I shouldn’t be here listening to this sinful man who had mixed children and didn’t care who knew it, but he was fascinating. I had never encountered a being who deliberately perpetrated fraud against himself. But why had he entrusted us with his deepest secret? I asked him why.
“Because you’re children and you can understand it,” he said, “and because I heard that one—”
He jerked his head at Dill: “Things haven’t caught up with that one’s instinct yet. Let him get a little older and he won’t get sick and cry. Maybe things’ll strike him as being—not quite right, say, but he won’t cry, not when he gets a few years on him. ”
“Cry about what, Mr. Raymond? ” Dill’s maleness was beginning to assert itself.
“Cry about the simple hell people give other people—without even thinking. Cry about the hell white people give colored folks, without even stopping to think that they’re people, too. ”
“Atticus says cheatin‘ a colored man is ten times worse than cheatin’ a white man,” I muttered. “Says it’s the worst thing you can do. ”
Mr. Raymond said, “I don’t reckon it’s—Miss Jean Louise, you don’t know your pa’s not a run-of-the-mill man, it’ll take a few years for that to sink in—you haven’t seen enough of the world yet. You haven’t even seen this town, but all you gotta do is step back inside the courthouse. ”
Which reminded me that we were missing nearly all of Mr. Gilmer’s cross- examination. I looked at the sun, and it was dropping fast behind the store-tops on the west side of the square. Between two fires, I could not decide which I wanted to jump into: Mr. Raymond or the 5th Judicial Circuit Court. “C’mon, Dill,” I said. “You all right, now? ”
“Yeah. Glad t’ve metcha, Mr. Raymond, and thanks for the drink, it was mighty settlin‘. ”
We raced back to the courthouse, up the steps, up two flights of stairs, and edged our way along the balcony rail. Reverend Sykes had saved our seats.
The courtroom was still, and again I wondered where the babies were. Judge Taylor’s cigar was a brown speck in the center of his mouth; Mr. Gilmer was
writing on one of the yellow pads on his table, trying to outdo the court reporter, whose hand was jerking rapidly. “Shoot,” I muttered, “we missed it. ”
Atticus was halfway through his speech to the jury. He had evidently pulled some papers from his briefcase that rested beside his chair, because they were on his table. Tom Robinson was toying with them.
“. . . absence of any corroborative evidence, this man was indicted on a capital charge and is now on trial for his life. . . ”
I punched Jem. “How long’s he been at it? ”
“He’s just gone over the evidence,” Jem whispered, “and we’re gonna win, Scout. I don’t see how we can’t. He’s been at it ‘bout five minutes. He made it as plain and easy as—well, as I’da explained it to you. You could’ve understood it, even. ”
“Did Mr. Gilmer—? ”
“Sh-h. Nothing new, just the usual. Hush now. ”
We looked down again. Atticus was speaking easily, with the kind of detachment he used when he dictated a letter. He walked slowly up and down in front of the jury, and the jury seemed to be attentive: their heads were up, and they followed Atticus’s route with what seemed to be appreciation. I guess it was because Atticus wasn’t a thunderer.
Atticus paused, then he did something he didn’t ordinarily do. He unhitched his watch and chain and placed them on the table, saying, “With the court’s permission—”
Judge Taylor nodded, and then Atticus did something I never saw him do before or since, in public or in private: he unbuttoned his vest, unbuttoned his collar, loosened his tie, and took off his coat. He never loosened a scrap of his clothing until he undressed at bedtime, and to Jem and me, this was the equivalent of him standing before us stark naked. We exchanged horrified glances.
Atticus put his hands in his pockets, and as he returned to the jury, I saw his gold collar button and the tips of his pen and pencil winking in the light.
“Gentlemen,” he said. Jem and I again looked at each other: Atticus might have said, “Scout. ” His voice had lost its aridity, its detachment, and he was talking to the jury as if they were folks on the post office corner.
“Gentlemen,” he was saying, “I shall be brief, but I would like to use my remaining time with you to remind you that this case is not a difficult one, it requires no minute sifting of complicated facts, but it does require you to be sure beyond all reasonable doubt as to the guilt of the defendant. To begin with, this case should never have come to trial. This case is as simple as black and white.
“The state has not produced one iota of medical evidence to the effect that the crime Tom Robinson is charged with ever took place. It has relied instead upon the testimony of two witnesses whose evidence has not only been called into serious question on cross-examination, but has been flatly contradicted by the defendant. The defendant is not guilty, but somebody in this courtroom is.
