Native Son - Richard Wright [142]
“See that, boy? Those people would like to lynch you. That’s why I’m asking you to trust me and talk to me. The quicker we get this thing over, the better for you. We’re going to try to keep ’em from bothering you. But can’t you see the longer they stay around here, the harder it’ll be for us to handle them?”
Buckley let go of Bigger’s arm and hoisted the window; a cold wind swept in and Bigger heard a roar of voices. Involuntarily, he stepped backward. Would they break into the jail? Buckley shut the window and led him back to the room. He sat upon the cot and Buckley sat opposite him.
“You look like an intelligent boy. You see what you’re in. Tell me about this thing. Don’t let those Reds fool you into saying you’re not guilty. I’m talking to you as straight as I’d talk to a son of mine. Sign a confession and get this over with.”
Bigger said nothing; he sat looking at the floor.
“Was Jan mixed up in this?”
Bigger heard the faint excited sound of mob voices coming through the concrete walls of the building.
“He proved an alibi and he’s free. Tell me, did he leave you holding the bag?”
Bigger heard the far-away clang of a street car.
“If he made you do it, then sign a complaint against him.”
Bigger saw the shining tip of the man’s black shoes; the sharp creases in his striped trousers; the clear, icy glinting of the eye-glasses upon his high, long nose.
“Boy,” said Buckley in a voice so loud that Bigger flinched, “where’s Bessie?”
Bigger’s eyes widened. He had not thought of Bessie but once since his capture. Her death was unimportant beside that of Mary’s; he knew that when they killed him it would be for Mary’s death; not Bessie’s.
“Well, boy, we found her. You hit her with a brick, but she didn’t die right away….”
Bigger’s muscles jerked him to his feet. Bessie alive! But the voice droned on and he sat down.
“She tried to get out of that air-shaft, but she couldn’t. She froze to death. We got the brick you hit her with. We got the blanket and the quilt and the pillows you took from her room. We got a letter from her purse she had written to you and hadn’t mailed, a letter telling you she didn’t want to go through with trying to collect the ransom money. You see, boy, we got you. Come on, now, tell me all about it.”
Bigger said nothing. He buried his face in his hands.
“You raped her, didn’t you? Well, if you won’t tell about Bessie, then tell me about that woman you raped and choked to death over on University Avenue last fall.”
Was the man trying to scare him, or did he really think he had done other killings?
“Boy, you might just as well tell me. We’ve got a line on all you ever did. And how about the girl you attacked in Jackson Park last summer? Listen, boy, when you were in your cell sleeping and wouldn’t talk, we brought women in to identify you. Two women swore complaints against you. One was the sister of the woman you killed last fall, Mrs. Clinton. The other woman, Miss Ashton, says you attacked her last summer by climbing through the window of her bedroom.”
“I ain’t bothered no woman last summer or last fall either,” Bigger said.
“Miss Ashton identified you. She swears you’re the one.”
“I don’t know nothing about it.”
“But Mrs. Clinton, the sister of the woman you killed last fall, came to your cell and pointed you out. Who’ll believe you when you say you didn’t do it? You killed and raped two women in two days; who’ll believe you when you say you didn’t rape and kill the others? Come on, boy. You haven’t a chance holding out.”
“I don’t know nothing about other women,” Bigger repeated stubbornly.
Bigger wondered how much did the man really know. Was he lying about the other women in order to get him to tell about Mary and Bessie? Or were they really trying to pin other crimes upon him?
“Boy, when the newspapers get hold of what we’ve got on you, you’re cooked. I’m not the one who’s doing this.