Native Son - Richard Wright [136]
“How are you, Bigger?”
Bigger did not answer. He was doubtful again. Was this a trap of some kind?
“This is Reverend Hammond, Max,” Jan said.
Max shook hands with the preacher, then turned to Bigger.
“I want to talk with you,” Max said. “I’m from the Labor Defenders. I want to help you.”
“I ain’t got no money,” Bigger said.
“I know that. Listen, Bigger, don’t be afraid of me. And don’t be afraid of Jan. We’re not angry with you. I want to represent you in court. Have you spoken to any other lawyer?”
Bigger looked at Jan and Max again. They seemed all right. But how on earth could they help him? He wanted help, but dared not think that anybody would want to do anything for him now.
“Nawsuh,” he whispered.
“How have they treated you? Did they beat you?”
“I been sick,” Bigger said, knowing that he had to explain why he had not spoken or eaten in three days. “I been sick and I don’t know.”
“Are you willing to let us handle your case?”
“I ain’t got no money.”
“Forget about that. Listen, they’re taking you back to the inquest this afternoon. But you don’t have to answer any questions, see? Just sit and say nothing. I’ll be there and you won’t have to be scared. After the inquest they’ll take you to the Cook County Jail and I’ll be over to talk with you.”
“Yessuh.”
“Here; take these cigarettes.”
“Thank you, suh.”
The door swung in and a tall, big-faced man with grey eyes came forward hurriedly. Max and Jan and the preacher stood to one side. Bigger stared at the man’s face; it teased him. Then he remembered: it was Buckley, the man whose face he had seen the workmen pasting upon a billboard a few mornings ago. Bigger listened to the men talk, feeling in the tones of their voices a deep hostility toward one another.
“So, you’re horning in again, hunh, Max?”
“This boy’s my client and he’s signing no confessions,” Max said.
“What the hell do I want with his confession?” Buckley asked. “We’ve got enough evidence on him to put him in a dozen electric chairs.”
“I’ll see that his rights are protected,” Max said.
“Hell, man! You can’t do him any good.”
Max turned to Bigger.
“Don’t let these people scare you, Bigger.”
Bigger heard, but did not answer.
“What in hell you Reds can get out of bothering with a black thing like that, God only knows,” Buckley said, rubbing his hands across his eyes.
“You’re afraid that you won’t be able to kill this boy before the April elections, if we handle his case, aren’t you, Buckley?” Jan asked.
Buckley whirled.
“Why in God’s name can’t you pick out somebody decent to defend sometimes? Somebody who’ll appreciate it. Why do you Reds take up with scum like this…?”
“You and your tactics have forced us to defend this boy,” Max said.
“What do you mean?” Buckley asked.
“If you had not dragged the name of the Communist Party into this murder, I’d not be here,” Max said.
“Hell, this boy signed the name of the Communist Party to the kidnap note….”
“I realize that,” Max said. “The boy got the idea from the newspapers. I’m defending this boy because I’m convinced that men like you made him what he is. His trying to blame the Communists for his crime was a natural reaction for him. He had heard men like you lie about the Communists so much that he believed them. If I can make the people of this country understand why this boy acted like he did, I’ll be doing more than defending him.”
Buckley laughed, bit off the tip of a fresh cigar, lit it and stood puffing. He advanced to the center of the room, cocked his head to one side, took the cigar out of his mouth and squinted at Bigger.
“Boy, did you ever think you’d be as important a man as you are right now?”
Bigger had been on the verge of accepting the friendship of Jan and Max, and now this man stood before him. What did the puny friendship of Jan and Max mean in the face of a million men like Buckley?
“I’m the State’s Attorney,” Buckley said, walking from one end of the room to the other. His hat was on the back of his head. A white silk handkerchief peeped from