“I have nothing but pity in my heart for the chief witness for the state, but my pity does not extend so far as to her putting a man’s life at stake, which she has done in an effort to get rid of her own guilt.
“I say guilt, gentlemen, because it was guilt that motivated her. She has committed no crime, she has merely broken a rigid and time-honored code of our society, a code so severe that whoever breaks it is hounded from our midst as unfit to live with. She is the victim of cruel poverty and ignorance, but I cannot pity her: she is white. She knew full well the enormity of her offense, but because her desires were stronger than the code she was breaking, she persisted in breaking it. She persisted, and her subsequent reaction is something that all of us have known at one time or another. She did something every child has done—she tried to put the evidence of her offense away from her. But in this case she was no child hiding stolen contraband: she struck out at her victim—of necessity she must put him away from her—he must be removed from her presence, from this world. She must destroy the evidence of her offense.
“What was the evidence of her offense? Tom Robinson, a human being. She must put Tom Robinson away from her. Tom Robinson was her daily reminder of what she did. What did she do? She tempted a Negro.
“She was white, and she tempted a Negro. She did something that in our society is unspeakable: she kissed a black man. Not an old Uncle, but a strong young Negro man. No code mattered to her before she broke it, but it came crashing down on her afterwards.
“Her father saw it, and the defendant has testified as to his remarks. What did her father do? We don’t know, but there is circumstantial evidence to indicate that Mayella Ewell was beaten savagely by someone who led almost exclusively with his left. We do know in part what Mr. Ewell did: he did what any God-fearing, persevering, respectable white man would do under the circumstances—he swore out a warrant, no doubt signing it with his left hand, and Tom Robinson now sits before you, having taken the oath with the only good hand he possesses—his right hand.
“And so a quiet, respectable, humble Negro who had the unmitigated temerity to ‘feel sorry’ for a white woman has had to put his word against two white people’s. I need not remind you of their appearance and conduct on the stand— you saw them for yourselves. The witnesses for the state, with the exception of the sheriff of Maycomb County, have presented themselves to you gentlemen, to this court, in the cynical confidence that their testimony would not be doubted, confident that you gentlemen would go along with them on the assumption—the evil assumption—that all Negroes lie, that all Negroes are basically immoral beings, that all Negro men are not to be trusted around our women, an assumption one associates with minds of their caliber.
“Which, gentlemen, we know is in itself a lie as black as Tom Robinson’s skin, a lie I do not have to point out to you. You know the truth, and the truth is this: some Negroes lie, some Negroes are immoral, some Negro men are not to be trusted around women—black or white. But this is a truth that applies to the human race and to no particular race of men. There is not a person in this courtroom who has never told a lie, who has never done an immoral thing, and there is no man living who has never looked upon a woman without desire. ”
Atticus paused and took out his handkerchief. Then he took off his glasses and wiped them, and we saw another “first”: we had never seen him sweat—he was one of those men whose faces never perspired, but now it was shining tan.
“One more thing, gentlemen, before I quit. Thomas Jefferson once said that all men are created equal, a phrase that the Yankees and the distaff side of the Executive branch in Washington are fond of hurling at us. There is a tendency in this year of grace, 1935, for certain people to use this phrase out of context, to
satisfy all conditions. The most ridiculous example I can think of is that the people who run public education promote the stupid and idle along with the industrious—because all men are created equal, educators will gravely tell you, the children left behind suffer terrible feelings of inferiority. We know all men are not created equal in the sense some people would have us believe—some people are smarter than others, some people have more opportunity because they’re born with it, some men make more money than others, some ladies make better cakes than others—some people are born gifted beyond the normal scope of most men.
“But there is one way in this country in which all men are created equal—there is one human institution that makes a pauper the equal of a Rockefeller, the stupid man the equal of an Einstein, and the ignorant man the equal of any college president. That institution, gentlemen, is a court. It can be the Supreme Court of the United States or the humblest J. P. court in the land, or this honorable court which you serve. Our courts have their faults, as does any human institution, but in this country our courts are the great levelers, and in our courts all men are created equal.
