Native Son - Richard Wright [158]
“Your lawyer sent this, kid. You got a good lawyer,” the man said.
“Say, can I see a paper?” Bigger asked.
“Well, now,” the man said, scratching his head. “Oh, what the hell. Yeah; sure. Here, take mine. I’m through with it. And say, your lawyer’s bringing some clothes for you. He told me to tell you.”
Bigger did not hear him; he ignored the tray of food and opened out the paper. He paused, waiting to hear the door shut. When it clanged, he bent forward to read, then paused again, wondering about the man who had just left, amazed at how friendly he had acted. For a fleeting moment, while the man had been in his cell, he had not felt apprehensive, cornered. The man had acted straight, matter-of-fact. It was something he could not understand. He lifted the paper close and read: NEGRO KILLER SIGNS CONFESSIONS FOR TWO MURDERS. SHRINKS AT INQUEST WHEN CONFRONTED WITH BODY OF SLAIN GIRL. ARRAIGNED TOMORROW. REDS TAKE CHARGE OF KILLER’S DEFENSE. NOT GUILTY PLEA LIKELY. His eyes ran over the paper, looking for some clue that would tell him something of his fate.
…slayer will undoubtedly pay supreme penalty for his crimes…. there is no doubt of his guilt…. what is doubtful is how many other crimes he has committed…. killer attacked at inquest….
Then:
Expressing opinions about Communists’ defending the Negro rapist and killer, Mr. David A. Buckley, State’s Attorney, said: “What else can you expect from a gang like that? I’m in favor of cleaning them out lock, stock, and barrel. I’m of the conviction that if you got to the bottom of Red activity in this country, you’d find the root of many an unsolved crime.”
When questioned as to what effect the Thomas trial would have upon the forthcoming April elections, in which he is a candidate to succeed himself, Mr. Buckley took his pink carnation from the lapel of his morning coat and waved the reporters away with a laugh.
A long scream sounded and Bigger dropped the paper, jumped to his feet, and ran to the barred door to see what was happening. Down the corridor he saw six white men struggling with a brown-skinned Negro. They dragged him over the floor by his feet and stopped directly in front of Bigger’s cell door. As the door swung in, Bigger backed to his cot, his mouth open in astonishment. The man was turning and twisting in the white men’s hands, trying desperately to free himself.
“Turn me loose! Turn me loose!” the man screamed over and over.
The men lifted him and threw him inside, locked the door, and left. The man lay on the floor for a moment, then scrambled to his feet and ran to the door.
“Give me my papers!” he screamed.
Bigger saw that the man’s eyes were blood-red; the corners of his lips were white with foam. Sweat glistened on his brown face. He clutched the bars with such frenzy that when he yelled his entire body vibrated. He seemed so agonized that Bigger wondered why the men did not give him his belongings. Emotionally, Bigger sided with the man.
“You can’t get away with it!” the man yelled.
Bigger went to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Say, what they got of yours?” he asked.
The man ignored him, shouting.
“I’ll report you to the President, you hear? Bring me my papers or let me out of here, you white bastards! You want to destroy all my evidence! You can’t cover up your crimes! I’ll publish them to the whole world! I know why you’re putting me in jail! The Professor told you to! But he’s not going to get away with it….”
Bigger watched, fascinated, fearful. He had the sensation that the man was too emotionally wrought up over whatever it was that he had lost. Yet the man’s emotions seemed real; they affected him, compelling sympathy.
“Come back here!” the man screamed. “Bring me my papers or I’ll tell the President and have you dismissed from office….”
What papers did they have of his? Bigger wondered. Who was the president the man yelled about? And who was the professor? Over the man’s screams Bigger heard a voice calling from another cell.
“Say,