“I’m no idealist to believe firmly in the integrity of our courts and in the jury system—that is no ideal to me, it is a living, working reality. Gentlemen, a court is no better than each man of you sitting before me on this jury. A court is only as sound as its jury, and a jury is only as sound as the men who make it up. I am confident that you gentlemen will review without passion the evidence you have heard, come to a decision, and restore this defendant to his family. In the name of God, do your duty. ”
Atticus’s voice had dropped, and as he turned away from the jury he said something I did not catch. He said it more to himself than to the court. I punched Jem. “What’d he say? ”
“‘In the name of God, believe him,’ I think that’s what he said. ” Dill suddenly reached over me and tugged at Jem. “Looka yonder! ”
We followed his finger with sinking hearts. Calpurnia was making her way up the middle aisle, walking straight toward Atticus.
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Chapter 21
She stopped shyly at the railing and waited to get Judge Taylor’s attention. She was in a fresh apron and she carried an envelope in her hand.
Judge Taylor saw her and said, “It’s Calpurnia, isn’t it? ”
“Yes sir,” she said. “Could I just pass this note to Mr. Finch, please sir? It hasn’t got anything to do with—with the trial. ”
Judge Taylor nodded and Atticus took the envelope from Calpurnia. He opened it, read its contents and said, “Judge, I—this note is from my sister. She says my children are missing, haven’t turned up since noon. . . I. . . could you—”
“I know where they are, Atticus. ” Mr. Underwood spoke up. “They’re right up yonder in the colored balcony—been there since precisely one-eighteen P. M. ”
Our father turned around and looked up. “Jem, come down from there,” he called. Then he said something to the Judge we didn’t hear. We climbed across Reverend Sykes and made our way to the staircase.
Atticus and Calpurnia met us downstairs. Calpurnia looked peeved, but Atticus looked exhausted.
Jem was jumping in excitement. “We’ve won, haven’t we? ”
“I’ve no idea,” said Atticus shortly. “You’ve been here all afternoon? Go home with Calpurnia and get your supper—and stay home. ”
“Aw, Atticus, let us come back,” pleaded Jem. “Please let us hear the verdict, please sir. ”
“The jury might be out and back in a minute, we don’t know—” but we could tell Atticus was relenting. “Well, you’ve heard it all, so you might as well hear the rest. Tell you what, you all can come back when you’ve eaten your supper—eat slowly, now, you won’t miss anything important—and if the jury’s still out, you can wait with us. But I expect it’ll be over before you get back. ”
“You think they’ll acquit him that fast? ” asked Jem. Atticus opened his mouth to answer, but shut it and left us.
I prayed that Reverend Sykes would save our seats for us, but stopped praying when I remembered that people got up and left in droves when the jury was out— tonight, they’d overrun the drugstore, the O. K. Café and the hotel, that is, unless they had brought their suppers too.
Calpurnia marched us home: “—skin every one of you alive, the very idea, you children listenin‘ to all that! Mister Jem, don’t you know better’n to take your little sister to that trial? Miss Alexandra’ll absolutely have a stroke of paralysis when she finds out! Ain’t fittin’ for children to hear.
“Then what happened? ”
“Mr. Finch, I was runnin‘ so fast I didn’t know what happened. ”
“Tom, did you rape Mayella Ewell? ”
“I did not, suh. ”
“Did you harm her in any way? ”
“I did not, suh. ”
“Did you resist her advances? ”
“Mr. Finch, I tried. I tried to ‘thout bein’ ugly to her. I didn’t wanta be ugly, I didn’t wanta push her or nothin‘. ”
It occurred to me that in their own way, Tom Robinson’s manners were as good as Atticus’s. Until my father explained it to me later, I did not understand the subtlety of Tom’s predicament: he would not have dared strike a white woman under any circumstances and expect to live long, so he took the first opportunity to run—a sure sign of guilt.
“Tom, go back once more to Mr. Ewell,” said Atticus. “Did he say anything to you? ”
“Not anything, suh. He mighta said somethin‘, but I weren’t there—”
“That’ll do,” Atticus cut in sharply. “What you did hear, who was he talking to? ” “Mr. Finch, he were talkin‘ and lookin’ at Miss Mayella. ”
“Then you ran? ”
“I sho‘ did, suh. ”
“Why did you run? ”
“I was scared, suh. ”
“Why were you scared? ”
“Mr. Finch, if you was a nigger like me, you’d be scared, too. ”
Atticus sat down. Mr. Gilmer was making his way to the witness stand, but before he got there Mr. Link Deas rose from the audience and announced:
“I just want the whole lot of you to know one thing right now. That boy’s worked for me eight years an‘ I ain’t had a speck o’trouble outa him. Not a speck. ”
“Shut your mouth, sir! ” Judge Taylor was wide awake and roaring. He was also pink in the face. His speech was miraculously unimpaired by his cigar. “Link Deas,” he yelled, “if you have anything you want to say you can say it under oath and at the proper time, but until then you get out of this room, you hear me? Get out of this room, sir, you hear me? I’ll be damned if I’ll listen to this case again! ”
Judge Taylor looked daggers at Atticus, as if daring him to speak, but Atticus had ducked his head and was laughing into his lap. I remembered something he had said about Judge Taylor’s ex cathedra remarks sometimes exceeding his duty, but that few lawyers ever did anything about them. I looked at Jem, but Jem shook his head. “It ain’t like one of the jurymen got up and started talking,” he said. “I think it’d be different then. Mr. Link was just disturbin‘ the peace or something. ”
Judge Taylor told the reporter to expunge anything he happened to have written down after Mr. Finch if you were a nigger like me you’d be scared too, and told the jury to disregard the interruption. He looked suspiciously down the middle aisle and waited, I suppose, for Mr. Link Deas to effect total departure. Then he said, “Go ahead, Mr. Gilmer. ”
“You were given thirty days once for disorderly conduct, Robinson? ” asked Mr. Gilmer.
“Yes suh. ”
“What’d the nigger look like when you got through with him? ” “He beat me, Mr. Gilmer. ”
“Yes, but you were convicted, weren’t you? ”
Atticus raised his head. “It was a misdemeanor and it’s in the record, Judge. ” I thought he sounded tired.
“Witness’ll answer, though,” said Judge Taylor, just as wearily. “Yes suh, I got thirty days. ”
I knew that Mr. Gilmer would sincerely tell the jury that anyone who was convicted of disorderly conduct could easily have had it in his heart to take advantage of Mayella Ewell, that was the only reason he cared. Reasons like that helped.
“Robinson, you’re pretty good at busting up chiffarobes and kindling with one hand, aren’t you? ”
“Yes, suh, I reckon so. ”
“Strong enough to choke the breath out of a woman and sling her to the floor? ”
“I never done that, suh. ”
“But you are strong enough to? ”
“I reckon so, suh. ”
“Had your eye on her a long time, hadn’t you, boy? ”
“No suh, I never looked at her. ”
“Then you were mighty polite to do all that chopping and hauling for her, weren’t you, boy? ”
“I was just tryin‘ to help her out, suh. ”
“That was mighty generous of you, you had chores at home after your regular work, didn’t you? ”
“Yes suh. ”
“Why didn’t you do them instead of Miss Ewell’s? ”
“I done ‘em both, suh. ”
“You must have been pretty busy. Why? ”
“Why what, suh? ”
“Why were you so anxious to do that woman’s chores? ”
Tom Robinson hesitated, searching for an answer. “Looked like she didn’t have nobody to help her, like I says—”
“With Mr. Ewell and seven children on the place, boy? ”
“Well, I says it looked like they never help her none—”
“You did all this chopping and work from sheer goodness, boy? ”
“Tried to help her, I says. ”
Mr. Gilmer smiled grimly at the jury. “You’re a mighty good fellow, it seems— did all this for not one penny? ”
“Yes, suh. I felt right sorry for her, she seemed to try more’n the rest of ‘em—”
“You felt sorry for her, you felt sorry for he? ” Mr. Gilmer seemed ready to rise to the ceiling.
The witness realized his mistake and shifted uncomfortably in the chair. But the damage was done. Below us, nobody liked Tom Robinson’s answer. Mr. Gilmer paused a long time to let it sink in.
“Now you went by the house as usual, last November twenty-first,” he said, “and she asked you to come in and bust up a chiffarobe? ”
“No suh. ”
“Do you deny that you went by the house? ”
“No suh—she said she had somethin‘ for me to do inside the house—”
“She says she asked you to bust up a chiffarobe, is that right? ”
“No suh, it ain’t. ”
“Then you say she’s lying, boy? ”
Atticus was on his feet, but Tom Robinson didn’t need him. “I don’t say she’s lyin‘, Mr. Gilmer, I say she’s mistaken in her mind. ”
To the next ten questions, as Mr. Gilmer reviewed Mayella’s version of events, the witness’s steady answer was that she was mistaken in her mind.
“Didn’t Mr. Ewell run you off the place, boy? ”
“No suh, I don’t think he did. ”
“Don’t think, what do you mean? ”
“I mean I didn’t stay long enough for him to run me off. ” “You’re very candid about this, why did you run so fast? ” “I says I was scared, suh. ”
“If you had a clear conscience, why were you scared? ”
“Like I says before, it weren’t safe for any nigger to be in a—fix like that. ”
“But you weren’t in a fix—you testified that you were resisting Miss Ewell. Were you so scared that she’d hurt you, you ran, a big buck like you? ”
“No suh, I’s scared I’d be in court, just like I am now. ”
“Scared of arrest, scared you’d have to face up to what you did? ” “No suh, scared I’d hafta face up to what I didn’t do. ”
“Are you being impudent to me, boy? ”
“No suh, I didn’t go to be. ”
This was as much as I heard of Mr. Gilmer’s cross-examination, because Jem made me take Dill out. For some reason Dill had started crying and couldn’t stop; quietly at first, then his sobs were heard by several people in the balcony. Jem said if I didn’t go with him he’d make me, and Reverend Sykes said I’d better go, so I went. Dill had seemed to be all right that day, nothing wrong with him, but I guessed he hadn’t fully recovered from running away.
“Ain’t you feeling good? ” I asked, when we reached the bottom of the stairs.
Dill tried to pull himself together as we ran down the south steps. Mr. Link Deas was a lonely figure on the top step. “Anything happenin‘, Scout? ” he asked as we went by. “No sir,” I answered over my shoulder. “Dill here, he’s sick. ”
“Come on out under the trees,” I said. “Heat got you, I expect. ” We chose the fattest live oak and we sat under it.
“It was just him I couldn’t stand,” Dill said.
“Who, Tom? ”
“That old Mr. Gilmer doin‘ him thataway, talking so hateful to him—”
“Dill, that’s his job. Why, if we didn’t have prosecutors—well, we couldn’t have defense attorneys, I reckon. ”
Dill exhaled patiently. “I know all that, Scout. It was the way he said it made me sick, plain sick. ”
“He’s supposed to act that way, Dill, he was cross—”
“He didn’t act that way when—” “Dill, those were his own witnesses. ”
“Well, Mr. Finch didn’t act that way to Mayella and old man Ewell when he cross- examined them. The way that man called him ‘boy’ all the time an‘ sneered at him, an’ looked around at the jury every time he answered—”
“Well, Dill, after all he’s just a Negro. ”
“I don’t care one speck. It ain’t right, somehow it ain’t right to do ‘em that way. Hasn’t anybody got any business talkin’ like that—it just makes me sick. ”
“That’s just Mr. Gilmer’s way, Dill, he does ‘em all that way. You’ve never seen him get good’n down on one yet. Why, when—well, today Mr. Gilmer seemed to me like he wasn’t half trying. They do ’em all that way, most lawyers, I mean. ”
“Mr. Finch doesn’t. ”
“He’s not an example, Dill, he’s—” I was trying to grope in my memory for a sharp phrase of Miss Maudie Atkinson’s. I had it: “He’s the same in the courtroom as he is on the public streets. ”
“That’s not what I mean,” said Dill.
“I know what you mean, boy,” said a voice behind us. We thought it came from the tree-trunk, but it belonged to Mr. Dolphus Raymond. He peered around the trunk at us. “You aren’t thin-hided, it just makes you sick, doesn’t it? ”
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Chapter 20
“Come on round here, son, I got something that’ll settle your stomach. ”
As Mr. Dolphus Raymond was an evil man I accepted his invitation reluctantly, but I followed Dill. Somehow, I didn’t think Atticus would like it if we became friendly with Mr. Raymond, and I knew Aunt Alexandra wouldn’t.
“Here,” he said, offering Dill his paper sack with straws in it. “Take a good sip,
it’ll quieten you. ”
Dill sucked on the straws, smiled, and pulled at length.
“Hee hee,” said Mr. Raymond, evidently taking delight in corrupting a child.
“Dill, you watch out, now,” I warned.
Dill released the straws and grinned. “Scout, it’s nothing but Coca-Cola. ”
Mr. Raymond sat up against the tree-trunk. He had been lying on the grass. “You little folks won’t tell on me now, will you? It’d ruin my reputation if you did.
”
“You mean all you drink in that sack’s Coca-Cola? Just plain Coca-Cola? ”
“Yes ma’am,” Mr. Raymond nodded. I liked his smell: it was of leather, horses, cottonseed. He wore the only English riding boots I had ever seen. “That’s all I drink, most of the time. ”
“Then you just pretend you’re half—? I beg your pardon, sir,” I caught myself. “I didn’t mean to be—”
Mr. Raymond chuckled, not at all offended, and I tried to frame a discreet question: “Why do you do like you do? ”
“Wh—oh yes, you mean why do I pretend? Well, it’s very simple,” he said. “Some folks don’t—like the way I live. Now I could say the hell with ‘em, I don’t care if they don’t like it. I do say I don’t care if they don’t like it, right enough— but I don’t say the hell with ’em, see? ”
Dill and I said, “No sir. ”
“I try to give ‘em a reason, you see. It helps folks if they can latch onto a reason. When I come to town, which is seldom, if I weave a little and drink out of this sack, folks can say Dolphus Raymond’s in the clutches of whiskey—that’s why he won’t change his ways. He can’t help himself, that’s why he lives the way he does. ”
“That ain’t honest, Mr. Raymond, making yourself out badder’n you are already —”
“It ain’t honest but it’s mighty helpful to folks. Secretly, Miss Finch, I’m not much of a drinker, but you see they could never, never understand that I live like I do because that’s the way I want to live. ”
I had a feeling that I shouldn’t be here listening to this sinful man who had mixed children and didn’t care who knew it, but he was fascinating. I had never encountered a being who deliberately perpetrated fraud against himself. But why had he entrusted us with his deepest secret? I asked him why.
“Because you’re children and you can understand it,” he said, “and because I heard that one—”
He jerked his head at Dill: “Things haven’t caught up with that one’s instinct yet. Let him get a little older and he won’t get sick and cry. Maybe things’ll strike him as being—not quite right, say, but he won’t cry, not when he gets a few years on him. ”
“Cry about what, Mr. Raymond? ” Dill’s maleness was beginning to assert itself.
“Cry about the simple hell people give other people—without even thinking. Cry about the hell white people give colored folks, without even stopping to think that they’re people, too. ”
“Atticus says cheatin‘ a colored man is ten times worse than cheatin’ a white man,” I muttered. “Says it’s the worst thing you can do. ”
Mr. Raymond said, “I don’t reckon it’s—Miss Jean Louise, you don’t know your pa’s not a run-of-the-mill man, it’ll take a few years for that to sink in—you haven’t seen enough of the world yet. You haven’t even seen this town, but all you gotta do is step back inside the courthouse. ”
Which reminded me that we were missing nearly all of Mr. Gilmer’s cross- examination. I looked at the sun, and it was dropping fast behind the store-tops on the west side of the square. Between two fires, I could not decide which I wanted to jump into: Mr. Raymond or the 5th Judicial Circuit Court. “C’mon, Dill,” I said. “You all right, now? ”
“Yeah. Glad t’ve metcha, Mr. Raymond, and thanks for the drink, it was mighty settlin‘. ”
We raced back to the courthouse, up the steps, up two flights of stairs, and edged our way along the balcony rail. Reverend Sykes had saved our seats.
The courtroom was still, and again I wondered where the babies were. Judge Taylor’s cigar was a brown speck in the center of his mouth; Mr. Gilmer was
writing on one of the yellow pads on his table, trying to outdo the court reporter, whose hand was jerking rapidly. “Shoot,” I muttered, “we missed it. ”
Atticus was halfway through his speech to the jury. He had evidently pulled some papers from his briefcase that rested beside his chair, because they were on his table. Tom Robinson was toying with them.
“. . . absence of any corroborative evidence, this man was indicted on a capital charge and is now on trial for his life. . . ”
I punched Jem. “How long’s he been at it? ”
“He’s just gone over the evidence,” Jem whispered, “and we’re gonna win, Scout. I don’t see how we can’t. He’s been at it ‘bout five minutes. He made it as plain and easy as—well, as I’da explained it to you. You could’ve understood it, even. ”
“Did Mr. Gilmer—? ”
“Sh-h. Nothing new, just the usual. Hush now. ”
We looked down again. Atticus was speaking easily, with the kind of detachment he used when he dictated a letter. He walked slowly up and down in front of the jury, and the jury seemed to be attentive: their heads were up, and they followed Atticus’s route with what seemed to be appreciation. I guess it was because Atticus wasn’t a thunderer.
Atticus paused, then he did something he didn’t ordinarily do. He unhitched his watch and chain and placed them on the table, saying, “With the court’s permission—”
Judge Taylor nodded, and then Atticus did something I never saw him do before or since, in public or in private: he unbuttoned his vest, unbuttoned his collar, loosened his tie, and took off his coat. He never loosened a scrap of his clothing until he undressed at bedtime, and to Jem and me, this was the equivalent of him standing before us stark naked. We exchanged horrified glances.
Atticus put his hands in his pockets, and as he returned to the jury, I saw his gold collar button and the tips of his pen and pencil winking in the light.
“Gentlemen,” he said. Jem and I again looked at each other: Atticus might have said, “Scout. ” His voice had lost its aridity, its detachment, and he was talking to the jury as if they were folks on the post office corner.
“Gentlemen,” he was saying, “I shall be brief, but I would like to use my remaining time with you to remind you that this case is not a difficult one, it requires no minute sifting of complicated facts, but it does require you to be sure beyond all reasonable doubt as to the guilt of the defendant. To begin with, this case should never have come to trial. This case is as simple as black and white.
“The state has not produced one iota of medical evidence to the effect that the crime Tom Robinson is charged with ever took place. It has relied instead upon the testimony of two witnesses whose evidence has not only been called into serious question on cross-examination, but has been flatly contradicted by the defendant. The defendant is not guilty, but somebody in this courtroom is.
“I have nothing but pity in my heart for the chief witness for the state, but my pity does not extend so far as to her putting a man’s life at stake, which she has done in an effort to get rid of her own guilt.
“I say guilt, gentlemen, because it was guilt that motivated her. She has committed no crime, she has merely broken a rigid and time-honored code of our society, a code so severe that whoever breaks it is hounded from our midst as unfit to live with. She is the victim of cruel poverty and ignorance, but I cannot pity her: she is white. She knew full well the enormity of her offense, but because her desires were stronger than the code she was breaking, she persisted in breaking it. She persisted, and her subsequent reaction is something that all of us have known at one time or another. She did something every child has done—she tried to put the evidence of her offense away from her. But in this case she was no child hiding stolen contraband: she struck out at her victim—of necessity she must put him away from her—he must be removed from her presence, from this world. She must destroy the evidence of her offense.
“What was the evidence of her offense? Tom Robinson, a human being. She must put Tom Robinson away from her. Tom Robinson was her daily reminder of what she did. What did she do? She tempted a Negro.
“She was white, and she tempted a Negro. She did something that in our society is unspeakable: she kissed a black man. Not an old Uncle, but a strong young Negro man. No code mattered to her before she broke it, but it came crashing down on her afterwards.
“Her father saw it, and the defendant has testified as to his remarks. What did her father do? We don’t know, but there is circumstantial evidence to indicate that Mayella Ewell was beaten savagely by someone who led almost exclusively with his left. We do know in part what Mr. Ewell did: he did what any God-fearing, persevering, respectable white man would do under the circumstances—he swore out a warrant, no doubt signing it with his left hand, and Tom Robinson now sits before you, having taken the oath with the only good hand he possesses—his right hand.
“And so a quiet, respectable, humble Negro who had the unmitigated temerity to ‘feel sorry’ for a white woman has had to put his word against two white people’s. I need not remind you of their appearance and conduct on the stand— you saw them for yourselves. The witnesses for the state, with the exception of the sheriff of Maycomb County, have presented themselves to you gentlemen, to this court, in the cynical confidence that their testimony would not be doubted, confident that you gentlemen would go along with them on the assumption—the evil assumption—that all Negroes lie, that all Negroes are basically immoral beings, that all Negro men are not to be trusted around our women, an assumption one associates with minds of their caliber.
“Which, gentlemen, we know is in itself a lie as black as Tom Robinson’s skin, a lie I do not have to point out to you. You know the truth, and the truth is this: some Negroes lie, some Negroes are immoral, some Negro men are not to be trusted around women—black or white. But this is a truth that applies to the human race and to no particular race of men. There is not a person in this courtroom who has never told a lie, who has never done an immoral thing, and there is no man living who has never looked upon a woman without desire. ”
Atticus paused and took out his handkerchief. Then he took off his glasses and wiped them, and we saw another “first”: we had never seen him sweat—he was one of those men whose faces never perspired, but now it was shining tan.
“One more thing, gentlemen, before I quit. Thomas Jefferson once said that all men are created equal, a phrase that the Yankees and the distaff side of the Executive branch in Washington are fond of hurling at us. There is a tendency in this year of grace, 1935, for certain people to use this phrase out of context, to
satisfy all conditions. The most ridiculous example I can think of is that the people who run public education promote the stupid and idle along with the industrious—because all men are created equal, educators will gravely tell you, the children left behind suffer terrible feelings of inferiority. We know all men are not created equal in the sense some people would have us believe—some people are smarter than others, some people have more opportunity because they’re born with it, some men make more money than others, some ladies make better cakes than others—some people are born gifted beyond the normal scope of most men.
“But there is one way in this country in which all men are created equal—there is one human institution that makes a pauper the equal of a Rockefeller, the stupid man the equal of an Einstein, and the ignorant man the equal of any college president. That institution, gentlemen, is a court. It can be the Supreme Court of the United States or the humblest J. P. court in the land, or this honorable court which you serve. Our courts have their faults, as does any human institution, but in this country our courts are the great levelers, and in our courts all men are created equal.
“I’m no idealist to believe firmly in the integrity of our courts and in the jury system—that is no ideal to me, it is a living, working reality. Gentlemen, a court is no better than each man of you sitting before me on this jury. A court is only as sound as its jury, and a jury is only as sound as the men who make it up. I am confident that you gentlemen will review without passion the evidence you have heard, come to a decision, and restore this defendant to his family. In the name of God, do your duty. ”
Atticus’s voice had dropped, and as he turned away from the jury he said something I did not catch. He said it more to himself than to the court. I punched Jem. “What’d he say? ”
“‘In the name of God, believe him,’ I think that’s what he said. ” Dill suddenly reached over me and tugged at Jem. “Looka yonder! ”
We followed his finger with sinking hearts. Calpurnia was making her way up the middle aisle, walking straight toward Atticus.
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Chapter 21
She stopped shyly at the railing and waited to get Judge Taylor’s attention. She was in a fresh apron and she carried an envelope in her hand.
Judge Taylor saw her and said, “It’s Calpurnia, isn’t it? ”
“Yes sir,” she said. “Could I just pass this note to Mr. Finch, please sir? It hasn’t got anything to do with—with the trial. ”
Judge Taylor nodded and Atticus took the envelope from Calpurnia. He opened it, read its contents and said, “Judge, I—this note is from my sister. She says my children are missing, haven’t turned up since noon. . . I. . . could you—”
“I know where they are, Atticus. ” Mr. Underwood spoke up. “They’re right up yonder in the colored balcony—been there since precisely one-eighteen P. M. ”
Our father turned around and looked up. “Jem, come down from there,” he called. Then he said something to the Judge we didn’t hear. We climbed across Reverend Sykes and made our way to the staircase.
Atticus and Calpurnia met us downstairs. Calpurnia looked peeved, but Atticus looked exhausted.
Jem was jumping in excitement. “We’ve won, haven’t we? ”
“I’ve no idea,” said Atticus shortly. “You’ve been here all afternoon? Go home with Calpurnia and get your supper—and stay home. ”
“Aw, Atticus, let us come back,” pleaded Jem. “Please let us hear the verdict, please sir. ”
“The jury might be out and back in a minute, we don’t know—” but we could tell Atticus was relenting. “Well, you’ve heard it all, so you might as well hear the rest. Tell you what, you all can come back when you’ve eaten your supper—eat slowly, now, you won’t miss anything important—and if the jury’s still out, you can wait with us. But I expect it’ll be over before you get back. ”
“You think they’ll acquit him that fast? ” asked Jem. Atticus opened his mouth to answer, but shut it and left us.
I prayed that Reverend Sykes would save our seats for us, but stopped praying when I remembered that people got up and left in droves when the jury was out— tonight, they’d overrun the drugstore, the O. K. Café and the hotel, that is, unless they had brought their suppers too.
Calpurnia marched us home: “—skin every one of you alive, the very idea, you children listenin‘ to all that! Mister Jem, don’t you know better’n to take your little sister to that trial? Miss Alexandra’ll absolutely have a stroke of paralysis when she finds out! Ain’t fittin’ for children to hear.
